"We'll start with the singing first."
Foca's voice was deep, calm… and just rigid enough to make everyone straighten up unconsciously. The kind of tone that didn't need to be loud to command the room.
"From the top."
He gave a small nod to Ahn Jae.
That was all the signal he needed.
Ahn Jae took a deep breath. He knew—everyone knew—there was no hiding in acapella. No instruments to lean on. No safety net.
Just your voice.
Raw. Naked. Exposed.
And so he began.
Foca listened.
And when I say listened—I mean really listened. Like he was dissecting every note, every breath, every tiny crack in control.
"Stop."
The word cut clean through the air.
"Why are you rushing?" Foca asked, calm but precise. "It's supposed to be a slow build-up. Is it not?"
"Y-yes, sir," Ahn Jae stammered, nerves crawling up his spine, heat creeping into his face.
"Then stop rushing," Foca said simply. "The moment you sped up, you lost your breath. And when you lose your breath, you lose control. That's why you're pitchy."
A beat.
"Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Ahn Jae nodded quickly.
"Good. Take a breath. Trust your capability."
A small nod.
"From the top."
Ahn Jae closed his eyes.
Shook off the nerves.
Inhaled.
Again.
This time… he didn't rush.
He let the silence breathe. Let the music settle into his chest, even without instruments backing him up. He followed its rhythm—felt it instead of chasing it.
And the difference?
Immediate.
Obvious.
Everyone heard it.
Even Ahn Jae felt it himself.
When he finished, Foca gave a single nod.
"Better."
That was it.
No grand praise. No over-the-top approval.
But somehow, that one word landed heavier than a full speech.
"Thank you," Ahn Jae said, bowing quickly, gratitude clear in his voice.
"Next."
Just like that, Foca moved on. No wasted time. No lingering.
Kang Ian stepped forward, taking his cue, and began his verse.
And the pattern continued.
They sang.
Foca listened.
And when something—even something tiny—felt off to him, he stopped them immediately.
To some, it might've felt excessive. Nitpicky, even.
But the results?
Spoke for themselves.
Every correction tightened the performance. Every adjustment sharpened the sound. Improvement wasn't gradual—it was visible.
And that… pushed everyone to do better.
It was exhausting. Repetitive. Brutal, even.
But no one here was surprised.
They all knew what they signed up for.
Foca's way of "creating" wasn't gentle—it was relentless.
Still… once they started catching his rhythm, once they understood what he was pulling out of them…
It got easier.
Slightly.
Then came the ensemble after the bridge.
And that's where things went to hell.
They got stuck.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"Nikola, Jordan—I can't hear you. You're getting drowned out. Again."
"Isaac, you're too loud. Monarch, same issue. I know you both have powerful voices, but this is an ensemble. Control it. Stop overpowering the others. Again."
"Pink, Yone—drop it half an octave. Leo, Nox, Aqua—bring yours up. Balance it. Again."
"From the top."
"One more time. Stop rushing."
Time blurred.
Attempts stacked.
Frustration simmered.
But no one dared to slack.
Not under that gaze.
And then—
Finally.
"Good."
A pause.
"Good job, everyone. Take five. Hydrate. We continue after."
Collective relief flooded the room.
Foca stepping back meant one thing:
They survived.
For now.
Because in Foca's vocabulary…
"satisfied" didn't mean perfect.
It meant—
it'll do.
Passable.
Barely made it.
But hey…
we take those.
Well—
they take those.
****
It was a truly harrowing journey.
And that was just the vocals.
Foca still had the dance to tear through.
And tear through it he did.
Five minutes.
That was all they got.
The second it was up, rehearsals resumed—right on the dot. No delays. No excuses. No mercy.
This time, Foca tackled the choreography.
And he was just as relentless. Just as merciless.
"Javi, Jordan, Kitty—extend those legs! Don't half-ass it. Stretch. Fully. When you go into the Développé à la Seconde to the Relevé, I want clean lines. Readable lines. Turn out those legs—and stop sickling your feet."
No pause.
"Silas, Kang Ian, Eli—those chest pops? Make them pop. Isolate properly. I want to see every hit. Every single one should be clean. Sharp. Controlled."
Still no pause.
"Bobby, Lili, August, Nox, Yone, Aqua—tango section!"
A clap. Sharp. Commanding.
"Leads—lead. Keep your frames up. Assert dominance. Don't let your follows throw you around like you're decoration."
A beat.
"Follows—bend. Those backs. Head flicks sharper. And for the love of God—stop fighting your leads. Trust them. Let them do their job."
"Again!"
"Someone is late—again!"
"Get into your pliés! And for those who don't understand ballet—yes, it's your squat. Stay level. I don't want anyone sticking out like a sore thumb."
Over.
And over.
And over.
By the end of it—
Bodies hit the floor.
Hard.
Gasping.
Air came in broken, desperate pulls. Chests heaving, lungs burning, muscles screaming like they were filing a formal complaint.
Their bodies were not used to this.
This kind of rehearsal?
This was a whole different beast from what they experienced on the island.
In fact…
Foca made everything they'd done before look like child's play.
And the worst part?
The day wasn't even close to being over.
Because now—
now that vocals and dance were done separately—
they had to do both.
At the same time.
You know.
Like an actual pop group.
Sing live.
Dance full out.
No backtrack to hide behind.
No safety net.
Just raw vocals while moving like their lives depended on it.
Welp.
That's what they signed up for.
And Foca was going to make damn sure they delivered.
So after a quick check from the medics and physical therapy team—making sure no one had actually broken something important and could still function like semi-healthy humans—
they went right back in.
It got so intense that oxygen tanks were rolled in.
Glucose IV drips weren't even a question anymore—they were a necessity.
Bodies were wrapped, taped, and reinforced like they were being prepped for war.
Athletic tape layered over muscles like armor.
PTs moved quickly, efficiently—handling cramps the second they appeared, pressing, stretching, fixing, resetting.
No delays.
No downtime.
Just constant maintenance…
so the machine could keep going.
****
Now, I know what you're thinking.
"Foca is being too harsh…"
"This is borderline abuse!"
Blah, blah, blah—and whatever else you wanna throw in there.
But before you get ahead of yourself, let me tell you something.
Foca is the last person you should be talking shit about.
Yes, he's harsh.
Relentless.
Borderline terrifying, even.
But he never lets it cross the line.
The moment he sees someone trip, stumble, or even breathe a little too hard—he shuts it down immediately.
"Rest."
"Medic."
No arguments.
No exceptions.
He makes damn sure every single one of his artists is okay before anything else.
Always.
And when they come back?
He doesn't just throw them back in like nothing happened.
He looks them in the eye.
"Are you good to continue?"
And the answer?
Is always yes.
Because no one—no one—is working harder than Foca himself.
He doesn't just stand there and bark orders.
He teaches.
He demonstrates.
He does it with them.
So yeah—
everyone knows.
He's hard on them…
because he gives a damn.
Because he wants them to be that good.
The kind of good that leaves no room for regret.
No room for "we could've done better."
He had already memorized the entire performance after watching it just once.
Of course he did.
And so—
final run-through.
No holding back.
Full out.
Singing.
Dancing.
Everything.
They gave it everything they had left—and probably a little more they didn't.
And when it was over—
they froze in their final positions.
Breathless.
Burning.
Waiting.
All eyes on Foca.
His expression?
Unreadable.
And then—
👏
For a split second, they thought they were hallucinating.
Honestly, at this point? Valid.
But then—
👏 👏 👏 👏
It continued.
Foca stood there, looking at them—
really looking at them—
a proud, soft smile breaking through as he clapped.
And just like that—
they melted.
Relief.
Pride.
Disbelief.
All of it crashing at once.
"Fuck yeah!" Nikola shouted, throwing his fists into the air like he just won the damn Olympics.
"We did it, guys!" August yelled—flat on his back, barely alive, but grinning like the sun.
"Girl, this whole thing is giving emergency room," Kitty wheezed, checking his reflection in a mirror while literally crawling across the floor. "We lowkey slayed and died… like, actually."
Laughter broke out—weak, breathless, but real.
Finally—
they could breathe.
"If I hear 'again' or 'from the top' one more time," Eli muttered, shuddering, "I think I'm gonna lose it."
"I'm definitely having nightmares about it tonight," Bobby added, fully serious.
They had been through it.
Absolutely put through the wringer.
And Foca?
He just stood there, watching.
Watching as that hard-earned sense of accomplishment filled the room.
Then—
"I'm proud of you all."
That got everyone's attention instantly.
"I know I've been hard on you," he continued, voice softer now. "But understand—I did it for you."
No edge.
No sharpness.
Just honesty.
"I don't care what people say about me. About the company."
A small shake of his head.
"That's irrelevant."
His gaze settled on them—each and every one.
"What matters to me… is that when you step on that stage, you succeed."
A beat.
"That you walk off knowing you gave everything you had. No regrets. No what-ifs."
His voice dropped, quieter—but heavier.
"I want the audience to watch you and have nothing but praise to give."
Another pause.
"It's not about me."
A small, warm smile.
"It's about you."
"You're the ones meant to shine."
And then, softer—
"And if I can help you shine even just a little brighter…"
A breath.
"Then I know I've done my job."
He looked at them—not as trainees, not as performers—
but as something he believed in.
"Thank you… for trusting me."
****
And then—
Yone stood.
Right in the middle of a battlefield of exhausted bodies—some sprawled on the floor, others barely holding themselves upright.
"Everyone, attention!"
His voice cut through the room—sharp, commanding.
Leader mode: activated.
And somehow—
somehow—
everyone got up.
Ignoring the screaming protests of their muscles, the burning in their lungs, the fact that their souls had already left their bodies five rehearsals ago.
"2… 3…"
Yone signaled.
And then—
something happened.
Something that caught Foca completely off guard.
In perfect unison—
they bowed.
"Thank you for your guidance!"
Their voices rang out together, filled with nothing but sincerity.
No sarcasm.
No dramatics.
Just pure, genuine gratitude.
They held the bow for a full five seconds—
—and then rose, just as synchronized.
Like it was part of the choreography.
For a moment—
Foca didn't say anything.
"No… thank you, everyone," he finally said, his smile softer—brighter—than they had ever seen it.
"This just proves that maybe…"
A small breath.
"I'm doing something right."
"Sir Foca, you can do no wrong!" Isaac blurted out.
"You're the GOAT, sir!" Leo added immediately.
"In Sir Foca we trust!" the group echoed, almost in unison.
Foca let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
He didn't know when that started.
But apparently…
it was a thing now.
"Alright," he clapped his hands once. "The rest of the day is free. No more rehearsals."
A collective spiritual ascension almost happened on the spot.
"The spa has been prepared. Go unwind. The chefs have a special dinner ready for all of you."
A pause.
"And pack your things. Sleep early. We're flying to Korea first thing tomorrow morning."
"Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" they answered in unison.
"Good."
A nod.
"Rest well. I'll see you all tomorrow."
And just like that—
Foca exited the studio.
The second the door closed—
bodies dropped.
Again.
"I think… my ancestors are calling me…" Ryu groaned, staring into the void.
"No, Ryu! Don't go!" Corsair reached out dramatically. "At least take me with you!"
"You okay?" Eli asked, sitting behind Jordan.
"Yesh…" Jordan mumbled, words slurring from exhaustion. "Just… tired."
Despite that, he was smiling.
Soft. Content.
He leaned his head against Eli's shoulder, and without hesitation, Eli wrapped an arm around him—firm, steady, warm.
Meanwhile—
Pink was face down on the wooden floor.
Completely motionless.
"Bitch, you look like a sun-dried starfish," Javi said, staring down at him.
"I am a beautiful sun-dried starfish," Pink replied without moving.
Somewhere in the corner—
Lili.
Who, mind you, had been dreading this entire day since sunrise—
looked completely fine.
Not just fine.
Chipper.
Energized.
Suspiciously alive.
She stuck out like a sore thumb.
Monarch narrowed his eyes. "How are you still functioning?"
Bobby wanted to ask too.
But speaking felt like a full-body commitment he could not afford.
"I dunno…" Lili shrugged. "Honestly, I feel like little bread went easy on us."
Silence.
"…Bloody hell, Lili," Bobby finally croaked, eyes wide in horror. "What kind of life have you lived?"
"Oh, trust me…" Lili grinned, snuggling into him. "You don't want to know, my sweet Bobby bear."
Bobby and Monarch exchanged a look.
A very loaded look.
No words needed.
Translation?
Yeah.
There are definitely a few screws loose in this family.
And Monarch, internally?
Good luck surviving that one. I'll pray for you.
And just like that—
rehearsals were over.
Bodies wrecked.
Souls slightly displaced.
But hearts?
Full.
Because one thing was certain—
This performance?
Oh, it wasn't just going to be good.
It was about to make waves.
The kind people wouldn't shut up about.
The kind that lingers.