[Kei — Four Years Earlier]
The practice room clock read 11:47 p.m.
Kei stared at it through the mirror, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.
One more time.
Just one more.
The music started again.
He moved through the choreography, counting each beat under his breath. His reflection followed every movement, occasionally blurring whenever sweat slipped into his eyes.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Turn.
Step.
Jump.
Land.
He missed the final beat.
"Seriously?"
Kei stopped the music and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees.
From the corner of the room came a quiet laugh.
"You're going to wear a hole through the floor at this rate."
Kei lifted his head.
Jae-Won was sitting against the mirrored wall, eating a packet of crackers.
Kei stared at him.
"How long have you been there?"
"Long enough to witness that tragic performance."
"Get out."
"I would, but I'm enjoying the show."
Kei grabbed his towel and threw it at him.
Jae-Won caught it with one hand.
Unfortunately, he also dropped his crackers.
Both boys stared at the packet lying on the floor.
Then Kei burst out laughing.
"You're actually useless."
"You're the one who attacked me with a towel!"
"It was self-defence."
"Against what? My talent?"
"Your face."
Jae-Won clutched his chest dramatically.
"That's cruel. After everything we've been through."
"Exactly. I deserve compensation."
Jae-Won shook his head, still laughing, before getting to his feet.
"Come on. Let's do it together."
Kei's smile widened.
"Finally. Some actual help."
"Don't get excited. I'm only doing this because watching you struggle is making me lose brain cells."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
They returned to their positions.
The music started again.
This time, when Kei missed the beat, Jae-Won deliberately missed it too.
Kei stopped.
"What are you doing?"
"Supporting my friend."
"You're ruining my practice!"
"Then stop being bad!"
Kei shoved his shoulder.
Jae-Won shoved him back.
For a few seconds, they forgot about the music, the clock, and the exhaustion pressing against their bodies.
They were simply two boys in an empty practice room, laughing at something that wouldn't matter tomorrow.
Back then, Kei believed there would always be another tomorrow with Jae-Won.
He had no idea how wrong he was.
☆ ☆ ☆
The announcement came three days later.
The final debut evaluation would take place on Friday.
Only a limited number of trainees would be selected.
Everyone else would have to wait for another opportunity—or leave.
The news spread through the company before the official meeting had even ended.
Some trainees celebrated quietly.
Others locked themselves in practice rooms.
A few pretended they didn't care.
Kei wasn't sure which category he belonged to.
He sat on the floor outside the training director's office, staring at the paper in his hands.
His name was on the final evaluation list.
So was Jae-Won's.
He should have felt relieved.
Instead, he felt sick.
"You're making that face again."
Kei looked up.
Jae-Won stood in front of him, holding two cartons of banana milk.
"What face?"
"The one where you look like someone just told you the world is ending."
"Maybe it is."
"Very dramatic."
Jae-Won dropped down beside him and handed him a carton.
Kei accepted it.
For a while, they sat in silence.
Then Jae-Won nudged his shoulder.
"We're both on the list."
"I know."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Then why do you look like that?"
Kei turned the carton between his hands.
"What happens if only one of us makes it?"
Jae-Won didn't answer immediately.
The hallway suddenly seemed much quieter.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall.
"Then the other person keeps going."
"That's easy for you to say."
"Why?"
"Because you're better at pretending things don't bother you."
Jae-Won laughed softly.
"Who says I'm pretending?"
Kei glanced at him.
For a moment, something passed across Jae-Won's expression.
Something tired.
Something Kei couldn't quite identify.
Then it disappeared.
Jae-Won held out his little finger.
Kei stared at it.
"What are you doing?"
"Making a promise."
"We're not five."
"Do you want to make the promise or not?"
Kei rolled his eyes but hooked his little finger around Jae-Won's.
"Fine."
"If one of us debuts first, the other won't become a stranger."
Kei looked at their joined fingers.
"And if one of us becomes famous?"
"Then you buy me food."
"That's your condition?"
"Very, very expensive food."
Kei laughed.
"You're unbelievable."
"Say it."
Kei squeezed his finger.
"I promise."
Jae-Won smiled.
"Good. Because I'm not letting you forget it."
Neither of them noticed the person standing at the end of the hallway.
Someone who had stopped walking when they heard the word promise.
Someone who had listened long enough to understand exactly how much the two boys meant to each other.
And someone who, for reasons neither of them could have imagined, would remember that conversation long after the boys themselves had forgotten it.
☆ ☆ ☆
[Jae-Won]
The night before the final evaluation, Jae-Won received a message.
He was alone in the dormitory, sitting at his desk with his headphones around his neck.
The message came from an unfamiliar company extension.
Come to Practice Room Three at 10:40 p.m. We need to discuss tomorrow's evaluation.
Jae-Won frowned.
He checked the time.
10:09 p.m.
Another message arrived.
Come alone.
He stared at the screen.
Then looked toward the empty bed across the room.
Kei wasn't there.
He had mentioned something about returning to the practice room to collect his notebook.
Jae-Won typed a reply.
Who is this?
No answer came.
He should have ignored it.
He knew that.
But the final evaluation was less than twenty-four hours away, and lately, strange things had been happening around the company.
Trainers were whispering.
Trainees were being called into offices without explanation.
And earlier that afternoon, Jae-Won had overheard two staff members discussing the final lineup.
One name had been mentioned more than once.
Kei.
Jae-Won stood.
He grabbed his jacket.
Then hesitated.
For a moment, he considered calling Kei.
Instead, he left the dormitory alone.
☆ ☆ ☆
[Kei]
At 10:38 p.m., Kei returned to Practice Room Three.
He had forgotten his notebook.
That was the only reason he had come back.
He pushed open the door.
The room was empty.
Almost.
A laptop sat on the desk beside the speakers, its screen glowing against the darkness.
Kei frowned.
Someone had left a file open.
He approached the desk, intending to close it before leaving.
Then he saw the filename.
KEI_FINAL_ELTN
He stopped.
His own practice recording.
He clicked it.
The audio began normally.
His voice counted the opening beats. The music started. The first section played exactly as he remembered it.
Then something changed.
A section was missing.
The transition came too early, making the performance sound uneven. The timing was wrong. The recording made it seem as though he had forgotten part of the choreography.
Kei replayed it.
Once.
Twice.
His stomach tightened.
He knew the original recording.
He had practised that section hundreds of times.
This wasn't a mistake.
Someone had altered the file.
He checked the modification history.
The most recent edit had been made that evening.
Kei stared at the screen.
Then he heard footsteps behind him.
"Kei?"
He turned.
Jae-Won stood in the doorway.
For a moment, neither boy moved.
Kei looked at his friend.
Then at the laptop.
Then back at his friend.
"Tell me this isn't what I think it is."
Jae-Won's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Kei saw it.
The hesitation.
The flicker of panic.
The silence that followed.
"Why are you here?" Jae-Won asked.
Kei let out a disbelieving laugh.
"That's your first question?"
"Kei, listen—"
"Did you change my recording?"
Jae-Won glanced at the screen.
"Close the file."
"Did you change it?"
"Not here."
Kei felt something cold settle in his chest.
"Not here?"
"Someone could hear us."
"Then maybe you should have thought about that before touching my evaluation."
Jae-Won stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
"Keep your voice down."
"Why? Are you worried someone will find out?"
"You're not understanding the situation."
"Then explain it to me!"
His voice echoed against the mirrors.
Jae-Won flinched.
Kei had never seen him look like that before.
Not during evaluations.
Not when trainers shouted at them.
Not even when they had both been threatened with dismissal for sneaking food into the practice rooms.
Jae-Won looked frightened.
And somehow, that made Kei even angrier.
"How long have you been planning this?" Kei asked.
"I didn't—"
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!"
"Then tell me what happened!"
Jae-Won opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Kei stared at him, his hands trembling at his sides.
They had shared everything.
Their failures.
Their embarrassing mistakes.
Their dreams of standing on a stage together.
Kei had trusted him with things he had never told anyone else.
And now Jae-Won was standing in front of him, refusing to explain why his evaluation recording had been altered.
"Was it worth it?" Kei asked quietly.
Jae-Won's eyes widened.
"What?"
"Was ruining my evaluation worth it?"
"That's not what I was trying to do."
"Then what were you trying to do?"
Jae-Won looked toward the door.
Kei stepped in front of him.
"Don't walk away."
"Move."
"Not until you tell me the truth."
"Kei, please."
The desperation in his voice made Kei pause.
For one brief second, he almost stepped aside.
Then he remembered the recording.
The missing section.
The altered timing.
The final evaluation waiting for him the following morning.
He moved away from the door, but only to return to the desk.
He copied the file onto a portable drive.
Jae-Won watched him.
"What are you doing?"
"Keeping a copy."
"Don't."
Kei turned.
"Why?"
Jae-Won swallowed.
"Because you don't understand what happens if you tell them."
The words hung between them.
Kei stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
Jae-Won said nothing.
"Who else is involved?"
His friend's face went pale.
Kei's heart sank.
There it was.
The answer he hadn't wanted to find.
Someone else.
There was someone else.
Before Kei could ask another question, Jae-Won grabbed his wrist.
"Listen to me. Whatever you do tomorrow, don't mention this file."
Kei looked down at Jae-Won's hand.
Then slowly pulled away.
"You expect me to pretend nothing happened?"
"I'm asking you to wait."
"For what?"
"I can't tell you."
"Then I can't help you."
Jae-Won stared at him.
For a moment, the anger disappeared from his face, leaving only something painfully familiar.
Fear.
"Kei," he whispered. "Please."
Kei had never heard him beg before.
It almost broke him.
Almost.
But the file was still open on the laptop.
And tomorrow, his entire future would be decided by an evaluation that someone had already tried to compromise.
"I trusted you," Kei said.
Jae-Won's expression crumpled.
"I know."
"No. I don't think you do."
Kei picked up his notebook and the portable drive.
Then he walked toward the door.
This time, Jae-Won didn't stop him.
Just before Kei left, he heard his friend speak.
"If you report this, you'll regret it."
Kei froze.
Slowly, he turned around.
Jae-Won looked horrified by his own words.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Kei left.
And the door closed between them.
☆ ☆ ☆
[Kei]
The next morning, Kei reported the altered recording to the training director.
He handed over the portable drive.
He explained what he had found.
He answered every question.
And when he was asked whether he knew who had accessed the file, he gave the only answer he could honestly give.
"Jae-Won was there when I found it."
The investigation began before the final evaluation.
By lunchtime, the atmosphere inside the company had changed.
Trainees whispered in the corridors.
Staff members entered and left the director's office.
Nobody told Kei what was happening.
Nobody told him what Jae-Won had said.
And when the final evaluation began, Jae-Won was nowhere to be seen.
Kei stood on the stage beneath the practice room lights, waiting for the music to start.
He should have been thinking about his performance.
Instead, he kept looking at the empty space beside the door.
The space where Jae-Won usually stood.
The music began.
Kei performed.
He finished every movement.
Hit every beat.
Delivered every note.
When the evaluation ended, the trainers praised his consistency.
One of them even told him he had done exceptionally well.
Kei thanked them.
Then went to the bathroom and sat alone in a locked cubicle until his hands stopped shaking.
He had done what he thought was right.
So why did it feel as though he had lost something he could never get back?
☆ ☆ ☆
[Jae-Won]
Three days later, Jae-Won stood outside the training director's office.
His evaluation results had been released.
He had not made the final lineup.
He had not even been offered another evaluation.
The company had concluded its investigation, but nobody explained the full findings to him.
He knew what Kei had told them.
He knew about the recording.
And he knew that the company had decided his future before he had a chance to explain himself.
At least, that was what he believed.
He waited until the hallway was empty before entering the practice room.
Kei was there, packing his things into a bag.
For a moment, Jae-Won simply watched him.
The same boy who had shared banana milk with him three days earlier.
The same boy who had promised they would never become strangers.
Kei noticed him.
Neither smiled.
Neither moved closer.
Finally, Jae-Won spoke.
"Congratulations."
Kei looked up.
"What?"
"You're debuting."
Kei's grip tightened around the strap of his bag.
"Jae-Won—"
"You got what you wanted."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
Kei stared at him.
"I didn't want this to happen."
"But it did."
Jae-Won's voice remained quiet.
Somehow, that was worse than shouting.
"You could have waited. You could have spoken to me before reporting it."
"I tried to get you to explain."
"And I told you that you didn't understand!"
"Because you wouldn't tell me anything!"
The words echoed through the room.
Both boys fell silent.
Kei took a breath.
"Why did you change the recording?"
Jae-Won looked away.
For a long moment, Kei thought he might finally answer.
Instead, Jae-Won reached into his pocket and placed something on the desk.
Their old friendship bracelet.
The cheap black-and-silver one they had bought from a convenience store months earlier, laughing because neither of them could afford anything better.
Kei stared at it.
"You kept that?"
Jae-Won gave a small, bitter smile.
"I thought we were friends."
Kei felt his throat tighten.
"We were."
"Were we?"
Neither had an answer.
Jae-Won turned toward the door.
This time, Kei didn't stop him.
He watched his friend leave, carrying the last of his belongings.
And for the first time since entering the company, Kei stood alone in the practice room.
No laughter.
No teasing.
No familiar voice telling him to stop practising so hard.
Just the hum of the lights overhead.
And the bracelet lying on the desk.
☆ ☆ ☆
[Kei — Present Day]
The old memory ended.
Kei sat in the conference room, staring at the documents his manager had placed in front of him.
Years had passed since that night.
He had debuted.
Performed on stages he had once only dreamed of.
Appeared on magazine covers.
Heard thousands of people sing his songs.
And somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself that leaving the past behind was the same as understanding it.
But the words Jae-Won had spoken that night remained clear.
You don't understand what happens if you tell them.
Kei had always assumed it was a desperate excuse.
Now, he wasn't so certain.
His manager placed another document on the table.
"We found something."
Kei looked up.
"What?"
"An archived record from the internal investigation. It wasn't included in the original report we received."
Kei reached for the document.
The page contained a list of file-access records from the night before his final evaluation.
One entry had been highlighted.
The recording had been accessed twice.
Once by Jae-Won.
And once by an account belonging to a senior member of the company's training staff.
Kei read the name.
Then read it again.
His fingers went cold.
That person had later been involved in selecting the final debut lineup.
And according to the timestamp, the account had accessed the recording before Jae-Won did.
Kei slowly lowered the page.
For years, he had believed the story began when he walked into that practice room.
But someone else had been there first.
Someone who had never been questioned.
Someone whose name had disappeared from the report.
His manager watched him carefully.
"Kei?"
Kei didn't answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the highlighted name.
He realized something.
Maybe he had betrayed their friendship.
But perhaps the question Kei should have been asking all these years wasn't simply why Jae-Won had changed the recording.
☆ ☆ ☆