Seoul, South Korea.
The Golden Disk Awards.
The day—no, the night—has finally arrived.
Outside, the venue hums with electricity. A living, breathing thing made of thousands of voices, footsteps, and barely contained excitement.
Fans flood in, one wave after another, filling the massive space inch by inch.
Light sticks? Check.
Banners? Check.
Professional long-lens cameras that could probably see into another dimension? Oh, absolutely.
Phone batteries? Fully charged.
Lungs and throats? Hydrated, prepped, and ready to scream like rent is due.
Every single person stepping through those doors carries the same thing in their chest—anticipation so thick it almost feels suffocating.
Because tonight?
Tonight, they get to see them.
Then, the red carpet begins.
And just like that, the energy shifts.
Cars pull up one by one. Doors open. And out they step—idols, actors, industry giants—walking like they own not just the carpet, but the entire damn night.
Flash.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Cameras go feral.
Smiles are perfected. Waves are practiced. Every movement calculated but effortless, like they were born knowing exactly where the lens is at all times.
Not a single hair out of place—
and if it is, trust, it was styled that way on purpose.
And the fits?
Oh, the fits are fitting.
Sequins catching the light like they're trying to start their own constellation. Jewelry dripping. Tailoring so sharp it could cut glass. Every look screaming money, power, and don't even think about comparing.
It's less "red carpet" and more "Vogue cover after Vogue cover unfolding in real time."
For a moment—just a moment—
everything feels perfect.
Untouchable.
Like this night is destined to go down as one for the books.
And maybe it will be.
****
It was one for the books.
Just… not in the way anyone had hoped.
Because it wasn't just fans who showed up that night.
Oh no.
The crowd didn't just come with light sticks and banners of love—
they came with anger. With noise. With something a lot uglier.
Rioters flooded the scene right alongside the supporters.
Chants filled the air—but not the kind that idols dream of hearing.
Not cheers.
Boycotts.
Banners shot up high, cutting through the night like accusations. Voices screamed at the top of their lungs, demanding justice, demanding respect, demanding recognition for those they claimed were truly deserving.
Security?
Yeah—security had never been this tight.
Guards posted everywhere. Lines reinforced. Eyes watching every movement like the whole place could tip over at any second.
Because honestly?
It could.
And sure—on the surface, it all sounds noble.
Fighting for fairness. Calling out injustice. Standing up for what's right.
Cute.
But peel it back just a little, and the truth starts to stink.
Because at the end of the day?
This isn't selfless.
It's personal.
They shout for "artists."
They cry for "respect."
They scream about "the industry."
But let's be real.
They're only talking about their artists.
Their faves. Their biases. Their picks.
Some of these people don't even have anyone in the current lineup.
Their faves aren't performing. Aren't nominated. Haven't been relevant to the show in years.
And yet here they are—loud as ever.
Not for justice.
But for the possibility—that maybe, just maybe, if they scream hard enough, someone will remember their favorites exist.
"Justice for the deserving!" they cry.
But who decides that?
Who is deserving?
Because from where it stands, it's not about merit.
It's about bias.
Always has been.
Take that one post that blew up on Z.
The one where someone went on a full rant about their fave group being "robbed" of recognition—
all while dragging an eSports figure who had just received a prestigious award for contributions to sports.
Sports.
Versus.
Music.
Arts.
Culture.
Completely different fields, completely different criteria—and yet somehow, in their mind, it was comparable.
That's how twisted it's gotten.
At this point, it's not even about the awards anymore.
It's not about who wins or who doesn't.
It's about comparison.
Endless, exhausting, brain-rotting comparison.
If their fave isn't recognized? They rage.
If their fave is recognized? They celebrate—loudly—until someone else starts raging.
And then it flips.
Again.
And again.
And again.
A cycle.
Loud. Messy. Never-ending.
A snake eating its own tail—
and somehow still hungry.
****
While the entire world—and their mothers—are out there under blinding lights, soaking in attention, chasing cameras…
LEAVEN?
They're nowhere to be seen.
Tucked away in a secluded corner of the venue, far from the noise, far from the flashing lights—hidden like a secret not meant to be found.
Inside a luxury bus.
Waiting.
Preparing.
For what might be the most important performance of their lives.
Their first.
The first time the world will witness LEAVEN live.
Now, you might be wondering—
Why the hell are they hiding?
Why aren't they out there on the red carpet, serving looks, collecting gasps, making the internet lose its mind?
Well.
Because Foca said so.
The invitation came last minute.
Sudden. Unexpected. Almost suspicious.
LEAVEN was asked to open the show.
And in exchange for accepting?
Foca had conditions.
Strict ones.
The moment LEAVEN finishes their performance—they leave.
Immediately.
No lingering. No interviews. No appearances. No questions.
Gone.
Why?
Because Foca didn't want them taking more attention than they already had.
Didn't want to overshadow the artists actually nominated.
Didn't want to turn the night into something it wasn't meant to be.
Respect.
That was the goal.
Or at least—
that's what he said.
And so, here they are.
Hidden away.
Preparing in silence while the rest of the world screams.
"Yo… why am I so nervous?" Nikola blurts out, his hands trembling like they've got a mind of their own.
They haven't stopped shaking since he put the costume on.
"Dude, that's normal," Nox replies, letting out a breathy chuckle that does not convince anyone he's okay either.
"This is our first performance as LEAVEN. Of course you're losing your shit. We all are."
Nikola squints.
"…What about that?"
Across the bus—
Kitty.
Unbothered. Untouched. Thriving.
Taking selfies like he's on vacation. Checking his makeup. Laughing at something on his phone like he's not about to step into a life-altering moment in less than an hour.
Nox follows his gaze and snorts.
"…Yeah. Except Kitty."
A beat.
"Kitty's always been… an anomaly."
And like he heard his name whispered into the void—
Kitty's head snaps up.
Sharp.
Too sharp.
His eyes scan the entire bus in one smooth motion.
"Bitch—what the hell was that?!" Pink jolts. "You scared me!"
Kitty tilts his head slightly.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"Oh…" he murmurs, voice dropping into something softer. Stranger.
"I just got the tingles…"
A pause.
A smile curls.
"Someone's being naughty."
The way he says it?
Yeah.
Absolutely not normal.
Nikola and Nox both go stiff.
A chill crawling down their spines like something just walked over their graves.
They glance at each other.
Silent.
Panicked.
Nikola: Bro… how did he know?
Nox: Fuck if I know.
Nikola: That's not normal.
Nox: I told you. Anomaly.
Nikola: Yeah… yeah, you right.
Nikola rubs his arms, trying—and failing—to shake off the feeling.
Because suddenly?
The performance isn't the only thing making his heart race.
And for some reason…
he feels like he should be a little more afraid of what's inside the bus—
than what's waiting outside.
****
And then—
Clap.
Sharp. Clean. Commanding.
The sound cuts through the bus, snapping everyone out of their spiraling thoughts.
All eyes turn.
Yone stands at the front.
"Alright," he starts, steady but firm. "I know I've said this a million times already—probably enough to sound like a broken record."
A small pause.
"But I need to say it again."
The bus quiets.
Completely.
"This performance?" he continues, scanning each of them. "It matters."
"Sir Foca—and everyone backing us—put their trust in us. And we're not about to screw that up."
His voice softens, just a little.
"He prepared us for this. Every drill, every rehearsal, every correction—we didn't go through all that for nothing."
A beat.
Then—
"So yeah. Have fun."
A small smile tugs at his lips.
"Enjoy it. And like he always says… trust your capabilities."
He raises his hand.
"LEAVEN on three."
"ONE!"
" TWO!"
"THREE—!"
"LEAVEN!"
The shout echoes inside the bus—loud, unified, alive.
And just like that—
something shifts.
The nerves?
Gone.
Like they clocked out mid-shift and didn't even bother filing paperwork.
In their place?
Confidence.
Not cocky.
Not reckless.
Just… right.
Comfortable, but sharp. Relaxed, but ready. Grounded in something deeper than fear.
"Alright," Yone claps once more. "Vocal warm-ups."
He turns.
"Lili—wanna do the honors? Pick a song, start us off."
Lili's eyes light up instantly.
"Wait—like any song?"
Bobby nods, grinning. "Any."
"Oh, fun!" she giggles, practically vibrating in her seat.
Javi leans back, raising a brow. "Just make sure we actually know it, sì? Don't start busting out French on us out of nowhere. Oui oui and we're done for."
Lili gasps. "I would never! Zhe disrespect!"
A beat.
"…Okay, I think I'm ready."
She inhales.
Exhales.
And then—
🎶 I've never seen a diamond in the flesh… 🎶
Aqua immediately perks up. "OHHH—this is my jam!"
Isaac nods, impressed. "Solid choice."
Yone mutters under his breath, "Hearing this song is making me feel ancient…"
"Yooo, UNC feeling old!" Corsair shoots back—
SMACK.
"OW—!" Corsair clutches the back of his head, wincing as Yone hits him with a lethal side-eye.
🎶 In a torn-up town, no postcode envy… 🎶
One by one, voices start to join in.
Aqua. Monarch. Eli. Ahn Jae.
And damn—
The harmonies lock in.
Smooth. Effortless. The kind that sends chills straight down your spine.
Glances are exchanged.
Grins spread.
That quiet, shared kind of excitement that doesn't need words.
This—
This is it.
Not the stage.
Not the lights.
Not the millions watching.
This.
Just them.
Vibing. Singing. Breathing the same moment together like it's the most natural thing in the world.
From the very beginning—
This has always been the core of LEAVEN.
And then—
the chorus hits.
🎶 And we'll never be royals— 🎶
🎶 Royals— 🎶
Voices rise.
Blend.
So perfectly it almost feels unreal.
High notes? Nailed.
Lows? Rich and grounded.
Every note hitting exactly where it's supposed to—like they were built for this.
Straight-up eargasm territory.
By the end, they're all in it—
Hands up. Moving. Laughing.
Like nothing else exists outside this bus.
For a moment—
they forget.
Or maybe not forget…
Maybe they just choose not to think about it.
The stage.
The crowd.
The millions of eyes waiting.
Because right now?
They're here.
Together.
Alive in the moment.
And the moment?
Yeah.
It's a whole damn vibe.
And now—
they're ready.
All that's left…
is to step out there and prove it.
****
While LEAVEN prepares in silence, tucked away from the world—
Bread Music moves.
Their agents slip into their assigned positions like shadows taking shape.
No announcements.
No fanfare.
Just… there.
Eyes sharp.
Posture straight.
Every single one of them locked in—focused, alert, watching the production and music crew like hawks circling prey.
As promised, they were granted access.
Observation rights.
A simple request on paper.
Harmless, even.
But what the Golden Disk production team didn't expect—
was this.
Because Bread Music's agents didn't just observe.
Oh no.
They studied.
Every movement.
Every cue.
Every switch flipped, every sound checked, every signal passed between staff.
Nothing slipped through.
Nothing went unnoticed.
And it wasn't subtle.
Clipboards filled.
Earpieces murmured.
Eyes tracking like they were dissecting the entire operation in real time.
It didn't take long before the production crew started to feel it.
That pressure.
That creeping, skin-crawling awareness that—
someone is watching you… and they know exactly what you're doing.
Second guesses start slipping in.
"Was that cue too early?"
"Did we miss something?"
"Wait—was that even right?"
They've done this a hundred times.
A thousand.
But suddenly—
nothing feels certain.
Because behind them—
Bread Music stands.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Unimpressed.
The atmosphere tightens.
Heavy.
Thick enough to choke on.
And then—
the memory hits.
The production lead's voice.
Clear as day.
Cold as hell.
"Never mess with Bread Music."
A pause.
"And if you decide otherwise…"
Another.
"…prepare for the wrath that's coming your way."
At the time, it sounded dramatic.
Exaggerated.
Maybe even a little ridiculous.
Now?
Not so much.
Because no one is raising their voice.
No one is making threats.
No one is doing anything—
and yet somehow—
it feels like one wrong move could end everything.
Bread Music didn't come to play.
They came to make sure—
no bullshit…
gets the chance to become bullshit.
****
PS - Song is "Royals" by Lorde
****
PPS —
For those who don't know yet… I finally got a job. 🥹
After a whole year of getting ghosted by companies (like damn, at least reject me properly??), something finally came through.
With that being said, I just want to apologize in advance—my already-questionable update schedule is about to get even more chaotic.
I'll still do my best to update whenever I can, but yeah… no more set timing. We're officially in the "updates will arrive when they arrive" era.
Thank you all so much for sticking around and continuing to support this story. It genuinely means a lot to me—more than I probably say enough.
I appreciate you guys. Truly. 💛