After everything was finally settled, the rest of the car ride slipped into a comfy silence. Luca and Tuesday scrolled through their phones like two gremlins hunting for dopamine, while Foca stayed laser-focused on the road like the responsible, dad friend that he is.
"Oh—oh mhm-mhmm… this about to become a crazy ass mess," Tuesday suddenly blurted, her voice slicing through the quiet like a knife dipped in drama.
Both Luca and Foca snapped their heads toward her instantly. Well... only Luca, since Foca has to focus on the road.
"What happened?" Luca asked, speaking for both himself and Foca, wearing a perfectly blended expression of concern and curiosity.
"I was doomscrolling on Z," Tuesday began—because of course she was—"and I just came across an article that leaked August's medical records. Apparently baby boy's been dealing with a nasty-ass case of pneumonia. And there's no clear timeline for when he's supposed to fully recover."
She kept scrolling, her face twisting at the replies, like she was reading a memoir written by crackheads.
"Wait— isn't that a giant violation of medical privacy?" Luca asked, horrified.
"Boo boo…" Tuesday sighed, in that tone that said she'd been disappointed by society for years, "this is K-pop. Ain't nobody out here caring about medical privacy. For stans? Anything and everything is free real estate."
"Even committing literal crimes?" Luca pressed, eyebrows doing gymnastics.
"Mmhmm." Tuesday nodded slowly. "Any-damn-thang."
Foca's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
"Wait… if that article is legit, then August was already sick during the finale," he said, sounding like someone who'd just put two and two together and got a whole-ass conspiracy.
"Yeah, pretty much," Luca said—then froze mid-scroll as the same realization slapped him across the face. "Ho-leeeee—hold on, wait—no way. That means—"
He turned to Foca, eyes wide, basically telepathically screaming you seeing the same shit I'm seeing?!
Foca gave him a tiny nod, eyes still on the road.
"Okay, hello?" Tuesday snapped from the back. "Some of us don't have telepathy. Spill the tea."
Foca exhaled, processing his thoughts before speaking.
"You watched the show last night, right?" he asked. "You saw August's performances. I just… I can't stop thinking about it."
His voice softened, dipped into something raw and reverent.
"I'm in deep awe of him. How does someone that young have so much resolve? Enough to perform like that while dealing with something as severe as pneumonia? What pushed him to be that desperate to debut? Desperate enough to risk his health? His life?"
His admiration sat heavy in the car, warm and aching at the same time — like a bruise made of respect.
****
"It's good that you're at least feeling that," Tuesday muttered, still doomscrolling with a look that could only be described as emotional constipation. "Because the internet has turned into a whole damn Jerry Springer special."
"Uhhh… Jerry Springer?" Foca asked, genuinely confused.
Tuesday gasped like he'd just confessed to tax fraud.
"Yeah, T… you kinda lost us with that reference," Luca added carefully.
"I forgot I'm talking to an old-money heir and his side bitch," Tuesday groaned into her palm.
"Hey," Luca said, offended in 4K. "Correction: I'm not his side bitch. I'm his main bitch. Get it right next time, T."
He even gave her the 'I expected better of you' look.
"You right… you right. My bad," Tuesday said, hands raised like someone about to be arrested.
"Let's get back on topic," Foca cut in, dragging his chaotic best friends back to the main storyline. "I'm assuming the internet is… bad?"
"Oh, honey, it ain't just bad," Tuesday said. "It's nasty. Most people are dragging the show to hell and back—asking why they didn't stop the finale, why no one noticed August was sick, why management ignored everything. People are demanding blood and threatening to boycott the new group."
"Well…" Luca began, slipping into serious mode. "If we're being fair, everyone has some tiny sprinkle of fault. Theoretically, August could've sworn he was fine and told staff he just had a fever. Or he might've genuinely not known how sick he was until his lungs tapped out at the worst possible time."
He paused, letting it settle.
"Production clearly fucked up too. But the internet is making everything ten times worse. Like—yes, stopping the show sounds noble, but people have zero clue how much prep goes into a live broadcast that massive. Blood, sweat, money, time… everything is already locked in."
He shifted in his seat, warming to the rant.
"It's basically like telling the Olympics to pause because one athlete got sick. And August withdrawing? Sad, yes. Understandable? Also yes. Debuting means immediate schedules: filming, dance rehearsals, recordings, press rounds… pneumonia recovery cannot handle any of that. If he debuted and immediately landed back in the hospital, the PR damage alone would be catastrophic."
Luca ran a hand through his hair dramatically.
"And let's be real: the showrunners would never risk getting sued for forcing a sick trainee—possibly a minor—to keep performing. They'll cut him 'for health reasons' instantly."
He exhaled heavily.
"So yeah… it's a disaster web. A very intricate, messy, expensive disaster web. But a web nonetheless."
He finished with the exhausted sigh of a man who'd just explained life to toddlers.
"Agreed," Foca said, understanding every layer of the mess.
Tuesday, meanwhile, sat in the back with her jaw dropped.
"You ate that," she declared. "Pop off king."
She clapped, nails clicking like applause from the heavens.
"Thanks," Luca said, cheeks pinking as he smiled shyly—very proud of himself and very aware that he just delivered a TED Talk without meaning to.
"Well, I guess everything is working in our favour. Since August still has to recover, no entertainment company can snatch him up. We'll use that time to build a solid entertainment label—then sign him when the moment's ripe." Foca declared, so casually that Luca and Tuesday snapped their heads toward him like he'd just announced brunch was canceled.
"Wait—so you weren't kidding when you said you'd make them 'make it'?" Luca asked, eyebrows climbing like they were escaping.
"Hold up. You said them. Plural," Tuesday added, narrowing her eyes.
"Yes. August, Ahn Jae, Silas, and Kang Ian."
Foca dropped the names like it was just another Monday and not a declaration of empire.
"Not gonna lie… I see the vision," Tuesday murmured, already conjuring the lineup in her head like a sparkly fever dream.
"We can hash out the specifics later. Right now, we actually have to build the company first," Foca reminded them, just as the car turned onto the long, private road leading to his parents' estate.
The massive wrought-iron gates swung inward with a slow, regal sigh, letting in a breeze that smelled suspiciously like generational wealth and a hint of "don't fuck with us." After exchanging a greeting with the guard manning the post, Foca drove through. The car went quiet—nervous quiet—the kind reserved for churches, court hearings, and meeting the parents who own half a city.
Ahead stood the mansion.
A contemporary modern masterpiece rose from the manicured grounds like it had been planted by gods instead of architects. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls wrapped around the structure, catching the bright morning light and throwing it back like diamonds. Clean, sharp lines shaped the silhouette—concrete, steel, and smoked glass merging into something both elegant and intimidating. Floating over the reflecting pool was a cantilevered wing of the house, supported by hidden beams that made it look like it was defying gravity out of sheer arrogance. Inside, they could glimpse double-height ceilings, warm walnut paneling, curated art pieces, and a chandelier that looked like constellations frozen mid-sparkle. Sculpted gardens framed the mansion, each tree placed with the precision of someone who could afford to hire an actual philosopher to landscape.