On the third day of rehearsals for the Golden Disk Awards opening act, everyone was actually having a great time.
For the past three days, the entire team had practically lived, eaten, and slept inside the rehearsal studio. Everyone knew they were working with extremely limited time, so no one slacked off. Every single person carried their own weight.
No one was getting left behind.
Yone made absolutely sure of that.
The production team had already finalized the stage plans and technical adjustments. The choreography, lighting cues, and stage transitions were all locked in.
The only thing left was one final approval.
From Foca.
So early on the third day, Foca came in to check on the rehearsal progress.
The moment Lili heard that Foca would be attending the rehearsal, she immediately dropped to her knees and started praying like her life depended on it.
"Please, please, PLEASE Lord," Lili muttered intensely. "I beg of you… please help me survive zhis upcoming endeavour."
Her hands were clasped together so tightly they were practically shaking.
Everyone stared at her with amused expressions.
"Girl," Pink said slowly, "why are you praying like you're about to meet an executioner or something?"
"You don't understand!" Lili cried, eyes wide with terror. "An executioner would have been better!"
Bobby blinked.
"Honey… I think you're overreacting a little, don't you?" he said gently, clearly finding her panic adorable. "Sir Foca isn't as scary as you're making him sound."
"No, honey! You don't understand!" Lili gasped.
She grabbed Bobby's shirt like a drowning person clinging to a life raft.
"Whoever you met during your time in LEAVEN… zhat is an imposter!" she whisper-shouted dramatically.
"Zhat man is a wolf in sheep's clothing!"
Aqua watched her like he was observing a documentary.
"Baby girl is going through it…"
The Kweens nodded in theatrical sympathy.
"It's giving… bad hair day," Javi said solemnly.
"It's giving… firing squad," Kitty added, placing a hand dramatically on his chest.
"It's giving… The Sixth Sense," Pink chimed in.
The reference completely flew over everyone's heads.
The room went silent.
"Huh?" Aqua, Javi, and Kitty said in perfect unison.
Pink looked personally offended.
"Girl. Please tell me y'all are not standing here in the year of our Queen B, Beyoncé and telling me you don't know the classic The Sixth Sense."
Kitty frowned.
"Uh… is that the one where that diva crawls out of the TV giving horror slayage?"
"Bitch, no!" Javi snapped instantly.
"That's my queen, the legend, the diva herself—Sadako—from The Ring series. The Japanese one. Not that shitty American remake."
He shuddered dramatically.
"Just thinking about the Hollywood version is making me gag."
Hearing a familiar name, Ryu and Corsair's ears perked up.
"Sadako-san?" they asked curiously.
"That's right, boys!" Javi declared proudly. "The queen herself!"
Pink rubbed her temples.
"Bruja… still the wrong movie."
She looked like she was seconds away from fainting from cultural disappointment.
"Seriously," Pink continued with dramatic disgust. "None of you hoes know—"
She suddenly turned, widened her eyes dramatically, and whispered:
"I see dead people."
The performance was flawless.
A beat of silence passed.
Then—
"OHHHHHH!" the rest of the Kweens shouted as realization hit.
Finally.
Lili slowly turned toward them.
Her eyes looked slightly… unhinged.
The Kweens immediately jumped and clutched each other in fear.
"Fools," Lili said ominously, her eye twitching slightly.
"You will all be dead… by the end of zhis so-called rehearsal."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
Right at that exact moment—
The studio door opened.
Foca walked in.
Everyone's attention immediately shifted toward him.
Meanwhile, the Kweens were still clinging to each other.
Low-key scared.
High-key gagged.
****
"Alright everyone," Foca said, stepping in front of the group with his signature soft smile. "Time is of the essence. Please show me what you have so far."
Everyone looked excited to present their masterpiece.
Everyone…
Except one.
Lili stood slightly behind the group, taking slow, deliberate breaths like she was preparing for surgery.
Or execution.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "You can survive zhis… maybe."
The music started.
And just like that, the entire studio exploded into motion.
The performance was high-energy from the very first beat. Every dancer, every movement, every transition was executed with precision and intensity. In just two days, they had built something powerful—and they were determined to prove it.
The whole time, Foca simply watched.
No smile.
No nod.
No reaction.
Just a calm, unreadable poker face.
They pushed harder.
No one half-assed anything.
Every ounce of energy went into the performance.
And when the final move hit—
Everyone froze in their ending pose.
Heavy breathing filled the studio.
Chest rising.
Sweat dripping.
Muscles burning.
At the start of the day, everyone had been confident. Proud of what they managed to build in such a short time.
But now…
Foca's silence was slowly sucking that confidence straight out of the room.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
The only sounds were pants and exhausted breathing.
Foca closed his eyes.
And released a long sigh.
The moment that sigh left his lips, everyone's heartbeat seemed to spike at the same time.
Then Foca reached into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone and dialed someone on speed dial.
The line connected.
"Bring me a set of comfortable clothes," he said calmly.
Everyone froze.
"Tell catering to send the food to the dance studio."
Their eyes widened.
"And have the medic team on standby."
That one sentence made everyone's stomach drop.
Medic team?
Why the hell did they need a medic team?
Foca hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket.
Before anyone could process what was happening—
Lili sprinted forward and dropped to her knees in front of him.
"Little bread, please have mercy!" she begged dramatically.
Her voice echoed across the studio.
Foca didn't even blink.
He looked down at her like an immovable statue.
"Lili," he said calmly, "please behave and return to your position."
His tone wasn't loud.
It wasn't angry.
But somehow it made everyone in the room question every life decision they had ever made.
"Yes, sir," Lili squeaked.
She immediately jumped up and ran back to her spot.
Across the room, Bobby watched the entire exchange with growing concern.
A realization slowly dawned on him.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
Lili wasn't exaggerating after all.
Everyone else had worked with Foca before—during the island program.
But what they didn't realize was that the version of Foca they saw back then…
Was the TV-friendly version.
Of course he wasn't going to scare away future artists by showing them the full extent of his standards.
But the man standing in front of them right now?
That was someone Lili knew very well.
The real Foca.
****
When it came to the arts, there were many horror stories from those who had the fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on who you asked—chance of working with Foca.
At Juilliard alone, Foca had become infamous for being even more ruthless than the teachers and instructors themselves.
Yet despite all of that, many students still fought for the chance to work with him.
Why?
Because there was a saying circulating quietly in the halls:
"Foca equals passing with flying colors."
Of course, the exchange rate was… questionable.
Passing with excellence often meant losing a few years of your life in the process.
Was it worth it?
If you asked them, they would answer without hesitation.
Absolutely.
Would they ever do it again?
Hell no.
Most of them joked they would rather check themselves into a mental asylum.
Once was more than enough.
Foca was deeply passionate when it came to art.
But interestingly, he never chased perfection.
What he sought was something far more difficult.
The essence of art.
The soul of it.
Many of his teachers applauded him for this philosophy.
Others found his methods… deeply concerning.
Because to Foca, perfection didn't always mean something was good.
In his eyes, what mattered more was one simple question:
Did it touch the audience's heart?
Did it make them feel something?
And in the relentless pursuit of that answer, Foca could become frighteningly ruthless.
Some people admired that approach.
Others criticized it.
But regardless of where they stood, everyone respected him.
Because every piece of art he released into the world—every song, every performance, every composition—had one undeniable quality.
It moved people.
Sometimes in joy.
Sometimes in pain.
Sometimes in ways they couldn't even explain.
But it always reached them.
It stirred something in their souls.
Long after the performance ended, people found themselves thinking about it.
Remembering it.
Craving the experience again.
Whether it was a song, a dance performance, an instrumental solo, or something entirely different…
People always wanted to witness another one of Foca's creations.
Over time, he unknowingly built a loyal following.
People who had once been touched by his art.
People who stayed because they were still chasing that feeling again.
Because when Foca created something…
It stayed with you.
Foca demanded excellence.
Simple as that.
His critics called him pompous.
Pretentious.
A dramatic freak who took things too far in the name of "art."
"It's just art," they said dismissively.
But to Foca—
It was life itself.
And if people didn't understand it the way he did, that was fine.
Because at the end of the day, his art was the one place where he laid his soul bare for the world to see.
Everything else?
Was just background noise.
****
And please, do not get me wrong.
Foca is by no means repulsed by the idea of perfection.
Perfect synchronicity.
Perfect pitch.
Harmony.
Technique.
All of it.
In fact, Foca absolutely loves those things.
The only difference is that he doesn't place them at the center.
To him, they are not the main character.
They are supporting characters.
Their role is to help the true main character shine even brighter.
The soul of the art.
Perfection, in Foca's eyes, is like seasoning in a dish.
Necessary.
Important.
Capable of making the entire experience burst with flavor.
But seasoning alone is not the meal.
It only exists to elevate what truly matters.
That is how Foca uses perfection.
Not as something to lead with.
But as something that supports.
And in this day and age—where everything, even art, is produced instantly and manufactured to perfection—
Foca longs for something else.
Before perfection.
Before spectacle.
Before polish.
He longs to touch the heart first.