The first week of training flew by so fast the trainees collectively developed emotional whiplash. The program stayed painfully true to its promise: most of them crashed face-first into their beds every night, unconscious within seconds. Others dragged their exhausted bodies to the spa or hot springs, taking full advantage of the facilities provided to keep them from ntally combusting. A few deranged souls coped by heading to the gym to work out more or swimming laps like they were fleeing their problems. Everyone found their own way to stay sane as they survived the brutal, beautiful hell that was training.
Vocal classes drilled the basics — technique, breathing, proper warmups — into their skulls until it beca automatic, the goal being vocal longevity. If their voices were instrunts, the instructors were determined to make sure none of them snapped a string by week two.
Dance classes were even more intense. They tackled every genre imaginable, teaching the trainees not to get trapped in a single style. Creativity ca easier when you had a library of movent to pull from. But nothing — nothing — humbled them like ballet. Ballet battered them in places they didn't even know muscles existed. During those sessions, their screams reportedly echoed down the halls of Jenga Tower like a haunted mansion.
Still, it worked. Ballet sharpened their posture, improved their flexibility, strengthened their cores — and helped them understand why ballet dancers deserved every ounce of respect on Earth.
Monday to Friday were dedicated to vocal and dance training. Saturdays, however, were "specialization days." Trainees were free to choose from rap, songwriting, production, or learning instrunts. Sundays were rest days… and ntal-health days. Mandatory counseling and therapy for everyone.
Foca, Luca, and Tuesday had designed the program to be comprehensive — mind, body, craft. They took care of their trainees to the fullest. So if anyone ever complained? Oh, they had receipts.
****
Mid-week, while the trainees were dying beautifully in the studios, Foca, Luca, and Tuesday were buried in their own work.
"Thank God for competent employees. They make my job so much easier," Tuesday sighed, stretching dramatically as she finished her tasks.
"An to that," Luca agreed, leaning back in his chair with a groan of relief.
anwhile, Foca was still typing away on his laptop, laser-focused — until his phone lit up. He glanced at the caller ID and let out the kind of tired sigh that said I do not have the emotional budget for this.
Tuesday and Luca both turned to him, alert like cats hearing a can opener. Foca didn't explain — he just answered, because ignoring this caller would only make things worse.
"Hello…" he said, already exhausted.
"Hey, little bread! How are you? I miss you!" chirped a bright, familiar voice — his sister.
"Sis, I'm working. Why are you calling?" Foca asked, sounding like a man clinging to sanity by a paperclip.
"Aww, c'mon, baby brother, aren't you happy to hear your sister's voice?" Pearl teased.
"One—"
"Okay, okay, fine! No need to sass ." She huffed dramatically. "I'll get straight to the point. Cole's parents keep nagging him to convince to convince you about rth."
The mont she said the na, Foca groaned. Luca and Tuesday exchanged looks. Foca just put the phone on speaker — might as well let them witness the suffering firsthand.
For context: Cole is Pearl's husband — beloved by the De Clairmontins. His family, however, was a walking headache. Loud, braggy, obsessed with flaunting their "new money" status. Everything the quiet, elegant De Clairmontins despised.
Cole was the outlier: humble, charming, nerdy, shy — the family's one redeeming factor. Even he hated them enough that when he married Pearl, he imdiately took the De Clairmontin surna so his family couldn't ride their coattails. High society knew exactly who wore the power pants in that household.
And then there was rth — Cole's younger brother. Loud, brash, a full-ti social butterfly. Talented, yes, but chaos in human form.
When Cole's parents learned that Foca was launching an entertainnt company, they shalessly begged for rth to be directly signed. Foca shut that down imdiately. When that failed, they pivoted, asking for rth to at least be included in the audition program.
To be fair, rth was skilled. Foca admitted that during evaluations. But talent didn't erase the fact that rth was the mastermind behind the unauthorized drinking party that got eight trainees expelled on day one.
So when Pearl called? Foca already knew where this was going.
"They keep making a scene and complaining about why rth got kicked out," Pearl said, exasperated.
Luca and Tuesday nodded like yep, saw that coming.
"Did rth not explain why he was kicked out?" Foca asked, already knowing the answer.
"Nope. He's insisting you kicked him out because you don't like him. And says you ranked him low even though he's 'better than half the people there.'"
Foca buried his face in both hands and groaned like a man begging the universe for rcy.
"Sis… I'm sorry, but I still have tons of work to do. I'll send you the full unedited footage of why he was kicked out. And I'll send the videos of the trainees he claims he's 'better' than — the ones who outranked him. Then you decide if I was justified. Okay?"
"Aww, thank you, baby brother. And sorry for bothering you." Pearl's tone softened. "Send it over. I'll handle it myself. Love you, little bread!"
"Love you too, sis. Thanks." He hung up.
"Oh wow," Luca muttered. "I knew this would blow up the mont that spoiled brat got kicked. But damn, I didn't think it'd go nuclear this fast."
"I'm just grateful he got himself kicked out," Tuesday added, equal parts sass and sympathy. "Because if I'd had to do it, it wouldn't have been cute."
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