As the new training week rolled by, the ninety-two remaining trainees worked themselves to the bone. Every day blurred into the next—sweat, music, aching muscles, and the constant pressure of getting just a little bit better than yesterday. They soaked up every class like sponges starving for water.
They laughed together, complained together, broke down together… and got right back up because soone beside them always offered a hand. Slowly, they'd grown into a weird, chaotic little family—at least, the ones who opened their heart a bit. A few still stayed locked tight, walled off, refusing to connect even when everyone else's bonds were practically glowing.
Clique after clique ford, tiny fault lines running through the group. Whispers, eye-rolls, petty tension—normal human chaos. But nothing big enough to call staff in. Yet.
By Saturday, instead of their specialized classes, they were told to gather on a new stage setup—colosseum style like the first evaluations, but smaller, more intimate. The kind of space where every breath, every reaction, every heartbeat felt amplified.
They filled the bleachers surrounding a small square stage, chatter buzzing like static in the air. Nervous energy. Curiosity. A little dread. No one knew what was coming.
Then—
"What's up, everyone!"
A familiar voice sliced through the noise.
Foca walked in, looking soft and comfy as ever, but more casual than the hyper-CEO version they usually got. No suit. No stiff posture. Just real, twenty-five-year-old Foca showing up like he owned the place—but also like he didn't feel the need to prove it.
The trainees froze for a second—then the room practically shook with cheers.
"So," Foca said, hands in his pockets, "you must be wondering why you're all here. And definitely wondering why I'm here."
A few trainees yelled, "Yeah!"
Others nodded.
One or two looked like they might puke.
"Well," he continued, "today is specialized training day. And your special training… will be conducted by yours truly."
It was like he threw a bomb in the room.
Gasps. Excited squeals. Pure panic. That one dude in the back who looked like he just saw his life flash before his eyes. Because how the hell do you react when your potential future boss strolls in and says, Alright kiddos, I'm teaching you today?
"I know I'm the owner of Bread Music," Foca said, pacing the small stage, "but before anything else, I'm an artist. I produce everything in the company. I handle choreography sotis. And trust —so of you will end up working with one-on-one. Studio, dance room, late nights. All of it."
A wave of excitent rolled through the trainees—real, pulsing, electricity-under-the-skin excitent. This was the dream. This was the door cracking open.
"Now," he said, energy shifting, "today's class is about creativity. That little muscle everyone forgets to stretch."
He paused, letting the silence settle over them.
"In this industry, people get bored fast. If a group locks themselves into one concept, they shine for a mont… then fade hard. Worst-case scenario? Disbandnt. Burnout. The end."
He clapped once—sharp, loud. So trainees flinched.
"So today, you're getting shoved out of your comfort zones. Whether you like it or not. You'll sing songs that don't suit your style. Dance to beats you'd never touch. Break the cages you built around yourselves. Because creativity isn't optional. It's survival. The mont you lose it… that's the mont your life as an artist dies."
The room fell silent—tense, excited, terrified, inspired.
The class hadn't even started, and already Foca had every one of them by the throat.
"Oh, and by the way—just call Foca." he said with a mischievous grin, like he knew he'd just thrown a small grenade into the room.
The trainees lost it. Full-body cheers, laughter, a couple dramatic gasps.
Because seriously—what kind of CEO tells a room full of trainees to drop all titles and just call him by his na? It felt illegal. Half of them didn't even know where to look. They'd been blessed… and also left confused as hell.
"Alrighty," Foca clapped once, sharp and bright. "Let's not waste any more ti."
He planted himself in the center of the square stage, the energy in the room snapping to attention.
"We're starting with a little free-for-all. Your mission: create sothing—anything—that sounds at least decent." His tone was teasing, but there was a glimr in his eyes that said he ant it.
Then he pointed straight at Kang Ian.
"Kang Ian. I hear you've been quite the leader."
The trainees imdiately exploded in cheers and whoops, while Ian froze like soone had just caught him sneaking cookies. His cheeks flushed pink, and he hunched slightly, grinning through the embarrassnt.
"Think you can start us off?" Foca continued. "Pick a song you'd never choose if you had options. Sothing outside your comfort zone. The others will add onto it. Rember: decent is the goal—nothing more. Ready?"
Ian nodded, swallowing hard.
He stood up, exhaled slowly, and picked a song that he would normally run from. He was a rapper by trade—his singing voice was good, really good, but he still didn't feel… safe with it.
He closed his eyes.
And sang.
🎶 I'm jealous, I'm overzealous
When I'm down, I get real down
When I'm high, I don't co down 🎶
The reaction was instant: the other trainees' heads jerked toward him like he'd just revealed a hidden superpower.
Rap-king Kang Ian singing?
Singing well?
They looked like they'd discovered a rare specin in the wild.
Mika, sitting beside him, let out a soft snort—because he understood the joke. The choice. The aning. The little emotional knot they shared privately. And god, did it make him fond.
He stood up next.
🎶 And I get angry, baby, believe
I could love you just like that
And I could leave you just as fast 🎶
Ian actually laughed mid-note, shaking his head. Of course Mika picked that verse.
Ian took the next line:
🎶 But you don't judge
'Cause if you did— 🎶
And before he could hit the next word—
Mika slid in beside him, voice warm, steady, and blending perfectly with Ian's.
🎶 baby, I would judge you too 🎶
A ripple of goosebumps spread through the trainees. You could hear a pin drop.
Mika repeated the pre-chorus, this ti Ian laying harmony under his lead like they'd rehearsed it a hundred tis. They hadn't. Their voices just fit.
And then—
The chorus hit.
Nikola burst into beatboxing like his life depended on it.
Aqua hopped up so fast he nearly tripped over his own fur slippers.
Eli ca in with a clean upper harmony.
Monarch added a rich lower line.
Suddenly it was a six-person, spine-tingling, stupidly beautiful harmony:
🎶 'Cause I got issues, but you got 'em too
So give 'em all to , and I'll give mine to you
Bask in the glory of all our problems...🎶
As they sang, sothing burst open in all of them.
Not dramatic, not flashy—just this warm, rising, almost dizzy feeling in their chests. The kind you get when you suddenly rember why you love sothing so damn much.
None of them were fighting for volu or spotlight.
Nobody was trying to outshine the others.
Instead, every voice slipped into place like a puzzle piece—distinct, but part of the sa picture.
Each of them added a little flavor, a tiny twist only they could contribute.
And sohow, despite the chaos of them just winging it, the whole thing sounded… right.
Raw, real, alive.
People started swaying. Heads bobbing. A few trainees humd along, eyes wide with awe.
It didn't feel like a class anymore.
It felt like six friends in a living room at 2 a.m. — singing because their souls needed to.
🎶Yeah, I got issues
And one of them is how bad I need ya🎶
When the chorus finally faded, they all stopped at the exact sa ti.
A perfect, startled silence.
The six of them stared at each other, breathing hard, grinning like idiots—
that silent, stupid, joyful look that said:
"Holy shit… we really did that."
Then the room exploded.
Cheers. Whistles. Stomping.
Aqua did this little screaming jump. Monarch clapped so hard his rings clicked. Eli looked like he'd just seen God.
"That was excellent, guys!" Foca shouted, applauding with genuine delight. "You see this? This is the epito of letting go. Of having fun. Of jamming with your friends and doing what you love."
He gestured at the six, still glowing with adrenaline.
"Because sotis, in these ssy, spontaneous monts, we create the most amazing things. You don't squeeze creativity out. You don't choke it. You just let it breathe—and let it do its thing."
****
PS-
The song sang in this chapter is "Issues" originally by Julia Michaels.
But the performance on this chapter was heavily inspired by Alicia and Jasmina's version, from The Voice Kids Germany. Here's the link if you wanna check it out:(syoutu.be/YHxtszFzVpg?feature=shared)
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