The lights were too bright for 5 a.m.
Rows of fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, glaring down at the cold, mirror-lined walls of the audition room. Han Mirae stood at the center of the polished wooden floor, her sneakers squeaking softly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The silence in the room was deafening—no music, no voices, only the sound of her shallow breaths and the thunderous pounding of her heart.
Her eyes, wide with tension, flicked toward the far end of the room. A long desk sat under a harsh spotlight, behind which sat three judges: a vocal coach with arms folded tightly across her chest, a dance instructor who looked like he hadn't slept in days, and at the center—Kang Sejin, CEO of DreamStar Entertainment. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, his eyes sharp as blades.
This was it. Her only chance.
And the glowing numbers in her vision ticked lower, like a doomsday clock:
[Time Remaining: 89 Days 14 Hours 23 Minutes]
Mirae exhaled slowly. The pressure was suffocating. But it wasn't just the judges, the cameras, or the knowledge that this audition could determine her entire future. No—this was more than a shot at debut.
This was survival.
Exactly one week ago, Mirae had woken up with a strange red bracelet wrapped tightly around her left wrist. It was metallic, smooth, and fused to her skin as if welded in place. No one else could see it. No one else could touch it. Her mother thought it was part of a new fashion trend. But Mirae knew better.
The moment she touched it, a voice echoed in her mind—mechanical, genderless, cold.
> [System Activated: Debut Mission Commenced. Time Limit: 90 Days. Failure to debut will result in termination.]
At first, she thought she was hallucinating. Maybe the stress of chasing the idol dream had finally snapped something inside her. But then she met another girl at a practice center in Busan. A girl who also wore the bracelet. A girl who confided that she had 14 days left.
Three days later, that girl vanished. No calls. No texts. Her SNS accounts deleted. Her dorm room empty.
Termination.
Now it was real.
And Mirae had 89 days.
"Applicant 127," a voice called out over the intercom, cracking slightly with static. "Begin when ready."
Mirae flinched. She hadn't realized she'd zoned out.
She stepped forward, her spine straight, her hands clutched at her sides. The bright red sticker on her chest with her applicant number felt like a target. The camera hanging above the center of the room tilted slightly to follow her.
She bowed deeply—exactly ninety degrees. Not a hair out of place.
"My name is Han Mirae. Age nineteen. I'm here to debut—"
She hesitated for half a second. Her voice cracked ever so slightly.
"—or die."
That got a reaction.
The vocal coach raised an eyebrow. The dance instructor let out a short, skeptical laugh. Kang Sejin didn't move a muscle.
"Dramatic much?" the vocal coach muttered, not bothering to lower her voice.
Mirae said nothing. She didn't have the luxury of embarrassment.
The speakers buzzed again. The instrumental track began—an intense pop beat, fast and layered, the kind typically reserved for seasoned idols, not amateur trainees. Mirae's pulse spiked. She hadn't practiced to this exact version.
No room for fear now.
She moved.
Her arms extended smoothly, catching the beat with practiced sharpness. Her hips pivoted cleanly. She threw herself into the choreography, every ounce of muscle memory activating like a reflex. She had trained in secret for years—after school, in borrowed dance studios, behind her father's back.
Her movements weren't perfect. But they were passionate. Alive.
Then came the turn.
She spun hard, pushing off her right foot—and her ankle rolled.
It happened in a flash. Her balance wavered. Her body tilted. She caught herself before she hit the floor, but the moment of instability was clear.
Gasps echoed from the sidelines where staff and assistants stood frozen. The music didn't stop. Mirae didn't stop.
She gritted her teeth and forced her limbs back in line. She hit the next beat. Then the next. Her ankle throbbed, but she refused to falter again. Not now. Not with her life on the line.
The final chorus approached. Mirae flipped into the main center-point move—an intense knee-drop with a sharp upward reach—and as she landed, pain shot up her leg.
She smiled through it.
The music cut. Silence returned.
Mirae froze in position for a beat longer than necessary, then bowed again. Sweat dripped from her chin.
The judges didn't speak right away.
Kang Sejin finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His eyes bored into her.
"…Interesting," he said.
Not good. Not bad. Just interesting.
The vocal coach scribbled something on a clipboard. The dance instructor whispered something under his breath.
Mirae's stomach sank. Her ankle pulsed with heat.
The system pinged in her vision:
[System Alert: Performance Incomplete. Error Detected. Rating: C-] [Adjusted Debut Probability: 11%] [Mission Update: Survive the First Cut – 7 Days Remaining]
"Next!" a staff member shouted.
Mirae bowed again, slower this time. Her breath hitched in her chest.
She turned to leave, walking stiffly on her sore ankle, and exited through the side door. The hallway outside was colder. Dimly lit.
Other trainees were waiting—some sitting, some pacing, others leaning against the wall with earbuds in. All of them carried the same look in their eyes: desperation.
She passed by a tall girl with striking features and icy eyes. Yoo Sera. The daughter of a famous actress. Everyone said she was a guaranteed debut.
Sera glanced at Mirae and smirked. "Trip again, country girl?"
Mirae ignored her.
Inside her mind, the system spoke again:
> [Tip: Rival Identified – Yoo Sera. Status: High Threat]
> [Optional Side Mission Unlocked: Outrank Yoo Sera in Evaluation Week. Bonus: +10% Debut Rate]
Great. More impossible missions.
Mirae slumped onto the nearest bench, pulling her hoodie over her face. Her ankle throbbed steadily, and her pride burned hotter than the pain.
She could already hear her father's voice in her head:
"Music won't save you. Dreams are for rich kids."
But dreams were all she had now.
And she had 89 days to prove him wrong.
Or disappear.
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