Desc: shorter chapter in which Seoyeon gets a phone call that changes her life.
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Three weeks later, Seoyeon forgot about the audition for exactly fourteen minutes- that was how long peace lasted before the phone rang.
It happened on a Thursday evening while her father was burning garlic in the kitchen. Not intentionally. He just got distracted halfway through cooking because Seoyeon had wandered in holding her notebook and started arguing with him about whether a chorus needed to repeat emotionally or melodically to feel satisfying.
“It’s repetitive,” he complained, stirring the pan distractedly.
“It’s thematic.”
“It’s the same sentence.”
“It’s evolving.”
“That’s a fancy word for repetition.”
Before Seoyeon could defend herself further, the apartment phone rang from the living room. None of them moved immediately, mostly because nobody ever called the apartment line anymore. Her father frowned toward the sound while Holly looked up from the couch.
“…Are we being audited?” she asked.
“That’s not how audits work,” Seoyeon muttered.
The phone rang again. Her father finally abandoned the stove with visible suspicion and disappeared into the living room. Seoyeon could still hear him clearly from the kitchen.
“Yes, this is her father”, from the other room her father continued speaking.Another pause. Seoyeon’s stomach dropped instantly. Her father appeared in the kitchen doorway a few seconds later still holding the phone, expression unreadable in the specific way that meant he was trying very hard not to react emotionally in front of her- which obviously made it worse.
“They want to speak with you too,” he said.
Seoyeon blinked.
“…Me?”
“They said congratulations first.”
Holly made a noise so loud it startled all three of them.
“What?”
Seoyeon stared at her father. “What does that mean?”
His expression did something complicated.
“It probably means,” he said carefully, “that you passed.”
The world stopped for half a second. Not metaphorically. Actually. Everything in Seoyeon’s body went completely still before panic hit all at once.
“No.”
Holly whipped toward her. “Why are you saying it like that?”
“No because- no.” Seoyeon pointed vaguely at nothing. “No.”
“That’s not a sentence.”
Her father held the phone out slowly.
“Seoyeon.”
She looked at it like it might explode. Then somehow she was taking the receiver with both hands while Holly hovered nearby practically vibrating through the floorboards.
“…Hello?”
The voice on the other end sounded warm and professional.
“Hello, Seoyeon. This is Assistant Manager Kim from BigHit Entertainment.”
Her knees nearly gave out. Across the room Holly silently clutched her own face in horror.
“We wanted to thank you again for attending the audition last month,” the woman continued. “After reviewing your evaluations, we’d like to offer you a trainee position with the company.”
Seoyeon forgot every language she had ever learned.
“…Sorry?”
Her father covered his mouth with one hand. The woman laughed softly.
“We were very impressed with your musicality and songwriting potential,” she explained gently. “Your vocal evaluation was also exceptionally strong for someone without formal training.”
Holly mouthed exceptionally strong at Seoyeon like she’d just witnessed divine intervention.
Seoyeon barely heard her.
Trainee.
The word echoed strangely in her head.
Real now- terrifyingly real.
“There would, of course, be discussions regarding scheduling, parental consent, and training structure considering your age,” the woman continued. “Nothing needs to be decided immediately. We’d simply like to arrange a meeting with you and your guardian sometime next week if possible.”
Guardian.
Her eyes drifted toward her father automatically. He looked calm- too calm- which meant he was absolutely not calm at all.
“…Okay,” Seoyeon managed quietly.
The woman gave a few more details about scheduling before ending the call politely. The second the line disconnected, silence swallowed the apartment whole.
Nobody moved.
Then Holly screamed.
Not words.
Just a full-volume shriek while grabbing Seoyeon by the shoulders hard enough to nearly shake her off balance.
“You passed?!”
“I think so?!”
“You think so?!”
“They used a lot of professional vocabulary!”
Her aunt spun toward Seoyeon’s father immediately.
“She passed!”
“I heard the conversation.”
“She passed!”
“Yes, Holly.”
“She’s going to become famous!”
“She still trips over flat surfaces.”
“That’s fixable!”
Seoyeon stood frozen in the center of the kitchen while her thoughts completely collapsed in on themselves.
Passed.
Trainee.
BigHit.
The words felt impossible beside things as normal as burnt garlic and Aunt Holly being obnoxiously loud. Her father finally stepped forward and took the phone from her hands gently before setting it back in its cradle. He looked at her, not just as a child, but as his daughter.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Seoyeon opened her mouth.
Nothing came out- which answered the question pretty effectively. Holly was still pacing in frantic circles nearby.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Wait until your school finds out.”
“I don’t think they legally have to.”
“Wait until your future fans find out.”
“Holly,” her father warned immediately.
“What? I’m manifesting.”
Seoyeon laughed weakly despite herself before suddenly pressing both hands against her face.
Everything hit at once after that. Excitement, fear, the memory of falling during the dance evaluation. The fact that actual professionals still wanted her anyway. Her father noticed the shift in her expression almost immediately.
“Hey.”
She looked up slowly.
“You don’t have to decide everything tonight.”
“I know.”
“You can still say no.”
That surprised her.
“…You’d really let me?”
His face softened instantly.
“Seoyeon,” he said quietly, “this only matters if it’s what you want.”
And there it was again. That terrible tenderness that always made her emotional when she least expected it. Holly looked between them before dramatically wiping fake tears from beneath her eyes.
“This family is disgusting emotionally.”
“Sit down,” her father muttered.
“I’m experiencing a moment.”
“You’re experiencing attention-seeking.”
“Same thing.”
Seoyeon laughed harder that time, the tension in her chest finally cracking enough to let air back into her lungs. Her father watched her carefully for another second before speaking again.
“…Did they really say they liked your songwriting?”
The question sounded quieter than the others had- more personal somehow. Seoyeon nodded once. Something in his expression shifted again after that.
Pride.
Pure and aching and almost disbelieving.
Like part of him still couldn’t understand how something he loved had somehow grown separately inside someone else. He smiled faintly.
“You hid that notebook from me for months,” he said.
“It wasn’t good yet.”
“And now?”
Seoyeon hesitated, then quietly,
“…Maybe it could be someday.”
For a moment nobody spoke.
Outside, rain started tapping softly against the apartment windows again, blurring the city lights beyond the glass into streaks of gold and white. The kitchen still smelled faintly like burnt garlic. Holly eventually broke the silence first.
“So,” she said carefully, “should we celebrate?”
Her father sighed immediately.
“With what money?”
“We have ramen.”
“That’s not a celebration.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Seoyeon smiled before she could stop herself. For the first time since the audition, the future stopped feeling terrifying long enough to feel possible instead.
About: A year after passing auditions, Seoyeon finds her place at BigHit.
Word Count: 1.7k
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The first thing Seoyeon noticed about the studio was the smell. Not glamorous. Not cinematic. It was coffee that had gone cold hours ago. Dust trapped inside old speakers. Warm electronics humming quietly beneath the sharper scent of wood and tangled cords that had existed too long in small rooms. It smelled lived in. That mattered to her immediately.
In the year that she had been here the rest of BigHit still felt intimidating in a way she hadn’t adjusted to yet. The practice rooms were too polished, hallways too white. Even after officially becoming a trainee three months earlier, Seoyeon still walked through the building like someone waiting to be told she had misunderstood and wasn’t actually supposed to be there.
The studio was different. Messier, more human. The door remained half open as she stood outside staring into the room, unsure if she was supposed to knock. Inside, music played softly through monitor speakers. Not loud enough to make out details, just enough to fill the silence while someone worked. Seoyeon adjusted the strap of her backpack nervously.
Then-
“You’re hovering.”
She nearly jumped.
A woman leaned back in the rolling chair near the mixing desk without turning around fully, one hand still resting against the mouse beside the keyboard.
“You’ve been standing there for at least thirty seconds.”
Seoyeon straightened immediately and bowed quickly.
“I’m sorry.”
Now the woman turned properly, and Seoyeon had to blink once in surprise.
She looked younger than expected. Mid-thirties maybe. Dark sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows. Hair clipped messily away from her face with a pencil shoved through part of it like she’d forgotten it was there. A pair of headphones hung around her neck while lyric sheets covered half the desk beside her. Nothing about her looked particularly formal, which somehow made her more intimidating. The woman studied Seoyeon for a second before smiling faintly.
“You’re Park Seoyeon.”
Not a question.
Seoyeon nodded carefully. “Yes.”
“The trainee who keeps getting yelled at in dance evaluations.”
Heat immediately rushed into Seoyeon’s face.
“…People talk too much here.”
The woman laughed softly at that, warm and unrestrained in a way Seoyeon hadn’t expected.
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” She gestured toward the room. “Come in before you wear a hole into the hallway.”
Very carefully, Seoyeon stepped inside. The studio felt smaller once the door closed behind her, enclosing the room in a strangely comforting way. The walls were lined with soundproofing panels, dim lighting softening the edges of the room while wires stretched across the floor in organized chaos.
There were instruments everywhere- a guitar resting against the couch. an old keyboard pushed beneath one side of the desk. Stacks of notebooks and loose papers piled high enough that Seoyeon wondered how anyone found anything. And at the center of it all sat the massive mixing console, glowing softly beneath the low lights like the control panel of something impossibly important.
Seoyeon stared before she could stop herself. The woman noticed immediately.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Seoyeon nodded once. “I’ve never seen one this big before.”
“Most people say expensive instead of pretty.”
“It can be both.”
That earned another small laugh.
The woman finally stood and held out her hand casually, “I’m Han Mira,” Seoyeon shook it carefully.
The name clicked immediately.
Not famous publicly, but recognizable inside the company. Seoyeon had heard trainees mention Mira before in passing- the producer who’d been with the company since nearly the beginning. Someone respected enough that even managers lowered their voices around her. Suddenly Seoyeon felt nervous all over again, Mira noticed instantly.
“Relax,” she said easily. “You look like I’m about to execute you.”
“I just know who you are.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“You’re one of the main producers here.”
“One of the tired producers here,” Mira corrected.
Seoyeon smiled despite herself. Mira leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing her arms loosely.
“So,” she said, “do you know why you’re here?”
“Not really.”
“Good. I hate when trainees pretend they already understand everything.”
Seoyeon shifted her backpack slightly higher onto her shoulder. Mira nodded toward it immediately.
“You carry lyrics in there?”
“…Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
Seoyeon hesitated before nodding carefully.
Mira held out her hand. “Show me.”
Immediate panic.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“They’re unfinished.”
“Good songs usually are.”
Seoyeon didn’t move.
Mira tilted her head slightly. “You became a trainee because of your songwriting evaluation, didn’t you?”
“…Partly.”
“Then stop acting surprised someone wants to hear your songs.”
Seoyeon looked down briefly before slowly pulling her notebook from her backpack. The familiar worn edges steadied her slightly. This part she understood, music made sense in ways people didn’t. She handed the notebook over carefully.
Mira flipped through the pages quietly for several moments while Seoyeon stood there trying not to implode from embarrassment. The silence stretched. Page after page turned, yet Mira’s expression stayed unreadable. Seoyeon considered death briefly.
Then-
“Hm.”
That was somehow worse.
Mira flipped back several pages before looking up.
“How old were you when you wrote this?”
Seoyeon glanced at the page.
“…Eleven.”
“And this chord progression?”
“I changed it recently.”
Mira hummed thoughtfully, then she looked up properly for the first time since opening the notebook.
“You understand emotional pacing instinctively.”
Seoyeon blinked.
“…What?”
“You write like someone much older.”
The compliment hit strangely hard. Not because it was dramatic, but because it sounded genuine. Mira turned another page slowly.
“You also overwrite when you lose confidence.”
Seoyeon froze.
Mira pointed casually at several heavily scribbled sections. “Right here. Your first instinct was stronger. Then you started doubting yourself and buried the lyrics under extra words.”
Seoyeon stared at her. Nobody had ever read her writing closely enough to notice that. Mira noticed the expression immediately and smiled slightly.
“Relax. That’s normal.” She closed the notebook gently. “The important part is your instincts are good.”
Something warm and disorienting settled in Seoyeon’s chest at that. Not pride exactly, but recognition. Mira walked back toward the mixing desk and motioned for Seoyeon to follow.
“Come here.”
Seoyeon obeyed cautiously.
Up close, the console looked even more overwhelming. Buttons and sliders stretched endlessly beneath glowing screens filled with moving waveforms and track layers Seoyeon barely understood. Mira sat back down in the rolling chair and clicked through several files.
“You’ve used software before?”
“A little.”
“How little?”
“…Laptop programs.”
“Illegal downloads?”
Seoyeon looked deeply offended. “I’m still in middle school.”
“So yes.”
“…Yes.”
Mira laughed quietly, then opened a project file on the monitor.
“Alright,” she said, gesturing toward the screen. “Tell me what’s wrong with this mix.”
Seoyeon blinked.
“What?”
“Use your ears.”
Music filled the room again through the speakers. A rough demo track this time. Mid-tempo R&B with layered vocals and soft percussion underneath. Seoyeon listened carefully. At first she heard nothing unusual.
Then slowly-
“The vocals sound crowded,” she said quietly.
Mira said nothing.
Encouraged slightly, Seoyeon stepped closer. “The instrumental spacing is too tight in the chorus too.” She frowned slightly while listening harder. “And the bass is swallowing part of the lower vocal harmonies.”
The song continued playing, Mira saying nothing. Seoyeon immediately panicked.
“…Was that wrong?”
Mira slowly leaned back in her chair.
“No,” she said carefully. “Actually, that was annoyingly correct.”
Seoyeon blinked again. Mira stared at her for another long second before muttering mostly to herself:
“Oh, you’re going to be dangerous.”
Heat rushed immediately into Seoyeon’s face.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know.”
Mira replayed the chorus section, adjusting several controls quickly. The difference became obvious almost instantly. The vocals opened up, the harmonies breathed easier. Seoyeon’s eyes widened slightly- Mira noticed.
“That reaction right there?” she said. “That’s producer instinct.”
Seoyeon looked back at the console. Something about hearing the song change under careful adjustments made her chest tighten unexpectedly. It felt like solving something invisible.
Mira watched her expression carefully.
“You like this more than performing.”
Not a question, but Seoyeon hesitated.
Then quietly:
“…I think so.”
Mira nodded like she already knew.
“A lot of idols love attention first and music second,” she said. “You’re the opposite.”
That settled into the room softly between them.
Because it was true. Seoyeon liked singing. She loved writing.
But this-
This felt different.
The studio didn’t ask her to smile correctly or move perfectly or force confidence she didn’t possess naturally. Music either worked or it didn’t. Honesty mattered more here. Mira turned slightly in her chair.
“Do you know why the company asked me to mentor you specifically?”
Seoyeon shook her head.
“Because your evaluation terrified them.”
That startled an actual laugh out of Seoyeon.
“What?”
“You’re rough technically,” Mira explained. “Untrained in several areas. Your dancing is…” She paused politely, then with a chuckle, “Brave.”
Seoyeon groaned quietly.
“But your musicality is unusually sharp.”
Mira tapped lightly against the notebook still resting beside her keyboard.
“You can teach technique. You can improve confidence. But instinct?” She shrugged once. “That part’s harder.” Seoyeon looked down briefly, trying to process the weight of hearing someone say those things out loud.
Mira’s voice softened slightly.
“You have potential, Seoyeon.”
The room suddenly felt very still. Nobody outside her family had ever said them before. Mira continued calmly, like she wasn’t rearranging Seoyeon’s entire internal world in real time.
“And more importantly, you genuinely love the work itself. Not just the idea of success.”
Seoyeon swallowed once, causing Mira to smile faintly.
“That matters more than people think.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The speakers hummed quietly in the background while Seoul traffic echoed faintly outside somewhere far beyond the insulated walls. Then Mira suddenly pointed toward the second chair beside the console.
“Sit.”
Seoyeon blinked. “What?”
“You’re learning the software today.”
“…Today?”
“Yes, today. Before some mediocre producer somewhere steals your confidence permanently.”
Seoyeon laughed softly despite herself before sitting carefully beside her.
Mira opened a new session file.
“Alright,” she said, already clicking through menus. “First lesson.”
Seoyeon looked at the glowing screen.
Then at the endless controls.
Then back at Mira.
Nervousness still existed somewhere inside her. But underneath it now sat something newer.
Excitement. Real excitement.
The kind that made her forget time existed. Mira noticed immediately and smiled knowingly to herself.
Yeah, she thought.
This girl was going to change things someday.
And for the first time since entering the company, Seoyeon finally felt like she had stepped into a room where she belonged.
