The alarm buzzed, too early and too loud. Julian opened his eyes before it stopped, blinking up at the bunk above him. Faint creaks echoed through the dorm room—Marvo groaning into his pillow, Ren mumbling nonsense, George's slow footsteps toward the bathroom. Tae hadn't even moved.
Julian stayed still. Not because of pain—though that was there, always ticking, always reminding—but because of pressure. The ticking in his chest now syncopated—less rhythmic, more... sentient.
And it didn't crush him. Today he will forget, He must.
It had been four days since their orientation. One full rehearsal cycle. Four days of hushed judgment from behind clipboards. Four days of stiff smiles from producers. Four days of NOX being "the scrappy ones" while Group A floated past like vapor.
And Julian...He had drifted. Let himself step back. Let the others talk more, move more, carry more.
But today? Today was different.
They had their first performance.
They were finally on the board. This would be where their names got remembered.
Julian sat up, pushing the blanket off. His chest ached, soft and dull like a bruise just under the skin. But he ignored it, standing slowly and rolling his shoulders. There was a large mirror in the dorm—they'd been given a huge shared bedroom with a bathroom larger than what they could afford to live in, no matter how much money they had. But he didn't need a mirror.
He knew what he looked like: pale, worn, eyes too sharp for someone his age. And he knew how to fix it.
The others moved around him. Tae laced his shoes. George was muttering to himself over something in their set list. Marvo stared at the large shared screen where a producer update glowed in blinking text: Call time: 7:00. Outfit pick-up at 6:30. Group A already en route.
"We should go," Julian said. Not loud. Not soft. Just enough.
Everyone turned.
"Yeah," Marvo said, rubbing his face. "Yeah, let's get moving."
---
The performance studio was colder than usual. Rows of digital lights lined the ceiling like skeletal ribs. NOX stood on their assigned mark, adjusting their earpieces. Producers watched from the tech pit. A judge—one of the big ones, known for sharp critiques and colder praise—sat near the front.
They weren't introduced.
No encouragement. No warm-up.
Just a red light blinking on.
And the music started.
---
It was perfect.
Julian felt the drag in his chest on the second chorus. Just half a beat. Noticeable. He recovered. Pivoted hard. Focused on the others.
Tae's form was clean. Marvo nailed the bridge with a voice that cracked just enough to feel real. George spun into his verse like it was a fight. Ren's grin wasn't a mask this time.
And Julian?
He gave them center. Solid. Steady. Spectacular, and present.
The end pose snapped into place. No one fell out of breath. No one overplayed it. They stood still as the last beat echoed.
Someone clapped. Just once.
The judge didn't smile. But he leaned forward. A smirk playing on his lips. He was pleased.
That was enough.
---
Backstage was a buzz of noise. The tech crew murmured. Group C whispered something about "the slum kids actually pulling it off." One of the stylists grinned at George as they passed.
Julian stood by the water station, towel draped over his shoulders. He didn't drink. He just listened.
Marvo walked up beside him. "We did good." He said still buzzing with post-stage adrenaline.
Julian nodded. "We did."
George joined them, hair sticking to his forehead. "We need to hit that ending harder next time."
Tae just gave a thumbs-up. That was more than usual.
Ren popped in last, dramatic as ever. "Guys, that judge? He looked at me like I owed him money, and then nodded. NODDED. I think I won him over." Ren imitates a producer's shocked face. Laughter bursts out.
They laughed. Real. Loud.
Julian smiled. Small, but not forced.
---
Later, he saw Sol.
Brief. Across the hallway. Group A had just finished their set. No sweat. No sound. Just a glide of perfection.
Sol stood a little behind the others. Still. Watching.
Their eyes met. Not long. But long enough.
Julian looked away first.
---
Back in the dorm, the group was looser. More themselves. George paced with his headphones. Ren sang off-key while scrolling comments on his feed. Marvo sprawled across the only clean blanket, humming the bridge again and again.
Julian sat on the windowsill, looking out. The complex wasn't high enough to see the sun fully, but you could see light breaking through the smog in slivers.
Tae came and sat beside him without a word.
After a few seconds, Julian said, "We can do this."
Tae nodded.
Behind them, Marvo called out, "Julian's back! We have our boss again!"
Julian shook his head, but he didn't disagree. And for the first time in weeks, they feel whole again.
Julian doesn't smile wide, but he does smile.
---
That night, Julian lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling.
He thought about Sol.
And he wondered why he still remembered that look.
But that wasn't what they were here for. This wasn't about whispers and sidelong glances. This was about NOX.
About everything they'd built with bare hands and scraped knees. About making sure Marvo, George, Ren, and Tae had a shot.
He owed them that.
He pressed his hand to his chest.
The ticking was quieter now.
Still there. But quieter. But he had finally learned to ignore.
He exhaled and turned over.
Tomorrow would be harder.
They will be ready.
He will be ready.
Finally.