The walls gleamed too much.
That was Julian's first thought as they stepped into the orientation hall. Everything inside the Star Program complex shined like it had been buffed within an inch of its life. White lights stretched in endless rows above, humming faintly, making even healthy skin look pale and sickly. Their sneakers squeaked with every cautious step. Cameras—small, black, impossible to ignore—sat like bugs in every corner, watching. Recording.
Marvo whistled under his breath. "We're really not in the slums anymore."
George muttered, "Feels more like a hospital. Or a cage."
Julian didn't say anything. The lights were too bright. His chest too loud. Tick. Tick. The sound pulsed underneath his ribs like a quiet clock no one else could hear.
The other groups had already gathered—three in total. They stood in careful formations, their bodies speaking confidence without a word. Each one looked like they had been printed rather than born: poreless skin, smooth jaws, posture that seemed designed rather than learned. And this wasn't the Jealousy talking. You have to understand they caught the light like glass statues.
And then there was one group—Group A.
They weren't just symmetrical. They were unsettling. Each face was perfectly measured, each smile exact. Their eyes followed people too carefully, like they were memorizing reactions instead of having them. When they turned to whisper to one another, it was like watching a mirror echo.
NOX stood out instantly.
Five boys in worn sneakers and stage clothes that had seen better days. Marvo's hoodie had a thread loose at the hem. George had tape around one ankle. Tae's sleeves were uneven. Scars, chipped nail polish, frayed straps. Not perfect.
The comparison wasn't flattering. Not to the showrunners. Not to the cameras. But it didn't matter. This was their last shot, and they knew it.
---
A woman with sharp red lips and heels that clicked like metronomes stepped into the center of the room. Miss Kira. Her smile was too tight. Her cheekbones didn't move when she spoke.
"Welcome," she said. Her voice rang out like a well-rehearsed stage cue. "You are now participants of the Star Program."
Her assistant—clean-cut, silent, more mannequin than man—began listing rules like he was reading off a user manual.
"The Star Program is a three-month intensive showcase. You will live here. Train here. Be evaluated here. Cameras will record you 24/7—excluding the bathrooms. Footage will be edited, ranked, and streamed daily. Fans will vote. Sponsors will observe. This is your stage."
Marvo's throat bobbed.
Ren raised a hand halfway. "Do we… get meals?"
A few awkward chuckles echoed around the room. Miss Kira's lips didn't twitch.
"Nutrition will be based on merit. Effort earns privileges. Rankings determine access."
George muttered, "What are we, dogs?"
No one answered. But Julian caught the sideways glance from one of Group A's members. The boy didn't blink.
---
There wasn't even time to breathe before the first event.
They were led into a performance hall with a towering screen and a floor that bounced slightly under their feet—soundproof and perfect for filming. Spotlights flared to life as they entered. A floating camera drone buzzed near Julian's head. He barely flinched.
"This is the Icebreaker Showcase," Miss Kira announced from a nearby platform. "Informal and..unranked. A chance to introduce yourselves."
Her eyes said otherwise. Nothing here was ever truly informal.
Group A stepped forward first.
Their music hit like a switch. Instant sync. Every turn was sharp, every smile bright and blank. They didn't sweat. Didn't breathe. It was like watching something preloaded.
Marvo whispered, "Do they even blink?"
George didn't respond. His jaw was clenched.
When the final beat landed, the camera swiveled back to the others. Group B clapped politely. Group C exchanged nervous looks. NOX stood in the shadow of that performance like ghosts donned in streetwear.
---
Julian's chest ached.
It wasn't pain. Nor was it sharp. But an ever present. tick. tick. The sound again. Like a faucet leaking somewhere inside him.
He glanced at his members. Marvo was stretching his wrists like he always did before a performance. George had his eyes closed, mouthing the opening lines. Ren tapped his fingers against his thigh. Tae gave a slow nod.
Julian took a breath.
And stepped forward.
---
NOX wasn't smooth.
They didn't glide. They hit their marks a split-second late. Their harmonies cracked at the edge. Julian stumbled slightly during the second chorus. Not enough for a collapse, but enough for anyone watching to squint.
But… they were felt.
Marvo sang like he was pulling memories from bruises. George danced like the beat owed him something. Ren moved like the world hadn't given him a reason to in years. Tae's hands told stories.
Julian? He mimicked. He knew the angles. He knew how to draw light to his jawline, how to smile so his eyes half-closed, how to breathe on beat. He gave the performance he always gave. Not perfect. Not passionate.
But Excellent.
When they finished, there was no applause. Just the drone hum of the cameras. Miss Kira didn't speak. The lights cut.
---
Backstage, George slammed his water bottle down. "We got fed to the wolves."
"They wanted us to look bad," Marvo said, sitting down heavily. "That was the plan. Put us after robots and let the comparison do the work."
Tae spoke softly, "It's not about winning today."
"No," Ren said, voice unusually serious. "It's about surviving long enough to matter."
Julian sat apart. His hand hovered briefly over his chest.
Tick.
---
The dressing rooms were cleaner than any space they'd ever lived in. Beds with actual mattresses. Full-length mirrors. Dim lights. But it didn't feel like home. Too sterile. Too quiet.
Julian unpacked slowly.
There was a knock.
He looked up. Standing in the doorway was someone from Group A—the one with silver hair and those strange pale-grey eyes. He looked… soft. Not artificial. But uncanny in a different way.
They stared at each other.
The boy tilted his head slightly. Just enough to make Julian feel seen. Not watched—seen.
Julian said nothing. Neither did the boy. He only gave a small nod, then walked away.
Julian's heart gave a soft jerk. Not painful. Not fearful.
Just... tick.
---
Later that night, Julian sat on the balcony outside their shared dorm. He could hear his members inside, bickering about the bathroom schedule. Laughing. Being normal.
Above him, the city glittered. Not like stars. Like surveillance.
He didn't know how long he had left. Not with this ticking thing in his chest. Not with the way the producers looked at them like expired milk. Not with the weight of so many chances riding on one show.
But he had survived worse.
From basements to borrowed mics, from the slums where sunlight was a myth to stages built on fantasy.
He would survive this, too.
Maybe.
His fingers tapped against his knee.
Tick.
God, he hated that sound.