After three days and nights of indulgence, laughter, and genuine healing in Switzerland, reality ca knocking—politely, but firmly.
Suitcases were zipped. Scarves were folded. Half-used skincare bottles were shoved into carry-ons like treasured contraband. The crisp alpine air that had cradled the trainees through their brief escape now felt bittersweet against their skin. This wasn't a vacation anymore. It never truly was.
At the end of the day, LEAVEN was still an audition program—and dreams did not pause forever.
Families, ntors, best friends, and loved ones gathered to see them off. There were hugs that lingered a second too long, whispered words of encouragent, playful scoldings to eat well and sleep properly. Mothers wiped away tears while pretending they weren't crying. Best friends made stupid jokes to keep things light. ntors clasped shoulders with pride-filled smiles.
"Go get it," they all seed to say, in a hundred different ways.
The trainees boarded their transport back to the island with renewed resolve. Their eyes burned brighter—not from pressure, but from purpose.
And just like that, ti slipped through everyone's fingers.
The court hearings concluded quietly, efficiently, and exactly as predicted.
Bread Music erged victorious.
To the shock of absolutely no one.
As for Akesh, Adel, and the rest of the forr trainees who were convicted?
Foca couldn't give less of a damn.
He didn't stay to savor the victory. There were no smug smiles, no speeches, no dia statents dripping with faux grace. The mont the verdict was read, Foca stood, buttoned his coat, and left—Luca and Tuesday flanking him without a word.
By the ti headlines hit the internet, the three of them were already en route back to the island, laser-focused on what actually mattered.
The fourth evaluations.
And what a overwhelming success they were.
The trainees didn't just improve—they leveled up. Confidence settled into their movents. Voices carried intention. Performances felt lived-in, no longer fragile or tentative. Even those who once struggled now stood taller, sharper, more assured.
And the standouts?
Nothing short of perfection, as expected. So stars were simply inevitable.
With the evaluations wrapped, Foca summoned Luca and Tuesday for a private eting.
Foca's study was, as always, a sanctuary of quiet luxury. Warm lighting, shelves lined with books that looked both expensive and actually read, and a faint scent of tea leaves and polished wood lingering in the air.
Foca sat behind his desk, perfectly at ease—long legs crossed, posture relaxed, an immaculately tailored sweater draped over him like it was born there.
Tuesday lounged on one velvet couch, legs crossed, looking devastatingly chic even while casually sipping an iced aricano.
Luca occupied the other couch, already halfway through a monstrous BlueBull smoothie of his own invention.
"So," Luca said, straw popping loudly as he took another sip, "why'd you suddenly call us in? This ought to be good."
"I want to propose a change of plans," Foca said calmly, lifting his rose tea.
Tuesday's brows arched. "Well?" she prompted. "Spill."
As Foca laid out his idea, expressions shifted in real ti.
Surprise.
Intrigue.
Disbelief.
Then—delight.
By the ti he finished, Luca leaned back and started slow clapping.
"I have to say," Luca grinned, eyes bright, "you've outdone yourself. This is—Wow. It's perfect."
"I'm SAT," Tuesday declared, nails clicking together dramatically. "Boo boo, this is gonna make phenonal TV. I an—chef's kiss."
Foca smiled softly. "I'm glad you both think so. So… you agree?"
"Yup," Luca said instantly.
"One hundred percent," Tuesday echoed.
"Then," Foca said, lifting his teacup again, "it's ti to et the trainees—and the world."
The earth didn't literally shake.
But the internet sure as hell did.
An announcent dropped simultaneously across Bread Music's website and every official social dia platform.
Bold. Clean. Terrifyingly vague.
"LEAVEN will go live."
Below it, a list of ti zones.
Chaos followed imdiately.
@Hyouka_Icecream:
WHAT THE HELL??? I'll barely make it ho in ti!
@Rumi:
Sir???? I just woke up. It's too early for bombshells like this 😭
@Yoyo:
Praying for the people still asleep rn… y'all are gonna miss HISTORY 🤭
@Totoro:
I was literally in a eting when this popped up. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
@CaliforniaMaki:
It's 2AM HERE. HOW am I supposed to sleep now??? HELLO???
The internet spiraled—speculation threads multiplying by the second.
But no one was more shaken than the trainees themselves.
They stared at the announcent in stunned silence when it was shown to them.
A livestream.
No context.
No warning.
For many, panic blood instantly. Hearts raced. Palms sweated. Old fears clawed back to the surface. They thought they had healed. Thought the article fiasco was behind them.
Apparently not.
A sudden live broadcast was the perfect recipe for anxiety.
But slowly—quietly—sothing else took root.
Trust.
For so of them, the mantra had beco instinctive now.
In Sir Foca, we trust.
If Foca was behind it, then whatever storm lay ahead would eventually pass.
And so, as the hour of the livestream drew closer, the world collectively prepared.
People tuned in wherever they were.
Students watched stealthily during lectures, phones hidden beneath desks. Restaurants paused music to let the livestream play on mounted TVs. Bars projected it on walls, drinks forgotten.
So were half-asleep, jolted awake by notifications. Others stood packed into subway cars, every second person staring at the sa glowing screen.
If you looked around and saw a crowd glued to their phones, chances were high—
They were watching LEAVEN.
Back on the island, the trainees gathered in the mini colosseum stage.
The space felt different now. Heavier. Sacred.
They stood shoulder to shoulder. Fingers laced together. So whispered prayers under their breath. Others bounced their knees uncontrollably, nerves refusing to be tad.
Breathing synced. Hearts thundered.
The countdown ticked closer.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Whatever was about to happen—
They would face it together.
And the world was watching.
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