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𝔗HE BUS SWAYED GENTLY AS IT MADE ITS WAY THROUGH THE BUSTLING STREETS OF SEOUL, the rhythmic bumping against potholes and uneven pavement rocking passengers in a steady, almost hypnotic motion. outside the windows, the city unfolded like a living tapestry: neon signs flickered, crowds surged across crosswalks, and the distant hum of traffic blended with the occasional honk of a horn.

suddenly, the bus jerked to a stop, jarring jaeseok awake. blinking against the dim morning light filtering through the fogged windows, he rubbed his eyes and straightened up. the backpack slung over his shoulder shifted, and he adjusted the cap on his head, fingers moving automatically as though he'd performed the routine a thousand times before.

as the bus doors slid open with a hiss, he followed the flow of passengers exiting, their footsteps a chorus of hurried rhythms against the pavement. the air outside was cool, sharp with the scent of coffee from the nearby cafés and a faint trace of exhaust fumes. jaeseok moved quickly, weaving through the crowd, his eyes set on the entrance to the mall where he worked.

he was always early-something that had become second nature after years of the same routine-but there was a sense of urgency today. he didn't want to acknowledge why, but the feeling gnawed at him. he brushed it off, focusing instead on the familiar hum of the mall's atmosphere: the clatter of metal carts in the food court, the murmur of voices, and the soft glow of fluorescent lights flickering above.

as he entered through the back employee door, the smell of freshly mopped floors mixed with the faint scent of sweet pastries from the bakery in the corner. jaeseok greeted a few of his colleagues with a quick nod, their faces a blur of familiarity as they bustled past him. everyone was in their own world, preparing for the day. yet, amid the usual chatter and bustle, there was something different in the air-a shift, subtle but unmistakable.

jaeseok's mind wandered even as his body fell into the rhythm of his shift. the familiar tasks-folding shirts, mopping the floors, answering questions from customers-were mechanical, distractions that kept him grounded in the present, if only for a moment. but no matter how hard he tried to focus, the thought kept tugging at the edge of his consciousness.

in just a few days, filming would begin for the survival show-the last chance he'd given himself to break through, the final chance to make his dream of debuting as an idol come true. ten years of grueling practice, sacrifice, and quiet frustration had led him here, to this moment of near-exhaustion. and yet, deep down, jaeseok knew what the outcome would be. he didn't have to wait for the show to air to understand that he'd fail.

it wasn't cynicism; it was a resignation, a sense of inevitability that had shaped his view of the world for as long as he could remember. failure, for him, wasn't just a possibility-it was the default.

but even with this quiet certainty, a part of him still hoped, still clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, things could turn out differently. it was a foolish thought, one that he'd banished more times than he could count, yet it still snuck back, refusing to be ignored.

that hope plagued every movement he made, from folding the sleeves of a shirt with the practiced care of a professional to the slow, deliberate steps he took between aisles, as if some part of him still believed that the effort would somehow, miraculously, be enough.

as the hours passed, his shift was over before he knew it, slipping away in the blur of muscle memory.

the thought of returning to the practice room, to push his aching body through another round of routines and drills, weighed heavily on him. but there was no other choice. he had to keep trying, even if it felt like he was throwing himself against a wall that would never break. it wasn't just the fear of failure that drove him-it was the haunting certainty that, if he stopped now, he'd have nothing left.

jaeseok stepped out of the mall and into the fading light of the afternoon, the air cooler now, carrying a faint promise of evening rain. he barely noticed it, his mind already slipping back to the practice room, to the long hours ahead, to the routines he could still barely perform in his tired state. there were days when he felt like he was running in circles, chasing a dream that was always just out of reach. today was one of those days.

as he walked, the city seemed to press in on him-too bright, too loud, too full of people all going somewhere with a purpose, while he drifted along with no real direction. the hum of the streetlights overhead, the clatter of shoes on concrete, the sound of a distant siren-all of it blurred together into a dissonant soundtrack to his thoughts. he could feel the weight of everything he had yet to prove hanging over him, thick and suffocating. ten years of work, of sacrifice, of silence. for what?

his phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from the fog of his thoughts. it was a message from his mother, something about dinner, a reminder to call. he didn't even bother responding. he knew what she'd say. "when are you coming to visit?" or "you still haven't given up, have you?" it was hard to ignore the disappointment in her voice when she'd asked that last question a hundred times before, and yet harder still to explain to her that he didn't really have a choice.

it wasn't just his dream anymore. it was his obligation. to her, to himself, to the years of effort already spent.

by the time he reached the practice studio by his home, it was dark, the parking lot nearly empty. there were no other cars, no sign of anyone else who might be staying late.

he could already feel the exhaustion pulling at his limbs as he punched in the code to open the door. inside, the lights flickered on with a hum, casting the space in harsh fluorescent light. the mirrors on the wall reflected his own tired face back at him, hollow-eyed and worn.

he dropped his bag by the corner, stretched for a moment, and then got to work. the music blared through the speakers, setting a beat that felt too fast for him to follow. his body was stiff, aching from the endless hours of repetition. but he pushed through it.

one more time, he told himself. just one more time, and maybe it'll click. but it never did. no matter how many times he danced, how many times he sang, he always felt just one step behind.

minutes turned to hours, and the frustration built, thicker and heavier with each misstep, each wrong note. he was so tired.

the movements felt like they belonged to someone else-someone who had the energy, the drive, the luck-not him.

maybe this was how it was meant to end: not with a grand failure, but with a quiet one, where the dreams faded, where he just... stopped.

but the thought of quitting, of admitting that everything was for nothing, churned his stomach. he couldn't do it. not yet. not until he had truly given everything, until the very last ounce of his will had been spent.

so, he kept going.

the night stretched on, the hours slipping by unnoticed as jaeseok's body moved on autopilot. sweat soaked through his t-shirt, his legs burning with every step, his lungs aching for air. he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd last stopped to rest-minutes? hours? the music seemed endless now, a loop of demands that wouldn't stop, even as his mind begged for a break.

he glanced at the clock on the wall. it was well past midnight. fatigue had begun to settle into his bones like cement, weighing him down, making each movement feel slower, more labored. but the thought of leaving, of walking away without even a semblance of success, kept him rooted to the spot. there was no relief in sight, not tonight. not tomorrow. maybe never.

he paused for a moment, hands resting on his knees, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. his reflection in the mirror stared back at him, eyes hollow with exhaustion, face streaked with sweat and frustration.

he looked... defeated. not just from the hours of practice, but from the years, the countless moments where he'd asked himself what if? and come up empty-handed. he had nothing left but this. *this* was all he had to offer, and maybe it was never going to be enough.

with a sigh, he stood up straight, wiping his face with the back of his hand. the silence in the studio was deafening now that the music had stopped. it felt like the entire world was waiting, holding its breath, watching him. but no one was there. just him and the mirror. just him and the flickering light overhead.

jaeseok moved to the center of the floor and took a deep breath. his legs ached. his mind was foggy. but he couldn't stop, not yet. not with the clock ticking down on everything he'd worked for. he set his feet into position, lifted his arms, and let the beat fill the air again.

one more time, he thought.

the first few movements were clumsy, as if his body was still trying to wake up. but soon, the rhythm started to flow, and he found himself moving again, even though it hurt. even though he didn't know if it would matter. the routine clicked into place, piece by piece, as if the music had finally found its way into his bones.

he kept going, pushing through the exhaustion, through the doubt, through the unspoken fear that it wouldn't be enough. maybe it wouldn't be. maybe nothing ever would be. but in this moment, in this dance, he could almost believe that it could be. almost.

he didn't know how long he'd been practicing when he finally collapsed on the floor, his back against the cool tile, breath coming in shallow gasps. the world was quiet now, and for the first time all night, he allowed himself to close his eyes. maybe he would be ready when the time came. maybe he would stand a chance.

but he couldn't stop now. not yet.

jaeseok lay there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his chest still heaving with each shallow breath. the studio was silent now, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner, its cold air barely touching his skin.

the weight of his exhaustion settled deeper into his body, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he'd just drift off to sleep right there on the floor. but the thought was fleeting, quickly replaced by the realization that he couldn't afford to rest-not yet. not until he'd given everything he had.

he pushed himself up with a groan, muscles protesting, every inch of his body screaming in protest. the mirrors reflected his movements, a ghost of someone who looked like he was on the verge of breaking. maybe he was. maybe it wasn't just his body that was exhausted, but his mind, too. but quitting now wasn't an option. he couldn't even allow himself to entertain the idea. after all these years, after all the hours he'd spent, he couldn't back down. not when it felt like he was so close, not when he hadn't even seen the finish line yet.

the clock on the wall ticked steadily, a reminder that time was running out. in a few days, he'd be thrust into the spotlight of the survival show-his last shot. and yet, as the hours stretched before him, all he could feel was the weight of what he hadn't yet achieved, the mountain of expectations that still loomed tall and unforgiving.

ten years had brought him here, to this moment of doubt, this breaking point. but ten years also meant something else: resilience. stubbornness. a refusal to let go of the dream, no matter how close he was to losing it all.

he turned back to the center of the room, wiping a hand across his face, and replayed the routine in his mind. just one more time.

he wasn't ready to face the possibility of failure, not yet, but he knew this was his reality: that at some point, his body and mind would give in, and he'd have to confront the truth-whether he made it or not, whether the show worked out or not, whether his dream came true or crumbled in his hands. it didn't matter. what mattered was the fight itself, the refusal to let go, even when it seemed like the universe was telling him to stop.

and so he kept going.

the music resumed, louder this time, driving him forward, pushing him through the haze of doubt. he moved again, though slower than before, each step carrying a sense of urgency, a desperation that felt almost alien to him. his limbs were stiff, his steps less sure, but he kept going. just one more time. it was all he had left to give. if it wasn't enough, then fine. but at least he could say he'd given everything.

as the routine played out, he lost himself in the movements. everything around him-time, space, the ache in his muscles-faded away. all that was left was the dance, the beat, and the quiet voice inside him that whispered, keep going. he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to push this hard, how many more nights like this he could endure, but he couldn't stop now. not yet.

eventually, the music came to an end, and the silence that followed was deafening. jaeseok stood there in the stillness, sweat dripping from his forehead, breathing heavily, but for the first time that night, he didn't feel as if he was on the edge of collapsing. he felt something else-something like a flicker of hope, a brief, fragile thought that maybe, just maybe, he was still in the game. maybe he wasn't done just yet.

he looked into the mirror again, his reflection staring back at him with a look he didn't recognize-a look that was both defeated and determined. maybe he didn't have all the answers. maybe he wouldn't win the show. but the one thing he could do, the one thing he had control over, was to keep pushing, to keep fighting, until he could give no more.

and for now, that was enough.

MALE!OC X PROJECT 7
started: january 12, 2025 | finished: not available
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