The hall emptied in waves.
Eliminated trainees were ushered left. Remaining trainees filed right. Production assistants materialised between the groups like a human buffer, keeping the two streams separated.
A clipboard appeared in my peripheral vision.
"Han Jiwon?"
I turned. A production assistant—young, glasses, efficient expression—held out a key card.
Gold trim.
S-RANK | FLOOR 1 | ROOM 102
I took it.
Turned it over in my fingers.
S-rank.
I'd entered this competition hoping to survive elimination. Hoping to prove something quietly, without anyone looking too closely. Debut had felt like a distant, theoretical concept.
S-rank had never featured in any version of that plan.
"Jiwon."
Yuhyun appeared through the dispersing crowd, eyes bright.
Before I could say anything, he pulled me in.
He smelled like clean linen and warm chestnuts and the faint ghost of stage sweat, and I held on longer than I meant to.
"You earned it," he said quietly, close to my ear.
