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The six days between Jaewon's challenge and the Apollo Entertainment auditions were not lived. They were endured—breath by breath, heartbeat by nervous heartbeat. Minjae moved through time like someone trapped beneath ice, surviving on instant ramen, convenience-store caffeine, and a fear so sharp it carved him hollow.
He had quit his job. One small severance from the life that had kept him close to his dream yet far from reaching it. Now, failure meant not simply rejection—failure meant free fall. Oblivion.
He spent his nights practicing in the dim stairwell of his crumbling dorm building. The acoustic tiles swallowed sound, making the space feel like a confession booth. He didn't practice choreography or a classic high-note showpiece. He practiced the ruin—the raw, defiant counter-melody he had laced into Aether's "Gravity." Every time he sang it, something in him trembled. It was too bare, too jagged, too true.
In an industry obsessed with polish, the ruin was a scratch across the glossy surface. A breach. His rational mind begged him to choose a safer song, something that showed clean technique. But Jaewon's challenge pressed against his ribs like a physical weight:
"You have to audition with this. And you have to mean it."
This audition wasn't about skill. It was about whether Minjae dared to shatter his own walls in front of the people who could break him forever.
On the morning of the audition, Apollo Entertainment looked like a cathedral built of ambition. Hundreds of teenagers crowded the lobby—glittering, terrifying, impossibly talented. Dancers with bodies honed into weapons. Rappers with swagger and certainty. Vocalists warming up with perfect, crystalline scales. They wore the same look: that bright, naïve hunger of people who believed the world was watching.
Minjae felt like an intruder in his own dream. He wore clean black clothes, but they lacked the shine. They carried designer duffels stuffed with gear; he carried a worn backpack holding a water bottle, his wallet, and a single USB—Cable Test 03.
The waiting room was a quiet battlefield. Every cough a flare. Every whisper a declaration. Minjae sat alone in the corner, counting the rhythm of his breath as if it were the only solid thing left in his life.
When the attendant called "B-412," his number cracked through the air like a challenge.
The audition hall was built to intimidate—an empty, echoing chamber with a single line of judges framed under cold recessed lights.
Behind the table sat the trinity of Apollo's power:
Mr. Han, the producer—bored eyes, crossed arms, a man who had forgotten how to be impressed.
Director Lee, Head of Trainee Development—razor-sharp posture, expression carved from winter.
Mr. Kwon, Head Choreographer—the man who believed perfection was a minimum.
The center seat—the CEO's throne—was empty. That alone was unsettling.
"Name and number," Director Lee said, flipping open her folder with surgical calm.
"B-412. Kang Minjae." His voice betrayed him—too thin, too breakable.
"Why Apollo?" Mr. Kwon asked without looking up, tapping a polyrhythmic tattoo with his pen.
"Because I want to create a sound that's honest." Minjae inhaled. "Not just polished."
Director Lee's eyebrow lifted by a fraction. "We sell polished honesty here. What will you be performing?"
He placed the USB on the table like an offering. "An original overlay to Aether's 'Gravity.'"
Mr. Han finally looked up. A faint smirk. "This isn't a cover," he murmured, plugging in the drive. "It's a counterattack."
Minjae walked to the center of the room. His legs felt carved from stone. He shut his eyes. He tried to remember the moment he recorded the ruin—the moment he realized he'd rather sound broken than silent.
The instrumental began. As the chorus approached, Jaewon's expected vocal never came.
Instead, the system queued Cable Test 03.
Minjae's own gravel-edged belt tore through the room like a flare in a dark sea. Not a polished track. A wound turned into sound.
He layered his live counter-melody over it, pushing past fear, past exhaustion, past the version of himself that always apologized. His voice cracked. He did not hide it. He let it split the air like a truth no one asked for but everyone needed.
When the final note faded, silence fell. Electric. Devouring.
Director Lee wasn't looking at Minjae. She was staring at the sound wave on the monitor, eyes frozen wide.
Mr. Han spoke first. "That was awful. Amateur. Completely unruly."
The humiliation hit Minjae like a punch.
But Director Lee leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. "It was unruly," she agreed. "But it's the first time in half a year that something in this room actually moved. That wasn't a performance. It was an assault on the idea of perfection."
She paused, then delivered the sentence meant to break him.
"We don't need a voice like yours, Minjae. It's too wild, too costly to restrain. However…"
Her gaze flicked to the empty CEO seat—then back to him.
"…Jaewon Sunbaenim requested you. Specifically. He said you carried the kind of instability that can either destroy a team—or remake the entire stage."
Mr. Kwon finally spoke. "No technique. No stage presence. And yet you stood there like you had nothing left to lose. You sold the emotion. You sold the weight."
Director Lee snapped the folder shut. "You are accepted into the Trainee Program. Not because of talent, but because you dared to bleed on our floor. Report to the lowest tier dorm tomorrow at 06:00. Bring only what you can carry."
Her eyes sharpened to a scalpel's edge.
"You are not here to shine. You are here to be ground down until only the Zenith Note remains."
The words hit him like the drop of a gavel. Relief surged through him—wild, overwhelming, terrifying.
As he turned to leave, Director Lee called after him.
"One more thing. Jaewon left this."
She slid a folded note across the table. Minjae opened it with trembling fingers.
Four words. Sharp as prophecy.
The Zenith Note demands a price.