The days blurred together in a haze of practice rooms and half-eaten convenience store dinners. Minjun pushed himself harder than ever, each spin and step an answer to the voices in his head telling him he couldn't afford to stay — or to fail.
Jiwoo stayed by his side, stubborn as ever. They drilled their choreography until their knees throbbed and their shoulders ached. When they crashed on the practice room floor afterward, Jiwoo would nudge him with a half-eaten choco pie and say, "One day, we'll eat real food. With fans paying for it."
Sometimes Minjun laughed. Sometimes he just stared at the ceiling and pretended he could see that future too.
One night, after another punishing vocal lesson that left his throat raw, Minjun stepped outside into the back alley behind Starline's studio. It was raining, a soft drizzle that turned the neon signs into smudged watercolor. He pulled his hoodie over his head and leaned against the cold brick wall, his breath clouding the air.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He almost let it ring out — probably spam, or a debt collector asking about the trainee fee. But something in him — curiosity, maybe desperation — made him swipe the screen.
"Hello?" His voice cracked with exhaustion.
A crisp voice answered, too clear to be a prank. "Is this Yoon Minjun?"
He straightened. "Yes. Who is this?"
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "Don't sound so scared. This is Kang Seojin — producer at Orion Entertainment."
Minjun's heart skipped. Orion — a mid-tier label, smaller than Starline but known for edgy acts and viral hits. He'd seen their name on subway ads, pushing new rookies into the charts with slick videos and scandalous gossip.
"Uh… I'm sorry, Producer-nim. How did you get my number?"
Another laugh. "Trainee showcases are useful, you know. We watch everyone — not just the ones we own." He could almost hear Seojin smirking through the phone. "You have a spark, Minjun. That rooftop fire. We like that."
Minjun's stomach twisted. Rooftop. How did they know about the rooftop?
As if reading his mind, Seojin went on, "Your little covers online — the ones your friend uploads without telling you? You should thank him. They landed you on my desk."
Jiwoo. Of course. Jiwoo always sneak-recorded them messing around after practice — posted them to random trainee fan forums, hoping someone would care.
Minjun swallowed. "I'm still under trainee contract with Starline."
Seojin hummed. "Technically, yes. But you're not exclusive. They haven't debuted you. They haven't given you anything binding yet — you're still paying them." He let that word sink in. Paying.
Minjun's mind raced. He pictured his mother's tired eyes. The envelope on the kitchen table. His father's hands. His rooftop. Jiwoo's goofy grin.
"What are you saying?" Minjun asked, barely breathing.
"I'm saying," Seojin said smoothly, "come see me tomorrow. We're scouting new blood for a special project — a new sub-unit for one of our hottest boy groups. Fast-track debut. No monthly fees. If you're as good as I think you are, you could be on stage this year."
The drizzle turned to real rain. Minjun pressed his back harder against the wall, trying to hold himself steady as his world tilted.
"Why me?" he whispered. "I'm no one."
"You're hungry," Seojin said simply. "That's worth more than talent alone. But be smart — don't talk to your little friend yet. These things get messy if you blab."
Minjun's breath hitched. Don't talk to Jiwoo.
"I— I need time—"
"You don't have time, Minjun-ah." Seojin's voice was gentle, a knife wrapped in silk. "Think about that showcase fee you can't pay. Think about the stage you want so badly. One phone call — you're out of that rooftop. You're on the real one. The one with lights."
Silence. Rain tapping on concrete. Minjun felt like he was standing on the edge of his own dream — and the drop beneath him was so deep he couldn't see the bottom.
"I'll text you the address," Seojin said. "Come tomorrow. Or don't. But if you don't, I'll find someone else. That's how this game works."
The line went dead. Minjun lowered the phone, staring at his reflection in a puddle at his feet. He looked like a ghost. A ghost who wanted so badly to be real.
Inside, Jiwoo found him a few minutes later, still standing in the alley. "Hey! You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Minjun forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Jiwoo slung an arm around his shoulders. "Come on. I got instant noodles from the vending machine. Let's split them on the rooftop — my treat."
Minjun let Jiwoo pull him inside. He let himself laugh. But his hand stayed in his pocket, wrapped around his phone. Wrapped around a choice he didn't know how to make.
That night, he lay awake, the rain tapping on the window like an impatient finger.
Starline — the long road. Jiwoo beside him. Rooftop songs and debt and maybe, maybe, someday.
Orion — a door, wide open, if he dared to step through it alone.
His heart thudded out a question he couldn't answer yet:
How much does a dream cost — and who do you leave behind to pay for it?