A week later, Minjun and Jiwoo stood behind the heavy black curtain of a makeshift stage in a Seoul shopping mall, their hearts pounding so loud they could barely hear the MC's voice echoing through the cheap speakers.
Starline called it a public trainee showcase — a fancy phrase for free advertising. A chance for trainees to test themselves in front of an actual audience, not just mirrors and trainers with cold eyes. They'd spent the entire morning squeezed into a back room with too many other boys, pinning name tags to their hoodies, going over dance counts in the hallway whenever they got a sliver of space.
Jiwoo looked like he might pass out. His hands fumbled with the drawstrings of his sweater over and over.
"Hey," Minjun said, nudging his arm. "Don't lock your knees, or you'll faint. If you faint, I'll have to drag you offstage, and I'm not that strong."
Jiwoo let out a shaky laugh. "Easy for you to say. You look like you belong out there."
Minjun snorted. If only he knew. He pressed his palm to Jiwoo's chest. "Right here. Keep this calm. Doesn't matter if your feet mess up — they'll feel this first."
Before Jiwoo could answer, the stage manager pointed at them. "Next group! Go, go!"
When they stepped out, the lights were so bright Minjun had to squint. The small mall atrium was filled with clusters of curious shoppers leaning over railings, sipping bubble tea, whispering to their friends. A few girls in the front held up phones, ready to film everything. Somewhere at the edge of the stage, a bored-looking MC shouted into the mic: "Next up — Yoon Minjun and Park Jiwoo! Give them a hand!"
Minjun heard scattered claps, polite but hesitant. They were nobodies here — trainees, not idols. Disposable. Unproven. The music cued up, the same pop demo they'd fought over for days. Minjun met Jiwoo's eyes one last time, and then there was no time for fear.
They moved. Just like in the practice room — wave and rock. Minjun's sharp footwork cutting through the static of mall chatter, Jiwoo's softer flow pulling eyes toward them whether people meant to watch or not. It wasn't flawless. Jiwoo missed a beat near the middle and Minjun had to close the gap between them with an extra step. But they didn't stop. They didn't crack.
When the final pose hit, Minjun's heart thundered in his throat. For a breathless second, the crowd was quiet — and then someone screamed.
Not a big scream, not the roar that real idols heard every day — but one teenage girl near the railing had her phone up and shouted, "Minjun! Saranghae!" She giggled, embarrassed, but it sparked a ripple through the crowd. Phones rose higher. A few more claps, then cheers. Small, but enough to crack something open in Minjun's chest.
They bowed awkwardly, grinning, hearts still drumming from adrenaline. Backstage, Jiwoo grabbed his shoulders and shook him like a ragdoll.
"Did you hear that?" Jiwoo wheezed. "She said your name! She knew your name!"
Minjun laughed so hard he almost tripped over a coil of stage cables. "She read my name tag, dummy."
"Doesn't matter!" Jiwoo crowed. "She screamed for you. That's a fan! You have a fan!"
Minjun didn't know how to explain what it felt like — that tiny spark in the noise, a stranger's voice shouting his name into the lights. It was a small thing. Insignificant, really. But for a moment, he could see it: a sea of lights, not a single voice but thousands. His name not written on a disposable trainee tag, but on banners, on glowing fan sticks. Minjun. Yoon Minjun. Idol of the Night.
Later, they sat behind the stage eating stale bread rolls and sharing a bottle of water like they hadn't just given every drop of sweat and breath to a handful of strangers. Jiwoo scrolled through his phone, grinning.
"Look! Someone uploaded us already." He turned the screen to Minjun — a shaky vertical video of them on stage. A comment underneath: 'Who's the sharp dancer? He's so intense omg.' Jiwoo elbowed him. "That's you! Sharp dancer! You're trending among five people!"
Minjun shook his head, trying to hide how his cheeks burned. He took Jiwoo's phone and stared at the blurry image — himself frozen mid-move, eyes fierce, mouth set. He didn't look like a kid on a rooftop anymore. He looked… possible.
Jiwoo nudged him. "You think your dad would be proud?"
Minjun paused. The question hurt more than he expected. He thought of his father's tired eyes, the way he didn't look at Minjun when he left in the morning. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But maybe… someday."
Jiwoo clapped him on the back. "Then let's make them remember us. Next showcase — we'll be the loudest."
On the bus home that night, Minjun replayed the video over and over, the stranger's comment like a match struck against the dark inside him.
When the bus jolted to a stop near his neighborhood, he stepped off, boots crunching on the wet sidewalk. He looked up — and there it was again. The city, alive with neon signs and rooftop lights. His rooftop waited above it all, quiet and open.
This time when he stood there, he didn't feel alone. Somewhere out there, someone had screamed his name. Just one voice — but it was enough to prove he existed.