The mont Cat disappeared inside, pure chaos erupted.
Trainees scattered like roaches when the lights turn on — except these roaches had dreams, anxiety disorders, and noise-canceling headphones blasting at max volu.
Within seconds, the entire yacht turned into a ssy choir of overlapping vocals, clashing high notes, off-beat rap practice, and soone yelling "FIVE, SIX, SEVEN—OH MY GOD MOVE" from sowhere near the pool deck.
It wasn't rude. It wasn't personal.
It was simply every man for himself, survival-mode activated.
While most were grinding like their entire bloodline depended on it, one trainee stood out from the frenzy — mostly because he wasn't doing anything.
He was just… staring at the ocean. Serene. Silent. Unbothered.
So of course the production crew approached him.
"Excuse , are you okay doing a brief interview?" the staff asked gently.
"Sure, no problem," the trainee replied with a smile. A pale smile. A sea-sick, soone-help--God type smile.
"Perfect! Could you introduce yourself? Na, age, where you're from?"
The trainee nodded.
"Hi, my na is Adel. I'm 22, and I'm from Egypt."
"Lovely! So… why are you out here instead of practicing like the others?"
Adel inhaled slowly, then winced.
"Well… first of all, I'm trying not to move. Or think. If I start thinking, I'll probably start hurling everywhere. So please… just pretend I'm being respectful and staying out of everyone's way."
He covered his mouth imdiately after finishing, squeezing his eyes shut like the ocean was personally attacking him.
"Oh—uh—okay. We'll leave you alone then," the producer said, gently backing away.
"Tha—nk… you…" Adel wheezed, right before leaning over the railing and violently hurling.
And yes.
Every glorious second was caught on cara. Reality TV gold.
anwhile, in a secluded corner, another trainee sat cross-legged on the deck, ditating like he was about to ascend into the astral realm. Naturally, production approached him too.
"Hi there! Can we do a brief interview?"
"Of course!" the trainee said, instantly flashing a charming smile that could probably secure him an endorsent deal.
"Great! Please tell us your na, age, and where you're from."
"Hi! My na's Bobby, I'm twenty, and I'm from London," he said in the poshest accent this yacht had ever heard.
"So Bobby, why aren't you practicing like the others?"
"Oh," he chuckled softly, "I ss up more when I over-prepare. I think I panic? So right now, I'm just conserving energy and keeping my mind calm."
"Got it! And why did you decide to audition?"
"Well… it might sound cliché, but it's my dream."
He blushed, just slightly.
"I think about singing the mont I wake up and performing before I fall asleep. Opportunities like this are rare, so I grabbed it."
"And why a global group?"
Bobby's eyes softened with nostalgia.
"I got into K-pop when I was about twelve. I still rember seeing STB's performance of Them with Luv at the Gremmys with Hallsay. That was my mont. I begged my parents for dance and singing classes afterward. But when they couldn't afford it anymore… I got a part-ti job after school. I didn't want to give up. I did everything I could think of to chase this dream. So… here I am."
His voice cracked just a little. In the best, most TV-friendly way.
"Thank you for sharing, Bobby. We wish you nothing but the best," the producer said warmly before walking off.
Bobby bowed politely, then closed his eyes again, resuming his ditation…
while soone fifteen feet away scread, "WHO THE F**K IS SINGING IN TEN DIFFERENT KEYS?!"
****
The trainees were mid-practice — so belting, so twerking, so having full spiritual crises — when a shout rippled across the deck:
"THE ISLAND! THE ISLAND—HOLY SHIT, LOOK!"
Every head snapped up.
Every mouth dropped.
Every heart collectively said "oh fuck".
There it was.
Foca's island.
A shimring green jewel rising out of the Pacific like it was posing for a damn blockbuster movie intro.
As the yacht approached the shore, excitent and nerves mixed so violently in the trainees' chests, it felt like heartburn sponsored by anxiety.
The mont they disembarked, reality slamd into them like a truck:
Two luxury buses waited at the docks, looking like mobile five-star hotels.
They boarded in stunned silence, and the 20-minute ride only amped up their anticipation.
And then — the gasps.
Because the buses rounded a corner, and suddenly…
A whole ass futuristic miniature city unfolded before them.
Not "nice resort" vibes.
Not "rich man's playground" vibes.
No, — this shit looked like Wakandada and Silicon Valley had a baby, and then gave it a glow-up.
Sleek buildings.
Glass bridges.
LED walkways.
Holographic street signs.
And right in the middle: a towering structure stacked like glass jenga blocks.
It didn't scream money.
It purred money.
That quiet, condescending, side-eye rich kind of money.
Once the trainees disembarked and gathered in front of the jenga skyscraper, Cat was waiting, beaming like she was greeting a bunch of beloved grandchildren… that she would also happily but unintentionally emotionally traumatize for ratings.
"How was the ride? Did you guys enjoyed it?" she asked.
"Yes!" they shouted — though half of them had been seconds from a nervous breakdown during practice earlier.
Cat squinted at soone.
"Adel. Sweetheart. You don't look well. Are you okay?"
Adel straightened with the dignity of a man who had absolutely thrown his guts overboard an hour ago.
"Y-yes. I'll be fine. It was my first ti on a boat, so I got really sea sick," he admitted shyly. His color was returning, slowly but surely.
"That's good. But if you get sick again, go straight to d bay, alright?" Cat instructed.
Adel nodded and gave two trembling thumbs up like a soldier receiving orders.
Cat faced the hundred trainees, her energy shifting from sweet auntie to ruthless host in 0.2 seconds.
"A hundred trainees stand before ," she declared. "Six brutal months. Endless growth. Endless sweat. Endless tears. Once again — welco to LEAVEN!"
The roar that erupted could've powered a small village.
"This miniature city will be your ho for the next six months. It has every facility imaginable to help you grow, to challenge you, and to push you past your limits. This island will witness everything you shed for your dream."
Her eyes sharpened.
"Now I must ask… trainees, are you ready?"
"YES!"
The ground practically vibrated.
Cat lifted her hand.
"Then allow to introduce the people you will have to impress for the next six months — the ones evaluating every move, every note, every breath."
A hush fell.
"First, the head of Corporate and Business at Bread Music. One of our co-founders. Please welco the ever-stunning—
Tuesday Sumrs!"
Tuesday strutted out of the building like the runway owed her money. The trainees cheered — and blinked. She looked young. Too young. Suspiciously young. But the island personnel bowed as she passed, so… yeah. She was the real deal.
"Our next evaluator and co-founder: the head of Bread Music's creative departnt. The visionary himself —
Luca Giovanni!"
Luca erged looking like he ate Vague photoshoots for breakfast. The man was radiating. That "I'm hot and I spent an hour pretending I wasn't" type swagger.
Even the wind hit him like a fan machine on a concert stage.
"And last but certainly not least…"
The air practically held its breath.
"The creator and owner of Bread Music Entertainnt —
Focaccia!"
Foca walked out like ethereal corporate comfort was an art form — ssy bun, gilded glasses, clean fit, aura: "I'm your boss but also your favorite problem."
The trainees lost it.
Shock. Excitent.
And an undertone of "holy shit they're all YOUNG?!"
But the staff's reverence told them everything they needed:
This wasn't a gimmick.
This wasn't a façade.
Those three were powerful, terrifying, brilliant, and in charge.
And now?
A hundred hopefuls had to survive under their eyes for six whole months.
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