And so, rehearsals officially began.
Every trainee gathered inside the Square Stage Studio, where the first order of business was learning the signal song from start to finish.
"Alright, everyone! From the top!" Robin called out. "One, two, three, and..."
The room instantly came alive.
No backing track.
No guide vocals.
Just dozens of voices filling the studio in pure a cappella.
Now, here's one thing you need to understand about LEAVEN.
From day one, every trainee had one rule drilled into their skulls.
If you're singing... you're singing live.
Lip-syncing?
Absolutely not.
Delete that thought from your brain immediately.
If any trainee even considered hiding behind the crowd and pretending to sing...
Congratulations.
You have voluntarily signed up to be publicly executed by the vocal mentors.
Figuratively.
...
Probably.
"Ramon!"
Robin's voice cut cleanly through the choir.
"I can't hear you!"
The room collectively cringed.
Robin's ears were downright terrifying.
It didn't matter if fifty people were singing at once.
She could still pinpoint exactly who wasn't pulling their weight.
"Dude!" the trainee beside Ramon whisper-yelled. "Why aren't you singing?!"
"It's freaking high!" Ramon whisper-shouted back. "What do you want me to do?!"
Before his friend could answer...
Robin did.
"It's almost the finale!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. "It's like none of you learned anything!"
She pointed toward the group.
"If it's too high..."
She tapped her temple.
"Find your range."
"Then harmonize."
"We've been teaching you this since Day One, people!"
Her gaze swept across the room.
"And that wasn't just directed at Ramon."
Several trainees suddenly found the floor fascinating.
"Take five."
Robin sighed.
"Then we're running it again."
Despite being a signal song, the arrangement was anything but ordinary.
Layer after layer of harmonies intertwined with one another, demanding precision, musical awareness, and constant listening.
Nobody could afford to coast.
Not here.
As rehearsals continued, the studio doors quietly slid open.
Foca stepped inside with his usual gentle smile.
Almost immediately, several trainees noticed him.
Their eyes widened.
And just like magic...
A few notes shot into registers they had absolutely no business visiting.
One poor soul practically invented a new octave.
Foca heard every single one of them.
Internally...
He winced.
Outwardly...
His warm smile never wavered.
To their credit, everyone remained professional and kept singing.
Though internally...
Several trainees were desperately praying.
Please don't let my voice crack.
Please don't let my voice crack.
Please don't let my voice crack.
Foca simply closed his eyes.
He let the music wash over him.
Voice after voice blended together, weaving an intricate tapestry of harmonies throughout the room.
A smile slowly spread across his face.
They had all grown.
A lot.
Months ago, many of these trainees struggled just to stay on pitch.
Now...
They weren't merely singing.
They were using their voices.
Shaping them.
Controlling them.
Painting with them.
Of course, there were still the obvious standouts.
Louie.
The twins, Yen and Zen.
Toma.
Seven.
Jeremiah.
Each possessed voices that naturally commanded attention.
But...
The biggest surprise...
Was Liam.
Foca couldn't help smiling.
Liam had improved beyond even his expectations.
The ease with which he navigated soaring high notes before effortlessly dropping into rich lower registers was genuinely remarkable.
His range wasn't just impressive.
It was a gift.
Then there were those whose greatest strength wasn't stealing the spotlight...
But making everyone around them sound better.
Benimaru was one of those rare vocalists.
His warm baritone became the glue that held entire sections together.
His harmonies never overpowered anyone.
They simply wrapped around the melody like silk, adding richness and color wherever they appeared.
His style was so distinctive that seasoned ears could immediately pick him out, even in a wall of voices.
And then...
There was Mikko.
Honestly...
Calling him a jack-of-all-trades almost felt disrespectful.
The guy was classically trained.
Which basically meant nobody ever knew what he was going to do next.
One moment he'd be reinforcing the upper harmonies.
The next, he'd effortlessly slide into the lower register as if gravity simply didn't apply to his vocal cords.
And every now and then...
On the rare occasion Mikko woke up and chose peace...
He'd simply sing the melody like a completely normal human being.
Those moments were astonishingly rare.
Because for reasons known only to himself, Mikko seemed physically incapable of being ordinary.
Together with Nikola...
The two of them were an absolute German menace.
Then came the rap sections.
Timmy.
Kayden.
There wasn't a single doubt they were the standouts.
Neither relied on speed for the sake of speed.
Neither tried to force attitude.
They simply had it.
Confidence.
Swagger.
Rhythm.
Heart.
Every syllable landed with purpose.
Every verse carried personality.
That elusive "special sauce" people always talked about?
Yeah.
They had it in abundance.
And at this stage of the competition...
They needed it.
Because the finale wasn't just about proving you were good.
It was about proving you were unforgettable.
In a room full of exceptional performers...
Blending in was the fastest way to disappear.
****
After another full run-through, Robin slowly nodded.
"Alright, people," she said. "We're finally getting somewhere."
She folded her arms.
"Well... aside from a few minor hiccups, you all actually sound..."
She paused just long enough to make everyone hopeful.
"...decent."
A collective sigh escaped the room.
Foca let out a quiet chuckle.
"You know," he said, "you are allowed to be a little more generous with the compliments."
Robin shot him a smirk.
"Coming from you? How else would you describe that performance?"
Every trainee immediately turned toward Foca.
"..."
Foca rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"The performance was..."
The room went silent.
"..."
"It was..."
Several trainees unconsciously held their breath.
One poor soul looked ready to start praying.
Foca smiled sheepishly.
"...decent."
Half the room deflated on the spot.
"Would I call it stage-ready?"
He shook his head.
"Absolutely not."
Collective emotional damage.
"But..."
His expression softened.
"It was decent."
"A promising start."
"So don't get discouraged."
The room stayed quiet for exactly three seconds.
Then...
"Ouch."
"My heart."
"It hurts..."
"I knew we weren't perfect, but hearing Sir Foca say it really puts things into perspective."
"Excuse me," one trainee scoffed. "Don't lump me in with the rest of you."
He proudly pointed at himself.
"I was eating that song."
The entire room froze.
Several trainees slowly turned toward him.
One whispered...
"...Brother."
"...No."
At that exact moment...
Porsche realized he'd made a terrible mistake.
"Uhm... Porsche."
Foca's voice was as warm as ever.
Which somehow made it even scarier.
Porsche stiffened before slowly turning around.
"...Yes, Sir?"
His voice trembled just enough to make the trainees start snickering.
Foca smiled.
"I wouldn't exactly say you were eating that song."
Porsche closed his eyes.
He already knew where this was going.
"You were actually off-key for... most of the chorus."
A beat.
"But."
Foca gave him a thumbs-up.
"Valiant effort."
Silence.
Then the entire studio exploded with laughter.
"Pfft!"
"NO!"
"I wanna disappear!"
Porsche immediately covered his face before squatting into a tiny ball of embarrassment.
One trainee patted his shoulder.
"That's what you get for being cocky."
Another joined in.
"'Eating that song?'"
He snorted.
"More like the song ate you, bro."
Poor Porsche.
And yes.
He named himself after the luxury car.
Manifestation.
Vision.
Goals.
Pop off, king.
Now...
Manifest finding those notes too.
Because if you don't...
That Porsche might stay parked in your dreams for a very, very long time.
After letting everyone laugh for a moment, Foca clapped his hands.
"Alright, listen up."
The room instantly settled.
His warm smile returned.
"For this signal song, there will only be a handful of lead vocalists and lead rappers."
"The rest of you will make up the ensemble."
The room visibly tensed.
Seeing the panic spread across their faces, Foca quickly continued.
"Now, don't misunderstand."
"Every single one of you will sing."
He gestured toward the group.
"It's simply a matter of how large or how small your part will be."
That did little to calm their nerves.
"And to decide who gets those parts..."
Foca smiled.
"...we're doing things the way the real industry does."
"Auditions."
The word landed like a brick.
"By the end of this week, every one of you will audition individually."
"You'll perform the entire signal song."
"Right in front of..."
He began counting on his fingers.
"Me."
"Luca."
"Tuesday."
"Your mentors."
"And..."
"...Cat."
That last name caught everyone off guard.
A ripple of confused murmurs spread through the room.
"...Cat?"
"The host?"
"She's judging too?"
Foca chuckled.
"I figured some of you would be surprised."
He nodded toward the door.
"Cat has hosted countless music and survival shows throughout her career."
"You'd be amazed at how much she notices."
"She may not be standing in the practice rooms every day..."
"...but she absolutely knows what she's looking at."
The trainees quietly nodded.
That... actually made sense.
"Since this is specifically an audition for the lead vocal and rap positions," Foca continued, "we'll only be evaluating your singing and rapping."
"You don't have to dance."
He shrugged.
"I mean..."
"If dancing somehow helps your performance..."
"...go for it."
"But that's entirely up to you."
Almost instantly, the atmosphere lightened.
At least they wouldn't have to worry about choreography...
Yet.
"Oh."
Foca suddenly snapped his fingers.
"One last thing."
He smiled.
It was the exact same warm smile everyone had grown to love.
...
So why did it suddenly feel so sinister?
"The current members of LEAVEN..."
"...will also be auditioning."
"...right alongside all of you."
Silence.
Absolute.
Soul-crushing.
Silence.
One trainee stared blankly into the distance.
"...Well."
"My chances of getting a lead just drilled straight through the Earth's crust."
Another sighed dramatically.
"At this point, my odds aren't even underground."
"They're waving at the dinosaurs."
Somewhere in the room...
Several trainees silently began reconsidering all of their life choices.
****
As rehearsals rolled into the afternoon, everyone reconvened after lunch.
This time...
It was dance practice.
And when they said dance practice...
They meant dance practice.
Not just one genre.
Oh no.
That would've been far too merciful.
Hip-hop.
Jazz.
Contemporary.
Waacking.
House.
Ballroom.
A little bit of everything.
Even the current members of LEAVEN found themselves challenged by the sheer variety.
Naturally, though...
Everything had to start somewhere.
And that somewhere was the first chorus.
Under the loving care of Mentor Dora.
"...And five, six, seven, eight!"
"One and two and..."
Dora stopped counting mid-step.
"What's that face?!"
The trainees immediately straightened up.
"And five and six..."
"Straighten those arms!"
She resumed counting without missing a beat.
"One, two, three..."
She pointed at someone across the room.
"You're a count late!"
"Five, six..."
"Energy, people!"
"ENERGY!"
The next few hours unfolded exactly as everyone expected.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
Suffering.
When Dora finally called for a break, trainees collapsed wherever gravity claimed them.
Some sprawled across the floor.
Some lay flat on their backs.
One simply accepted his fate and stared blankly at the ceiling, questioning every decision that had led him here.
"The hell happened to your stamina?" Dora asked, genuinely baffled.
"You all went on holiday..."
"...and apparently your stamina decided to stay there."
"Ugh..."
One trainee suddenly bolted toward the nearest trash bin.
"I can't..."
BLEGH.
Dora blinked.
"Anybody else wanna puke their guts out?"
...
Oddly enough...
That question alone seemed to intimidate everyone's stomach into behaving.
The nausea collectively thought,
"You know what?"
"Maybe today's not the day."
And just like that...
The urge to throw up mysteriously subsided.
Human bodies are weird.
"Fuck..."
Nikola wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"I actually forgot how brutal Dora is."
He was one of the few still standing.
Barely.
Beside him, Mikko leaned against his shoulder like a man who had already seen the light.
"Yeah, dude..."
"She's a fucking monster."
Meanwhile...
In one particular corner of the studio...
A completely different event was unfolding.
The Kweens.
Aqua.
Pink.
Javi.
Kitty.
Jeremiah.
Were they exhausted?
Absolutely.
Were they letting exhaustion distract them from their priorities?
Absolutely not.
"What priorities?" you ask.
Simple.
Thirsting.
These five kept their priorities perfectly straight.
Which, ironically...
...might've been the only straight thing about them.
Yes.
I absolutely stole that joke.
No.
I'm not giving it back.
While the rest of the studio resembled a battlefield...
The Kweens saw paradise.
A cornucopia.
A horn of plenty.
Plenty of what?
Sweaty men.
Lots...
And lots...
Of sweaty men.
Now listen.
Ignoring God's finest creations felt downright disrespectful.
So naturally...
They admired.
Sometimes respectfully.
Sometimes...
Less respectfully.
Their first victims?
The Three Musketeers.
Also known among the trainees as...
The Powerpuff Boys.
Seven.
Kayden.
Benimaru.
The three of them stood together, casually passing around one comically oversized tumbler, each taking a sip before handing it to the next like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And the skinship?
Questionable.
Very questionable.
The casual shoulder touches.
The leaning.
The complete disregard for personal space.
At some point, the line between "best bros" and "BL protagonists" had packed its bags and left the country.
Which probably explained why AO5 had recently become flooded with fanfics about the three of them.
Kitty dramatically inhaled through their nose.
Their eyes slowly rolled back.
"...I smell a polycule."
The other four turned toward them.
They took another exaggerated sniff.
"They've definitely seen each other's sausages."
"They've probably showered together."
"Slept in the same bed..."
They're eyes suddenly snapped open.
"...With cuddles."
They gasped dramatically.
"Lots and lots of cuddles."
Pink stared at them.
"...Bitch."
"The only thing I'm smelling is sweaty men."
A beat.
"I mean..."
"I ain't complaining."
"But somebody definitely went ham with the aftershave."
Suddenly...
Aqua gasped so loudly that everyone jumped.
"Lord have mercy."
He dramatically clutched his chest.
"Forgive me, for I have sinned..."
His finger slowly pointed across the room.
"...but Mika's waist is so snatched it's giving me deeply unholy thoughts."
The other Kweens immediately followed his line of sight.
And...
Well.
Fair enough.
Mika had lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, exposing a perfectly sculpted torso and, as Aqua so poetically described it...
A criminally snatched waist.
"Ay, Dios mío..."
Javi whispered.
"It do be snatched."
Jeremiah barely spared Mika a glance.
"I still prefer Toma."
Everyone slowly turned toward him.
"Oh?"
Jeremiah continued shamelessly staring across the studio.
"It's the perfect amount of muscle."
"Not too bulky."
"Just..."
"...chef's kiss."
The other four exchanged knowing looks before following Jeremiah's gaze.
There stood Toma.
His shirt had long since lost the battle against the heat and was now tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants.
Said sweatpants, by the way...
Were hanging on for dear life.
Seriously.
Those things sat so dangerously low on his hips they looked like they were relying entirely on hope, prayers, and excellent elastic.
And somehow...
No matter how much he danced...
They refused to fall.
It was honestly impressive.
His physique was exactly as Jeremiah had described.
Lean.
Athletic.
Balanced.
Defined without being overly bulky.
The kind of build that looked effortlessly strong.
The four Kweens collectively stared.
Then...
"Daaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyuuuuummmmmm."
Four heads nodded in perfect synchronization.
They were clocking that body.
And...
The verdict was unanimous.
It was tea.