And so — cue the training montage.
Brutal as it was. Relentless as it was. A montage nonetheless, which means we are moving through it with the understanding that somewhere out there, someone may find the sight of six extraordinarily attractive young men working themselves to their absolute limits, clothes clinging, sweat doing what sweat does in the presence of good lighting — very thirst inducing and deeply inspiring.
This author neither confirms nor denies sharing that perspective.
Moving on.
Now. Contrary to popular expectation — including this author's — it turned out that four of the six had already been through the Foca training experience at least once. And once, it turned out, was enough to recalibrate a person's entire understanding of what their body and voice were capable of. They had adapted. They knew the terrain. They moved through it with the hard-won ease of survivors.
Mikko and Louie, however, were experiencing it for the first time.
Louie, during dance rehearsals, made the acquaintance of the nearest bin. Thoroughly. With his whole body and zero dignity available. After rinsing his mouth, an oxygen mask was placed over him with the practiced efficiency of a medical team that had seen this before, and rehearsals stopped for the day.
The next morning, Louie came back.
Stronger. More determined. The specific energy of someone who had been through something and had decided it was not going to define them.
Mikko, for his part, handled the experience considerably better — if you didn't count the almost-fainting incident, which this author is choosing not to count. After that minor detour, he was essentially fine. Chilling, even. The several-screws-loose composition apparently providing some structural advantage in high-stress training environments.
The recording studio sessions were their own separate education entirely.
Because being in a booth with Foca — working through a song he had written, being heard by the person who understood every intention behind every note — was not like any other recording experience. He was patient. He was precise. He gave them freedom to discover and space to grow and then, when he saw something more waiting underneath the surface, he pushed.
"Louie — can you give me that in your chest voice?"
"Leo, you went slightly out of tune at the end. One more time."
"Soften the attitude, Nikola. We're going for confident, not obnoxious. There's a difference."
"Your technical foundation is excellent, Mikko — but give it more life. Let me hear the person inside the technique."
"Beautiful stability, Nox. Now play with it. Give it some color."
Direct. Generous. Never vague. If something needed work, he said so immediately and specifically. If something was working, he said that too — with equal immediacy and equal specificity. No ambiguity. No guessing games.
And then there was Isaac's section.
Foca listened to it through once, head slightly tilted, the quiet focused expression of someone receiving information and processing it fully before responding.
"Lyrics wise — spot on," he said. "Honestly, it's developed its own identity. It sits more naturally as a pre-chorus than as a rap section. Which is interesting and works." He nodded. "Well done."
"Thank you, sir," Isaac said from inside the booth, warm and genuine.
"You sang the verse more than you rapped it — and somehow that was exactly right. The blend was perfect." A pause. "But I'm feeling that the abrupt stop at the ending cuts the momentum. Everything builds beautifully and then it just — stops. I think there's more there."
He leaned forward to the mic.
"Isaac — do the section again. But this time, extend the ending. Play with it. Belt if it feels right. You have full creative control. Just don't overthink it."
"Yes sir," Isaac said, with the quiet nod of someone accepting a challenge with both hands.
The music started.
Isaac closed his eyes. Let his head move with it. Listening — actually listening — to what the music was asking for, what it needed, what it wanted to become.
And then he opened his mouth.
The section bloomed. The melody grew fuller, warmer, more itself. And when the ending came, Isaac didn't force it — didn't tilt his head back and manufacture something. He simply followed where the music was going and brought his voice along for the ride. The belt arrived naturally. The note extensions landed like they'd always been there. The vocal flourish at the end — light, seasoned, precisely enough and not a note more — made the whole thing breathe.
The vocalization was, in the most specific and complete sense of the phrase, vocalizing.
"Perfect, Isaac," Foca's voice came through the booth speakers, and the pride in it was not subtle and did not try to be. "That's exactly it. Well done."
"Thank you, sir!" Isaac said, the accomplished smile arriving full and unhurried.
And then, quietly — so quietly it was really just between himself and the ceiling of the recording booth —
"Thank you, Jesus."
Small. Private. Genuine. Exactly how Isaac did everything that mattered.
The sessions continued. The song took shape. Six voices finding their places within it, guided by the person who had built it, pushing toward something that would be worthy of the man it had been written for.
The process was, as Foca's processes always were — relentless, generous, precise, and producing something better than what walked in the door.
****
Choreography rehearsals were no different.
Arduous. Demanding. The kind of sessions that took everything and gave back more — because that's the nature of work that's actually worth doing. At some point, the six of them had crossed a threshold without noticing it, arriving at the place where if their muscles weren't screaming at them, something felt missing. The burn had become familiar. The exhaustion had become proof.
Under the studio lights, they moved.
In sync. Faces set with the particular focused intensity of people who had decided something and were seeing it through. Sweat catching the light in a way that was, without trying to be, genuinely cinematic. Sensual without announcing it. The kind of thing that could have been its own music video — no additional production required, just these six people doing exactly this.
Beside Foca, Gilgamesh watched.
Gilgamesh — choreographer, stage name earned through years and work and the specific reputation that followed — was not someone who gave compliments carelessly. He had been in enough studios, worked with enough groups, seen enough performances to know the difference between people who looked good together and people who belonged together.
The distinction mattered. And it was rare.
"I've choreographed many groups," he said, his voice carrying the quiet weight of someone speaking from genuine experience rather than politeness. "And it's rare — genuinely rare — to see a group that looks like it was always supposed to be exactly this configuration. Puzzle pieces that fit without forcing." He watched them move through a sequence. "This is one of those groups. Which makes it all the more remarkable that you assembled them from five different countries. Some things, I think, are just meant to be."
"Thank you," Foca said, the warm smile settling onto his face with quiet certainty. "That means a great deal. It confirms what I already felt — but hearing it from someone with your eye makes it real in a different way."
And it was worth saying plainly — because this was a decision that had raised eyebrows.
Many people had contributed thoughts, suggestions, recommendations about who should be in this group. The process had been collaborative in the way Foca's processes always were — open, considered, genuinely listening to the people around him.
But the final call had been his.
An Alabama farm boy with a voice like warm light and a conscience cleaner than spring water. A Brazilian gamer with instincts sharp enough to compensate for everything else. A Greek young man whose greatest gift was the ability to become exactly what any situation needed him to be. Two German best friends — bboy menaces, potty-mouthed disasters, extraordinarily talented, and operating on a frequency that somehow produced brilliance. And an Italian who had left, come back, and refused to waste the second chance he'd been given.
These six.
The addition of Mikko and Louie had prompted fresh questions — the decision coming quickly, decisively, in the way Foca sometimes moved when he was certain. But watching them now, moving through the choreography with the other four — the questions answered themselves.
Because they weren't six people performing together.
They were one thing.
The compatibility between them was so seamless, so complete, so naturally whole — that it felt less like a decision Foca had made and more like something he had simply recognized. Something that already existed, waiting to be seen and named and put in the same room together.
Some people are just meant to be in a group.
And sometimes the person who brings them together is just smart enough to know it when they see it.