⚠️ Trigger Warning: This chapter contains sensitive thes, including severe cyber bullying and brief ntions of suicide.
Reader discretion is advised.
****
"Now that I've said my piece on that concern," Foca continued, his voice noticeably softer, "moving on to you, Jeremiah—I have to say, you absolutely demolished the stage."
Jeremiah straightened, glowing.
"You ca in knowing exactly what you wanted to do, and you executed it flawlessly," Foca said with an approving nod. "That said, my concern still stands. We've seen you in your comfort zone. What you'll need to prove next is that you're not a one-trick pony—despite how confidently you've claid otherwise."
A beat.
"So yes," he added, lips curling slightly, "I'm very much looking forward to what you bring us next."
"Thank you! I won't let you down—promise!" Jeremiah replied, practically vibrating with excitent.
"You have certainly raised the temperature tonight, Jeremiah," Cat said, strutting back onto the stage like she owned the damn place. "Once again, a big round of applause for Jeremiah, everybody!"
The audience responded imdiately—cheers, screams, and at least three people losing their voices.
"Thank you, Jeremiah. Please head backstage," Cat added.
Jeremiah bowed one final ti, blew a kiss to the audience, winked shalessly, then turned and ran backstage like rent was due.
"Alright!" Cat clapped her hands. "We are officially on a roll tonight! Wouldn't you agree, dear evaluators?"
"I agree," Foca said smoothly. "You could say we're on a… bread roll."
Silence.
Not the polite kind.
The criminal kind.
The kind where you can hear soone in the balcony blink.
Sowhere, a cricket cleared its throat.
"Ugh… that was painful, boo-boo," Tuesday said, physically recoiling like she'd just witnessed a minor car accident.
"That's enough bread puns for you today," Luca said imdiately, shaking his head. Then he turned to Cat, eyes practically begging. "Cat. Please. Let's move along."
"A-alrighty…" Cat said, visibly sweating through her professional smile.
But before she could continue—
"DON'T WORRY, SIR FOCA! WE STILL LOVE YOU!"
The voice rang out loud and proud from the audience.
Of course.
It was Hyouka.
Super fan. Ride-or-die. President of the Foca Protection League.
The crowd erupted instantly.
"We love you!"
"It's okay!"
"Dad joke king!"
The trainees joined in.
The artists joined in.
The internet? Oh, the internet had thoughts.
@Rumi: This just proves God is fair. He gave Sir Foca money, looks and talent and left the humor for the rest of us.
@Yoyo: We love you, Sir Foca, but respectfully… please retire the puns. You sounded like my dad and I felt my soul leave my body a little.
@David_Adetola: Sir Foca, I'm crying 😭 The silence was funnier than the joke PLEASE make it stop 🤣🤣🤣🤣
@Masatoshi_K: I thought it was kinda funny… hello? Am I alone here?
→ @mothblade: Unfortunately, no amount of love can save that level of dad joke. That bread was burnt, my guy.
On stage, Foca simply sighed, adjusted his mic, and muttered:
"…I stand by it."
The audience lost it.
Again. 🥖💀
****
"Alrighty!" Cat said, a little too brightly, clearly trying to keep the show moving—very much not wanting a case of people mysteriously vanishing off the face of the earth situation.
"Are you all ready to et our next trainee?" she asked.
Thankfully, everyone caught the hint. They responded imdiately, loudly, enthusiastically. As if nothing awkward had happened. For Sir Foca's dignity, they would willingly and happily erase that particular mory from their brains.
"Now," Cat continued, her tone shifting, "our next trainee… is soone who has already tasted the sweet, intoxicating glory of fa—and the bitter, ugliest reality that cos with it."
That was all it took.
The audience already knew exactly who she ant.
"So please," Cat said, pausing just long enough to let the tension simr, "give our next trainee a very warm welco."
The stage lights flared to life as dramatic music swelled through the venue. The massive LED screen behind the stage slowly parted, revealing a silhouette—one so familiar that any K-pop stan could recognize it instantly.
As the figure stepped forward, there was no longer any doubt.
There he was.
The idol the global fandom had dubbed the fallen idol.
Park Jun Soo.
Or, as the world knew him best—June.
His stage na had always been a point of affection. June loved it, loved explaining that it ca from his birth month, loved how warm and hopeful it sounded when fans chanted it back to him.
But that sa month he cherished so deeply would also beco the one that carved a devastating scar straight into his heart.
June.
The month he was forcibly pushed out of the industry.
The month his so-called fans rcilessly accused him of heinous things—things that were later proven to be completely untrue. Entirely fabricated.
Lies born from a stressed high school student venting their frustrations onto a stranger they didn't even know.
He was proven innocent.
Undeniably so.
And yet, the people who were supposed to stand by him—his own country—turned their backs anyway. They stubbornly refused to see the truth. The truth that showed, from the very beginning, that they were wrong.
And they hated that.
So, in their twisted logic, they convinced themselves that even if the accusations were false, sothing must have inspired them. After all, rumors don't co from nowhere… right?
Anything to soothe what little remained of their bruised egos and fragile pride—clutched desperately as if letting go would shatter them.
That sa month was also when June seriously considered ending everything.
He found the irony almost laughable.
The month he entered the world… would be the sa month he planned to leave it.
Very few people knew the truth.
But he had tried.
He had attempted to take his own life—and nearly succeeded.
If not for his forr manager, frantic with worry, arriving just in ti to find him lying in the bathtub, water tinted red, his body soaked in both silence and blood—
If not for his forr manager—soone who refused to stop calling, refused to ignore a bad feeling—June would not be standing on that stage today.
That truth hung heavy in the air, even if it was never spoken aloud.
The theater was silent.
Not the awkward kind.
The reverent kind.
The kind where thousands of people collectively rember exactly where they were when the headlines broke. When tilines exploded. When opinions were ford faster than facts, and cruelty moved quicker than truth ever could.
June walked forward steadily, each step deliberate. Gone was the bright, easy smile people used to associate with him. In its place was sothing quieter. Stronger. A calm that only cos from surviving sothing that should have broken you completely.
He stopped at center stage.
The lights settled on him—not harsh, not blinding—almost gentle, as if the stage itself knew better now.
Sowhere in the audience, soone sniffed.
Soone else clasped their hands together, knuckles white.
The trainees watched him with a mix of awe and sothing closer to fear—not of him, but of the industry. Of how fast love could rot into violence. Of how thin the line really was.
Cat's expression softened, her usual sparkle dimd just enough to let sincerity through.
"June," she said quietly, carefully. "Welco."
He bowed.
Not deep. Not dramatic. Just respectful.
When he lifted his head, his gaze was steady. No bitterness. No plea. Just presence.
For the first ti since the show began, nobody was thinking about rankings.
Or scores.
Or viral monts.
They were thinking about survival.
About how a na could be dragged through mud worldwide, proven innocent, and still never fully washed clean.
About how silence could hurt just as much as hate.
About how so scars don't show, but they change the way you breathe forever.
June took the mic.
And when he finally spoke, his voice didn't shake.
Which, sohow, made it hurt even more.
****
PS- June is inspired by several K-pop artists who were later proven innocent, yet were treated unfairly—often cruelly—by the public. The backlash they endured was relentless and rciless, and in many cases, it ca from the very industry and society that once celebrated them.
This is not a generalization of Korean people as a whole. Many Koreans were—and still are—loud, unwavering voices of support for these artists. Unfortunately, their compassion was often drowned out by the noise of hate.
June is inspired most strongly by a particular Korean actor: Kim Ji Soo. And what he'd one through.
(If soone wants to know what happened, you can check out this video:
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