"My gramps is in the hospital right now," Riku's voice faltered, cracking slightly. "He's got dementia, and other complications. The doctors . . . they don't think he has much time left."
He forced a smile, though it barely reached his eyes. "That's why I quit school and joined this competition. Before he passes, I want him to see me on stage — living out the dream he never could. If I can just make it, even for a moment, his dream of me becoming an idol will be real before he's gone."
". . ." Cain found himself reflecting on his own life. He had only started training a few months ago, unlike the other trainees who had spent years dedicating themselves to their dreams.
No wonder he wasn't as polished as them. He used to scoff at the whole idol thing, but now he realized what might seem trivial to him was the life's work of others.
How could he belittle it now?
"I grew to love it, you know? Being an idol," Riku continued. "It became my dream too. Gramps always wanted to see me on stage, debuting . . .
and I want to make that happen for him no matter what."
Cain listened in silence, absorbing every word. Riku had a story — a purpose — behind his drive. And here he was, just trying to survive another day in a world he didn't even fully understand yet.
Cain felt a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over him. Rolling to the side, he muttered, "Don't worry, out of all of us here, you've got the best shot at debuting. Trust yourself more."
Riku blinked in surprise before a smile crept onto his face. He could tell that despite C.C.s rough tone, there was genuine concern in his voice.
"Thanks, C.C. Oh man, we were talking about you, and here I am rambling about my boring life," Riku laughed, his energy returning. "My old man always said, 'Freestyling is the way to go.'"
Even as he finally drifted off, his thoughts didn't leave him. In his dreams, he was standing on stage, ready to sing, but no sound came out. His voice, the one he was searching for, was still locked inside, just out of reach.
Tomorrow, he would make sure to practice.
Morning came, and the intermediate group, those with 20-30 points, gathered in Hall A. Today, the air was thick with anticipation as Kalista herself would lead the session, preparing them for the dance portion of "Electric Heartbeat."
Cain, curious about the elusive choreographer, tried to get a better look at her face, but all he saw was Kalista's piercing eyes glaring through her signature mask. She was an enigma, and her sharp, almost intimidating gaze only added to the mystery.
As usual, she wore her black sleeveless top, baggy pants, and matching black hat. Her jet-black hair peeked out from under the cap, and the sharp, sleek bangs framed the edges of her face, giving her an edgy, untouchable vibe.
"Alright, everyone. Line up," Kalista commanded, her voice calm but carrying the weight of someone who didn't waste time on nonsense. "I'm going to show you the dance moves to 'Electric Heartbeat.' Pay close attention."
Her tone was serious, no-nonsense, as if daring anyone to slack off.
Kalista moved to the center of the room, standing tall with an air of authority that demanded attention. Without saying much, she stepped into position as the music began to pulse through the speakers. The beat of "Electric Heartbeat" reverberated across the room, filling every corner with an electric energy.
"Watch closely," she said, her voice steady as she began demonstrating the first sequence. Her body moved fluidly, seamlessly transitioning from one step to the next. The choreography wasn't overly complex, but it wasn't easy either — it required sharpness, precision, and most importantly, rhythm.
Every move synced perfectly with the beat, and Kalista made sure the trainees understood how vital timing was.
"This is about hitting the beat, not just keeping up with it," she explained, her movements spot on as she demonstrated a sharp turn followed by a series of quick, staccato steps. "Every motion counts. Feel the rhythm, but stay in control."