Ji-ho’s fingers lingered against her forearm, heat seeping through her cuff. His gaze felt like a forensic light, dissecting the layers of her borrowed identity. She couldn’t afford to falter. This lie had to hold together, or her missing twin would remain lost, and Min-jun’s own life would splinter. “Trauma,” she breathed, forcing her voice to crack, to thin into a reedy whisper. She clutched her arms, curling inward slightly, adopting the posture of someone wounded. “It’s… it’s a blur. I remember the call, the message for the ‘Starlight Audition,’ and then… nothing clear. Just a disorienting haze. Like waking up in a dream I can’t quite grasp.” She met his eyes, letting a controlled tremor enter her stare, a hint of fear, a flicker of vulnerability she hoped he would mistake for genuine distress. Ji-ho’s hand dropped, his brow furrowing deeper. His earlier intensity softened, replaced by a guarded concern. “A blur?” he repeated, his voice lower now, gentler. “The final selections were… intense, yes, but to this extent?” From the plush sofa, Han Do-yun, the dancer with eyes that always seemed to be laughing even when his face was serious, leaned forward. “Maybe the pressure got to her. It happens. We all push ourselves to the brink here, don’t we, leader?” His tone was light, but Min-jun caught the brief, almost imperceptible flick of his gaze towards Ji-ho, a silent query. He was watching them, assessing. Choi Tae-rin remained unmoving, a dark silhouette against the glass. Kang, the youngest, his face usually bright with open adoration for her sister, leaned over the armrest. “Oh, noona! Are you truly alright? Do you need a doctor? The Prophecy… it said you would shine, not suffer.” His earnest worry was almost harder to face than Ji-ho’s suspicion. “I’ll be fine,” Min-jun said, straightening her shoulders. “Just… a little disoriented. A little… lost. I’m here, aren’t I? That’s what matters.” She even managed a small, tremulous smile, the practiced curve her twin used when trying to seem brave. Ji-ho scrutinized her for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for something. Finally, he sighed, a sound of reluctant acceptance mixed with lingering doubt. “We’ll get you checked by the company doctor tomorrow,” he stated, his voice firm. “For now, try to rest. The debut showcase is in two weeks. We need you at your best.” His eyes, however, still held a question she hadn’t answered, a suspicion he hadn’t fully abandoned. He wasn’t convinced, but he was willing to set it aside for now, for the sake of the group and her supposed recovery. Later that evening, after a hurried dinner Min-jun barely tasted, Ji-ho led her down a pristine, soundproofed corridor in a different wing of The Prism. The walls were lined with abstract art, the floor gleamed. He stopped before a heavy, matte-black door, the kind that promised absolute isolation from the outside world. “This is one of the main recording studios,” he said. “You spent a lot of time here. More than any of us, sometimes.” There was a subtle rasp in his tone, a grudging nod to her twin's endless hours behind the glass. “Tae-rin is waiting. He wants to run the bridge.” Min-jun wiped her damp palms on her trousers and pressed down on the brushed-metal handle. Inside, the studio was a cavern of polished wood, gleaming control panels, and a vocal booth bathed in soft, diffused light. Choi Tae-rin sat at the mixing desk, headphones around his neck, his dark hair falling over his intense eyes. He looked up as she entered, his expression as unreadable as ever. A half-eaten energy bar lay beside a steaming mug. “You’re late,” he acknowledged, his voice a low rumble. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Ji-ho said you’re feeling… foggy.” It wasn’t a question. He picked up a sleek data pad. “Before… your episode, you were working on this. We need to finalize the bridge before the morning’s playback. It’s for ‘Celestia’s Call.’” He tapped the screen, and the room filled with a haunting melody. A synthesized string section swelled, a delicate piano line intertwined, and then… a sequence of notes that made Min-jun freeze. It was her own. A piece she’d written late one night, a melancholic improvisation she’d played on her cheap practice keyboard, a raw expression of longing and isolation. Her sister had once hummed it off-key while raiding the fridge, claiming she loved the melody. Min-jun had dismissed it as a throwaway. To hear it now, scrubbed clean and set inside a multimillion-won arrangement, turned her mouth dry. Her sister had stolen the sketch, and now she was gone. The pressure was immense. Grief warred with the need to maintain her disguise. She felt her chest constrict. Her sister was missing, possibly in danger, and a part of her soul, her music, was being used to further this elaborate deception. The notes called to her, a mournful echo of her own heart. Instinct took over. “The modulation… it needs to shift,” Min-jun heard herself say, her voice surprisingly steady. She leaned forward, pointing to a specific sequence on the screen. “Here. It should resolve to a dominant seventh, but then… pivot. A minor chord, unexpected, just before the chorus. It creates a tension that… that yearns.” She tapped a finger, almost unconsciously humming the revised segment, the melody pouring from her, raw and unbidden. It wasn’t her twin’s measured polish; it was raw instinct. Tae-rin’s chin lifted, his brow twitching. He listened, his head cocked, a faint frown on his lips. Then, slowly, a small, almost imperceptible nod. He typed furiously, adjusting the parameters. The altered sequence played. The change was subtle, yet profound. The previous version had been technically adept. This was gut-wrenching. He pulled his headphones fully over his ears, listening intently, then took them off again, his gaze fixed on Min-jun. A strange intensity burned in his eyes. “This is better,” he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “You always had the technique, the precision before. But tonight…” He paused, searching the desk controls. “You have a soul. A true one. It bleeds into the music.” Min-jun gripped the edge of the mixing board. He heard her—not the polished trainee, but the person behind the notebook sketches. She pulled her gaze toward the monitor, unwilling to give him another clue. Tae-rin reached under the desk, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. It looked well-worn, almost antique. “You left this behind three nights ago,” he explained, handing it to her. The dark binding was warm from his grip. “Your notebook. For lyric drafts and scrap meters. Take it back. Maybe it will shake something loose before tomorrow.” Min-jun’s fingers traced the intricate embossing on the cover. Another scrap of her sister's private trail. Another lock to pick. Min-jun slipped it under her arm: a leader who suspected, a dancer who calculated, a rapper who heard beneath the skin, and an earnest vocalist clinging to an ancient omen. Back in the opulent penthouse room, the city lights twinkled like scattered diamonds outside the panoramic window. The silence was thick, pressing down on her. Under the desk lamp, she pulled back the ribbon marker. The familiar sloping hand had degenerated into jagged strokes that bit into the paper fibers. “The Aethel isn’t a muse; it’s a sacrifice.”

The Echo in the Music