"Charyeot!"
"Kyungnae!"
"Begin!"
Aisha stepped forward into the bright, sun-warmed courtyard of the Taekwondo center, her dobok crisp and her black hair tied tightly back. The sound of the instructor's voice rang out over the wide open space like a bell. Her eyes were calm, body light. The usual nerves? Completely missing.
Her opponent charged forward, and she moved like water — smooth, fluid, and unbothered. A perfect parry. A spinning kick that stopped just short of the target's jaw. Applause scattered from the observing students and masters seated cross-legged on the mat's edge.
But in her head?
Total chaos.
I need to repack. Should I take the midi keyboard or just rent a studio in Seoul? Also, why does my brain keep replaying that moment in June when I passed my thesis presentation wearing pajama pants under my kurta?
Another block. Another swift takedown. Her opponent groaned lightly as he hit the mat. The examiner raised a brow, scribbled a note.
She bowed and returned to the waiting area, sweat glistening at her brow. She still had two more sparring rounds and a board-breaking sequence. Yet, the butterflies in her stomach weren't from the test — they were from the countdown.
Two days.
Two more days until she was no longer Aisha Singh from Lucknow — music nerd, youngest black belt at her dojang, chai connoisseur. She'd be in Seoul. Competing against the best. The craziest of the crazy.
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. She hadn't even had time to process the fact that she'd graduated at eighteen with a full degree in music production, while juggling vocals, Taekwondo, internships, and K-pop trivia binge-watching at 3 AM.
The master called her name again.
She stepped up to the board. Four inches thick. Two breaks — one with a palm strike, the other with a spinning hook kick.
The crack echoed.
Done. No hesitation.
"Final mark: Passed. With distinction," the master announced.
Cheers erupted. Her juniors swarmed her, hugging her, bouncing in excitement. She took it all in stride, gracious and soft-spoken — until someone handed her a mango lassi. Then she absolutely squealed in delight.
"Aisha-ya!" a voice called out.
She turned, and her mood dipped just a degree.
Oh no. Not this again.
Rohan — tall, lean, second-degree black belt, and certified Instagram flirt — jogged over, grinning sheepishly. He handed her a folded paper crane.
"It's… symbolic," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're flying away soon and all. But um… before you go. I thought maybe, when you come back... we could… try something? You and me?"
Aisha blinked. She looked at him, at the paper crane, then at the dozen curious faces peeking from behind the training posts.
Then she smiled — warm, kind, but resolute.
"You're sweet, Rohan. Really. But honestly…" she laughed, rubbing her temple. "You're not my type. At all."
He paused. "Not your type how?"
"I like emotionally intelligent golden retrievers. You're... a peacock," she teased.
The group burst into laughter. Rohan mock-clutched his heart, dramatically falling onto a bench. "Rejected with flair. I respect it."
Later that night, as Aisha lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan, she hummed the melody of the beat she'd been building for her audition. The soft bassline. The layered synths. Her voice — low, rich, tinged with old Bollywood riffs and indie grunge textures.
Her phone lit up. A message from the Forge group chat.
[Phase 2 schedule dropped. Time to burn.]
— Zel
She smiled to herself.
Two days.
---
The bustle of Indira Gandhi International Airport hummed in the background as Aisha Singh stood outside the check-in counter, her large black suitcase at her side and her purple backpack snugly hanging off one shoulder. Her wavy hair was tied up in a high bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face. She wore a loose black hoodie emblazoned with "SUNSET RIDER" in cracked gold foil, and a short white skirt underneath it .
Next to her, her father, Raghav Singh, held her passport like it was made of glass, while her mother, Maya, fussed with her hoodie string like it was a matter of national security.
"You haven't forgotten anything, right?" Maya asked for the fourth time, eyebrows knitted together as she inspected Aisha's neck for a vanished necklace.
Aisha grinned, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Nope. Double-checked everything. Clothes, laptop, audio interface, mic, headphones, hard drive, USB, snacks, chargers—oh, and the backup chargers. And the emergency backup of the backup charger."
Maya gave her a look. "I meant your vitamins."
Aisha laughed. "You mean the horse pills? They're in the front pocket of my backpack. Happy?"
Raghav snorted, finally handing over the passport with a pat on her head. "Don't forget to sleep on the flight. None of your K-drama bingeing till 3 a.m."
"No promises," Aisha grinned, slipping the passport into the front of her hoodie. "I downloaded the new episodes of Moonlight Sonata. Do you know how hard it was to avoid spoilers for a week?"
Both her parents gave her matching unimpressed stares.
Raghav crossed his arms. "Well, you'll be singing under moonlight soon enough. Phase Two. Can you believe it?"
Aisha's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Forge. Phase One auditions had been chaotic: a blur of nerves, adrenaline, and strategic fangirling. She hadn't expected to get in—not really. But now, she was one of the fifty candidates flying to South Korea for the next round. The stakes were real now.
"Not really," she admitted, her voice suddenly quiet. "It still feels… surreal."
Her mother reached out and tugged her into a hug, pulling her close and rubbing her back in soothing circles like she used to when Aisha was little and scared of thunderstorms. "You earned it, beta. All those years of vocal training and late-night editing, composing in your pajamas while the world slept… You deserve this."
"Yeah," Aisha murmured into her mom's shoulder. "Still doesn't stop me from freaking out a little."
"Well," Raghav said, patting her gently on the back, "just remember one thing. You can freak out as long as you don't freeze."
Aisha pulled away and gave him a mock salute. "Copy that, General Dad."
He smirked. "Also remember: if any boy so much as breathes near you—"
"I'll kick him in the face using Taekwondo precision. Yes, yes, we've been over this."
Maya chuckled. "She's got a black belt now. Be afraid, Seoul boys."
Aisha rolled her eyes. "You're acting like I'm going to war."
"Well, we are Indian parents," Raghav said dramatically. "This is as close as it gets."
The laughter faded a little as the PA system echoed through the terminal, calling for passengers on Aisha's flight to proceed to the immigration counters.
She swallowed. "That's me."
Maya's eyes welled up almost immediately. "Okay, okay. We said we weren't going to cry—"
"You said that," Raghav muttered.
"I'm not crying," Aisha insisted, blinking rapidly.
All three of them were, a little.
Her mom touched her cheek. "When you get there, message immediately. And send us voice notes. I want to hear your voice, not just see double-taps on WhatsApp."
Raghav handed her a small paper bag. "Snacks. Homemade. Don't eat airline food unless it looks safe."
Aisha took the bag with a grin, then surprised both of them by pulling them into a sudden, fierce group hug. She squeezed hard.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For letting me chase this. For not laughing at my dream."
"You made it easy to believe in you," her dad said. "Even when you were ten and told us you'd win a Grammy before twenty."
She chuckled. "Still possible."
"Of course it is," Maya said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Go show them what India sounds like."
Aisha stepped back, her grip tightening on her suitcase handle. She looked at both of them, locking the moment into her memory: her dad in his beige linen shirt, looking like he wanted to hold on a little longer; her mom with teary eyes and a brave smile; the buzz of people swarming around, oblivious to the fact that her whole world was shifting.
Then she turned and headed toward the immigration line.
And just before disappearing around the corner, she looked back, waving her passport in the air and yelling with a grin:
"Next time you see me, I'll be a star!"
"Only if you eat your vitamins!" Maya called back.
Raghav just gave a two-fingered salute and mouthed, We love you.
Aisha's smile trembled but didn't break.
She turned again, heart full and feet light, as the automatic doors whooshed open and swallowed her whole.
Seoul awaited.
---
The airplane wheels kissed the tarmac with a gentle thud. Aisha exhaled slowly, brushing her wavy hair behind her ears as the flight attendants made their final announcements in Korean and English. Her heart beat a little faster with each word.
She was here.
Seoul.
After years of dreams and months of grueling preparation, auditions, and inner battles, she had landed on the soil of the country that had raised her love for music and dance. With her black carry-on slung over her shoulder, passport in hand, and determination in her bones, she stepped out of the plane and into the sweltering heat of late July South Korea.
The airport was a flurry of motion — families reuniting, tourists marveling, and professionals in crisp suits weaving through the crowd. Incheon International Airport was nothing short of spectacular. Clean, efficient, and buzzing with the hum of a city that never quite slowed down.
A black car with the Forge logo waited for her near the arrivals section. A soft-spoken woman in a blazer handed her a welcome packet with a small bow and a cheerful, "Welcome to Korea, Aisha-ssi."
She bowed back instinctively, "Kamsahamnida."
The drive into Seoul was mesmerizing. She pressed her face gently against the window, watching the lush mountains blur past, interrupted by modern buildings, quaint homes, and sudden explosions of cityscape. The Han River glimmered as the sun started to climb into a perfect blue sky. Her hotel, a modern, understated place nestled in the vibrant heart of Hongdae, was just a few blocks away from the buzzing youth energy of Seoul's arts and culture hub.
The room wasn't luxurious, but it was neat and practical, with a small desk, a wide window, and a soft white bed that immediately called to her sore limbs. But there was no time to rest. Not yet.
She had two whole days in Korea before the next phase of the FORGE competition began. And Aisha wasn't about to waste a single moment.
---
The next morning, Aisha laced up her sneakers, tucked her wallet, phone, and a slim tourist map into a canvas sling bag, and headed out.
The moment she stepped onto the street, she felt a charge in the air. Seoul was alive. Not just bustling — alive.
Her first stop was Gyeongbokgung Palace, and she arrived just in time to see the royal guard changing ceremony. The vivid colors of the hanboks, the traditional drums, the echo of history wrapped in modern admiration — it all thrilled her. She took countless pictures, giddy as a child, the enormity of the palace filling her with awe.
A little girl tugged her mother's sleeve and whispered in Korean, "She's really tall."
Aisha just grinned and gave the girl a playful wink, her 5'9.5" frame towering above most of the crowd.
Next was Bukchon Hanok Village. As she strolled through the narrow alleys lined with preserved hanok houses, her hand brushed against wooden doors and ancient stone. She loved how Seoul existed in layers — tradition coiled beside innovation, reverence dancing with rebellion.
When lunch came around, she found a cozy vegetarian café tucked into a quiet street near Insadong. The scent of sesame oil and gochujang tickled her nose. She ordered a hot stone bibimbap — rice topped with a rainbow of vegetables and a perfectly fried egg, which she mixed with gusto. On the side, there was kimchi (vegan, as she clarified), japchae noodles, and tteokbokki made with fish cake substitutes.
Each bite was explosive — tangy, spicy, sweet — the flavors of Korea wrapped into edible poetry.
---
By the time the sun began to dip behind the skyscrapers, casting warm hues over the streets of Myeongdong, Aisha had shopped for skincare essentials, taken selfies with claw machines, and tried an array of street food: hotteok filled with cinnamon and honey, sweet potato sticks dipped in cheese, and tanghulu — candied grapes on skewers.
But the real magic happened unexpectedly.
As she walked through a spacious plaza near Hongdae, the thump of bass and cheers caught her attention. A crowd had formed in front of a portable speaker, with a handwritten sign that read: "K-pop Random Play Dance — JOIN IF YOU DARE!"
Aisha froze. Then slowly, a grin spread across her face.
She walked closer, taking a spot at the edge of the crowd. A group of college students and tourists stood in the middle, panting, laughing, waiting for the next beat. A man in a bucket hat and a mic announced the rules: "If you know the choreography, come up! No fear!"
The first song began — BTS's "Mic Drop."
Three people stepped in.
The next — BLACKPINK's "Kill This Love."
More joined. Aisha felt her heartbeat quicken. The rhythm itched under her skin.
And then it happened.
Exo "Growl"
Her legs moved before she could think. She dropped her bag on the side, strode forward, and hit the first beat perfectly. Sharp, fluid, exact.
The crowd noticed. Whispers spread. Phones tilted up to record. Her long limbs sliced through the air with every pop and lock. When the song changed to "Hellavator" by Stray Kids, she didn't stop. Every routine was muscle memory. From TWICE to EXO to NCT — she slayed.
By the end, the announcer was laughing breathlessly into his mic.
"Who is this girl?! Someone sign her now!"
Aisha bowed with flushed cheeks and a wild grin. It was just fun — but in that moment, she remembered why she was here. This — the performance, the music, the adrenaline of the spotlight — this was her life.
The next day was more relaxed. She visited the COEX Mall, stared up at the massive Starfield Library, took a hundred more pictures. In the afternoon, she walked along the Cheonggyecheon Stream, letting the cool air brush her skin as water trickled beside her. She found a tiny tteok café and tried Injeolmi rice cake with soybean powder and sweet syrup, sighing in delight.
As the golden hour approached, she returned to her hotel, grabbed some takeout — spicy tofu stew and kimbap with no meat — and climbed to the rooftop with her headphones.
Seoul twinkled below like a city dipped in starlight.
She thought of her parents, of their emotional farewell at the airport. Her mother's lingering hug. Her father's quiet, teary nod of pride. She thought of her Taekwondo test, her undergraduate degree, the kids who cheered for her dance. She thought of all the girls who looked like her who never got this chance.
And she thought of the stage.
The one that waited.
Two more days and Forge would begin again. Aisha Singh was ready.
She didn't know what would come next. But as she leaned against the railing and stared at the Seoul skyline, a smile ghosted her lips.
This city hadn't seen anything yet.
---
The private car glided to a stop outside the Forge-allotted hotel, its engine a low purr, the driver already moving to open the backseat door.
Gabriel stepped out, sleek carry-on in one hand, sunglasses perched on his sharp nose despite the late afternoon light. The Seoul air hit him immediately — humid, heavy, unfamiliar.
He tilted his head back slightly, observing the building with a narrowed gaze. The hotel was modest, the type of place that didn't know luxury by name. A few cracked tiles near the entrance, windows that didn't gleam the way his standards preferred, and a carpet in the lobby that looked like it had served too many summers without replacement.
He didn't frown.
He didn't sigh.
Gabriel just stood there quietly, nodding politely to the driver who murmured a soft "Bon voyage, sir" before pulling away.
Was it below what he was used to? Of course.
His family owned apartments in Paris, condos in New York, and a villa on the Amalfi Coast where the walls smelled of sea salt and freshly pressed linen. He had spent his childhood being waited on in gold-trimmed suites with satin sheets and private elevators.
But Gabriel was not his family's wealth. He never had been. Not in soul.
So, he adjusted the strap of his bag, stepped through the glass doors, and walked into the lobby like it was any five-star resort.
Inside, the scent of pine-scented disinfectant lingered faintly under the buzz of an old ceiling fan. A small, polite lady behind the counter greeted him in practiced English and handed over a slim keycard folder.
"Room 309," she said, smiling. "Welcome to Seoul."
He gave her a nod. "Merci."
The elevator groaned slightly on the way up. The hallway had mustard-colored walls and tired-looking art prints of Seoul landmarks. His room was... manageable. Clean, yes, but the furniture was clearly secondhand. The bed dipped slightly in the middle.
Still, he placed his suitcase down gently, opened the blinds to let in the Seoul skyline, and took a deep breath.
This was part of the experience, wasn't it?
Forge wasn't some luxury parade. It was about competition, about talent, about proving yourself far away from your comfort zone. And Gabriel had left his comfort zone three continents behind the moment he stepped on that plane in France.
He sat on the bed, loosened his black hoodie, and let the silence settle. For a while, he just listened to the city below — cars, faint music, someone laughing on the street, a dog barking.
He was restless.
A long-haul flight followed by check-in was never enough to dull the buzz in his nerves. He wasn't used to sitting still, not unless he had a guitar in hand or a stage waiting.
He stood, combed his fingers through his wavy dark hair, and decided to explore the hotel. Maybe stretch his legs.
The hallway was mostly empty — he assumed most of the Forge contestants were out exploring the city. The elevator took him to the lobby again, where the vending machine blinked with candy bars he didn't recognize and the smell of instant coffee hung near a small kitchenette.
He was just about to return to the elevator when he saw her.
It wasn't anything dramatic.
No slow motion. No music swelling in his mind.
Just... light.
She had just walked through the entrance, a canvas bag on one shoulder, her hair tousled from the wind outside. She was laughing at something someone said behind her, her head slightly thrown back, her smile a burst of warm color in the otherwise dull-toned lobby.
And then she turned, brushing strands of her wavy hair behind her ear.
Gabriel stopped walking.
Because he'd seen beautiful women. In Milan, in Cannes, on the arm of socialites and among the glowing elite of modeling and talent agencies that floated around his family like distant stars.
But none of them looked like her.
She was beautiful in a way that felt real. In a way that didn't need makeup or lighting or camera filters. She had a presence, as though she wasn't just walking — she was moving through the world with intent, purpose, and joy. Her eyes — dark, luminous, alive — sparkled even under the flickering fluorescent ceiling lights.
She didn't notice him. Not then.
Gabriel, to his credit, did not stare.
He turned away quietly, walking slowly toward the vending machine, pretending to inspect the snack options with mild interest. But inside, something quiet and certain clicked into place.
He hadn't expected to feel anything like that. Not here. Not now.
But there it was — the soft tug of curiosity, the beginning of an intrigue he couldn't ignore.
He slipped a coin into the machine, got a packet of salted seaweed (he wasn't even hungry), and turned around just in time to see her disappear into the elevator with two other girls he assumed were fellow contestants.
Only then did he let out a breath and lean slightly against the wall.
She looked like someone who knew her way around attention. But she didn't court it. She didn't seem aware of the way she stole every glance in the room.
There was no name yet. Just a face.
But Gabriel had a feeling he'd be learning it very, very soon.
He opened the seaweed pack absently, chewing as he walked back to his room.
Something about Seoul had just gotten infinitely more interesting.
---
The muted hum of the air conditioning unit was the first thing Aisha Singh noticed as she entered her hotel room. She let out a long breath, dropping her travel tote by the door and rolling her suitcase beside the modest twin bed by the window. It wasn't luxurious, but it was clean, new, and surprisingly cozy.
She sank onto the mattress and looked around—cream-colored walls, a wooden desk, two neatly made twin beds, a simple wardrobe, and a small TV mounted on the wall. The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, showing clean tiles and basic amenities. Definitely not five-star, but far from shabby.
"For a middle-class girl, this is honestly pretty good," she muttered to herself, stretching her limbs as she flopped onto the bed. "Some might call it a dump, but I call it the budget of legends."
Forge had done its job. 200 contestants from different countries, housed and fed, all expenses covered, without even knowing if they'd make it past the next round. That required some serious funding. Aisha knew enough about the entertainment industry to recognize the scale and budget behind such a gesture.
It was almost surreal—just two days ago, she had landed in Seoul, starry-eyed and bursting with anticipation. And for those two days, she had been exploring nonstop. Gyeongbokgung Palace, Han River, Hongdae streets, Insadong's artsy alleys, and even the food markets—she'd taken them all in, savoring every bit of her first experience in South Korea.
Of course, she had to skip the pork and beef dishes, a dietary restriction that made her meal-hopping a little more complex. But even then, she'd devoured spicy rice cakes, sweet-hot Korean fried chicken, kimchi pancakes, vegetable bibimbap, and every soy-marinated tofu dish she could find. One of the street vendors had complimented her Korean, and she had practically floated the rest of the day.
She smiled at the memory, eyes wandering to the window where sunlight filtered through sheer curtains.
And then… there had been the random play dance challenge in Hongdae.
She chuckled. She hadn't planned on joining. But the moment the familiar beat of TWICE's "Feel Special" dropped, her body had taken over. Every choreography—every beat, spin, and drop—was burned into her muscle memory. She had danced through BTS, BLACKPINK, SEVENTEEN, and even a surprise round of BigBang. The crowd had roared. And when the challenge ended, they had cheered her name.
That felt good.
But now, that part was done. The sightseeing, the euphoria, the tourist thrill—it was time to refocus. Tomorrow, Phase Two would begin.
She turned her head as the door clicked open. Loud giggles and shuffling luggage echoed in, breaking the calm.
Two girls stepped in—her new roommates.
The taller of the two had jet-black hair tied in a sleek ponytail, a pale blue suitcase in tow. Her face was angled and elegant, like it belonged in a classical painting. The other girl was shorter, with a soft bob of reddish-brown hair and thick glasses. She looked bright, curious, and slightly overwhelmed.
"Oh! You must be Aisha, right?" the girl with the ponytail said with a wide smile. "I'm Lianhua. Everyone just calls me Hua. From Shanghai."
"Nice to meet you," Aisha stood and smiled, offering a handshake. "Aisha Singh. India."
"I love your name," said the second girl, stepping forward shyly. "I'm Eunji. I'm from Jeju. I saw you at the play dance thing in Hongdae… you were insane."
Aisha laughed. "Guilty. You were there?"
"I was just in the crowd," Eunji admitted with a sheepish grin. "You nailed BTS's 'Fire'."
Hua snorted. "No way. 'Fire'? How did I miss that?"
The room bubbled with soft laughter, the kind that made everything feel a little less scary.
Hua claimed the bed by the closet, while Eunji took the one by the bathroom, leaving Aisha her original spot by the window. Bags rustled. Shoes came off. Hair was untied and tied again.
"So… nervous for tomorrow?" Hua asked as she unpacked her essentials.
"Not really nervous," Aisha replied honestly, curling her legs under her. "I think I'm more excited. I've trained for this for so long. I just want to see how everyone else performs."
"I heard there are some serious trainees in this group," Eunji murmured. "People with years of training under big labels. We're gonna have to bring it."
"I already met a few of them," Hua added. "There's this guy from France—super elegant. Like, he walks like he's dancing. Riel, I think?"
Aisha blinked, a brief image of a tall boy with soft brown eyes and an oddly intense stare popping into her mind. She'd seen him earlier in the lounge when she returned from her final day of exploring Seoul. He looked like the kind of guy who belonged on magazine covers.
"Yeah. I think I saw him too," Aisha said.
They all fell quiet for a moment, letting the realization sink in. They were here. Tomorrow, everything would begin.
"I made some extra ramen if anyone wants," Eunji said suddenly, pulling out a small bowl from her food bag.
"I'll never say no to ramen," Hua grinned.
"Only if it's not beef broth," Aisha smiled.
"Vegetarian. I double-checked," Eunji assured.
The three girls crowded around the bowl, passing it between themselves, chatting about their flights, awkward customs experiences, and the excitement that buzzed under their skin.
It was their last night as just hopefuls. Tomorrow, they would step into something bigger.
And Aisha was more ready than ever.
---
The blazing Seoul sun filtered through the early morning haze, casting a soft amber glow over the quiet city streets. It was the morning of the Phase 2 auditions of the FORGE competition—an event that held the dreams of 50 contestants in its hands. Despite the nerves bubbling in the air, Aisha Singh stood outside the hotel, calm and still, taking in the moment.
Her tall frame, dressed casually in dark joggers and a cropped zip-up hoodie, contrasted with the serene morning. Her wavy hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, allowing the summer breeze to tease the strands at her nape. Though she had arrived in Seoul two days ago and had spent every moment soaking in the culture, the food, and the color of the city, today was different. Today was the reason she had flown across continents.
As she breathed in, steeling herself for the day ahead, her body stilled. There, just across the hotel's entrance, stood a boy. Or rather, a young man. His posture was casual but assured, and his presence almost magnetic. Tall, with dark curls tousled over his forehead and bright, intelligent eyes that flickered with mischief and depth, he exuded a presence she hadn't expected this early in the morning.
Their eyes locked.
And in that split second, something unexplainable passed between them. Recognition? Kinship? A shared note only musicians could hear?
He blinked. And then, with a slow smile curling the corner of his lips, he tilted his head and asked, "Do you make music?"
The question hit Aisha harder than it should have.
Her stance shifted slightly, her legs jutting out as if she might bolt. It was the same phrase. The same exact words she had heard in a viral Twitter video of this very man. Elio Park. She hadn't known his name at the time, only the music he played in the background and the energy he exuded—raw, curious, and completely sure of his passion.
"Do you make music?" he had asked off-camera, then too.
And now he stood in front of her, asking the same thing, but this time to her.
She opened her mouth to answer but found herself caught, just looking at him. Elio scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed.
"Sorry," he said, chuckling awkwardly. "I… I used that line recently. Didn't mean to sound like a broken record."
Aisha finally found her voice, her brows quirking up slightly. "I do," she said. "Do you?"
"Every breath," Elio replied simply, like it was a fact.
They both smiled. The kind of smile that felt like the start of something. Something that may or may not bloom, but was precious all the same.
But before the moment could stretch longer, something—or someone—broke the calm.
Gabriel , walking toward them with all the nonchalance of a catwalk model in Paris, failed to see Aisha's slightly angled foot.
He tripped.
Hard.
"Merde!" Gabriel cursed as his body tipped forward. And before he could steady himself, he collided into a petite girl walking past.
The girl let out a loud yelp, her short brown hair flying into her face as she lost balance.
"Oh my god!" she shrieked.
Gabriel, ever the gentleman despite the chaos, immediately tried to catch her. "I'm so sorry!"
But in the process of falling, the girl—Han Eun-seo, a local Korean contestant barely five feet tall—flung her arms wildly to balance herself. One of her flailing hands smacked directly into the phone-wielding hand of Landon Crowe.
The phone sailed dramatically through the air.
"NO!" Landon shouted.
Time slowed. Everyone's eyes followed the phone as it spun like a frisbee in slow motion, before landing screen-first on the pavement.
There was a collective gasp.
Landon rushed to it, heart pounding. He picked it up, turned it around—not a single crack.
Relieved, he exhaled. Then his gaze darkened.
"Are you fucking serious?" he muttered, glaring.
Gabriel was still trying to help Eun-seo up, looking both guilty and disoriented.
"Sorry, that was my bad," Aisha said quickly, stepping in. "Brunette there tripped over me."
Landon gave her a flat look, then flicked his gaze to Gabriel. "Dude, watch where you're walking."
Gabriel raised his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean to. I swear."
Eun-seo, brushing dust off her skirt, gave a half-laugh, half-wince. "Can someone explain why people are already falling over themselves before the audition even starts?"
Aisha couldn't help but laugh. And then Elio joined. And then Gabriel. Even Landon, after a pause, snorted.
There they were—five teenagers from different corners of the world, drawn into a single chaotic cluster by a single misstep.
And somehow, it felt right.
Maybe this was how groups formed. Not from forced introductions, but from spontaneous human clumsiness and shared awkward laughter.
Aisha looked at each of them. Elio, with his eyes full of music. Gabriel, who looked like he belonged in a luxury magazine. Landon, fierce and fire-eyed. And Eun-seo, still mumbling about how tall people were a hazard.
Today was the day auditions began. The stakes were high. The pressure was on. But for a brief second, they were just teenagers standing outside a hotel in Seoul, laughing like they didn't carry the weight of their dreams.
And that, perhaps, was magic in itself.
---
The hotel lobby buzzed with quiet chatter, the kind born from adrenaline wearing off and awkward curiosity setting in. The gleaming white floors and dark mahogany accents added a sleek polish to the space, the hum of soft jazz from the speakers filling in the silences between stolen glances.
Aisha brushed her hair back and stepped further into the lobby, her long frame casting a shadow across the marble. Her heart was still beating faster than it should have been—not from nerves about the auditions, but from the chaos outside. She had no idea how one weird moment could turn into a chain reaction of people falling like dominos. It felt almost scripted.
Beside her, the boy with the sharp jawline and golden brown eyes—the one whose phone had nearly been sacrificed to the sidewalk—was scowling at his now smudged phone screen. Landon Crowe, or Zel, she remembered from the Forge contestant profiles. A dance genius. American. Blonde hair slightly mussed from the wind, tall and toned. Aisha had clocked him the second he'd stepped into the street—he had the kind of presence that announced itself.
"Still in one piece?" Gabriel Leclerc asked smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his oversized cream hoodie as he strolled over. He shot a look at Eun-seo, who was brushing invisible dust off her skirt, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That was... something."
Aisha looked up at him—Gabriel was taller, elegant, that effortless Parisian charm floating around him like perfume. She raised an eyebrow.
"You tripped on my leg," she said, dryly amused.
Gabriel's grin widened. "Then I owe you a very sincere thank you for the drama."
The fifth person finally stepped through the revolving door. Elio Park. Quiet, stylish, the very image of brooding brilliance. Aisha's eyes caught his as he walked in, and again, that strange feeling passed between them. The same one from outside. Like she'd been heard before she spoke.
Eun-seo bowed quickly, then puffed her cheeks and let out a breath. "Well! Since we've all... met—sort of—I vote we get the introductions over with before someone else falls over."
They all chuckled. The tension snapped cleanly.
"I'm Han Eun-seo," she said brightly. "From Seoul. Vocalist, dancer. I trained under Pledis for a bit but... well, here I am." Her brown eyes sparkled, and her long chestnut hair shimmered under the lobby's lights as she tucked it behind her ear. "And I don't usually flail when I fall, I promise."
"Gabriel Lecleir," the French boy offered, with a bow more dramatic than necessary. "Vocalist, dancer, model, chronic overachiever. Born in Lyon, trained in both Europe and Seoul."
"I've seen your modeling work," Aisha said casually. "You looked shorter in pictures."
Gabriel looked personally attacked. "This is the worst day of my life."
Landon snorted. "I'm Landon Crowe. But most people know me as Zel. From New Orleans. I'm a dancer, mostly, but I've been working on my vocals too." He looked around. "Sorry if I was rude outside. Didn't mean to snap."
"You didn't," Aisha assured. "You just looked like you were going to launch your phone into orbit."
"I thought about it."
Then everyone's eyes turned to Aisha. She suddenly felt like she was standing under a spotlight.
"I'm Aisha," she said, straightening up. "From India. Music producer, vocalist, and black belt in Taekwondo, so everyone be nice."
Eun-seo's eyes widened. "No way. That's so cool!"
Elio, who had leaned against the concierge desk, finally stepped forward. "Elio Park," he said simply. "Venice-born. Producer and songwriter. I... like music."
Everyone nodded politely.
Gabriel tilted his head. "You asked Aisha if she made music earlier. Was that just your line for anyone who looks cool?"
Elio's ears pinked slightly. "It was... spontaneous. Something about her gave me déjà vu."
Aisha tried not to fidget. "That's because I've seen you ask the same thing in a video. To someone off-camera."
"Oh." Elio looked momentarily stunned. "That's... oddly poetic."
"You're oddly poetic," Landon muttered.
"Thanks?"
Eun-seo clapped her hands together. "Okay, weird poetic tension aside—should we all eat something before we starve? The dining area's this way, and I think we're allowed to order whatever we want."
"On Onyx's dime?" Gabriel perked up. "Yes, please."
As the group walked off toward the in-house restaurant, Aisha glanced around the group. They were all so different—backgrounds, energies, even the way they held themselves. But for some reason, they fit. At least for now.
Forge was starting. For real this time. And Aisha knew—it wasn't going to be a solo journey anymore.