The trainees mirrored her steps, some more in sync than others. The basic framework of the routine was simple: a few sharp body pops, a smooth slide across the floor, and then a burst of energy during the chorus where the choreography became more intricate — spins, jumps, and a challenging sequence of quick footwork.
Kalista paced in front of the group, eyeing their form. "Don't rush it. The trick to making this look effortless is in mastering the flow. Sharp, then smooth. Contrast. That's what makes it pop."
Cain, like the others, worked hard to catch the subtle nuances in Kalista's movements. He realized that while the moves weren't impossible, executing them with her level of finesse was another story.
The balance between fluidity and power was key, and Kalista embodied that perfectly.
However, thanks to his [Sharp Mind], Cain's eyes tracked every subtle movement Kalista made. Each step, each turn, locked into place in his mind like a puzzle coming together.
Within a few tries, the choreography felt almost second nature to him, as if his body was made to follow her lead effortlessly.
As the session progressed, Kalista stopped occasionally to correct someone's posture or foot placement. Her feedback was swift, but effective, a simple "fix your angle" or "hit the beat sharper" was all she needed to get the trainees back on track.
By the end of the practice, most had the basics down, but it was clear they would need to push themselves if they wanted to make their performance shine.
Kalista moved through the room like a storm, her eyes sharp and observant, missing nothing as she dissected every movement from the trainees. As she went, she gave each one her own brand of brutally honest feedback.
"Too stiff. Loosen up or you'll never keep up with the rhythm," she told one trainee, her voice firm but not cruel.
When she reached the women in the group, Kalista paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied their movements. "You're hitting the steps, but you're forgetting one important element — your hair," she said, surprising everyone.
"Hair?" one of the girls blinked in confusion.
Then it was Cain's turn. Kalista stopped in front of him, her eyes lingering for a moment longer than usual. She was not going to touch him, right?
Cain stood tall, his posture straight, waiting for whatever she had to say. He knew he had nailed the choreography — his [Sharp Mind] had made sure of that — but Kalista was never one to leave things unsaid.
"You've got the moves down," she said, her voice even. "Your body follows the rhythm naturally, and your technique is solid. Probably the best in the room."
The last comment was unnecessary but it was necessary for the drama that Kalista deliberately created.
And like Cain had anticipated, whispers spread like wildfire among the trainees, tension thick in the air. Out of everyone, Damien seemed the most on edge, his frustration barely contained. His jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
It ate at him — being overshadowed in both singing and dancing, even in the intermediate group. He wasn't used to blending into the background.
Damien hailed from Blaze Entertainment, a powerhouse in the industry known for producing stars. He had been trained by the best — polished, refined, molded into what should have been the next idol sensation. So why was it that two independent trainees, nobodies without the backing of a giant company, were overshadowing him?
It didn't make sense. His frustration simmered beneath the surface. He had the resources, the training, and the reputation. Yet, here he was, watching C.C. and Riku — two wild cards — steal the spotlight he thought was his.
Jealousy gnawed at him, bitter and relentless, as he watched others rise while he remained stuck in the shadows, unable to stand out.
Cain felt a flicker of pride, but it was short-lived as Kalista continued.
"But," she said sharply, locking eyes with him. "Your facial expressions. They're flat. You're dancing like you're solving a math problem, not performing. Being an idol isn't just about nailing the steps — it's about making the audience feel something. You need to connect emotionally.
If your face doesn't match the energy of the performance, no one will care how well you dance."