WELCOME, TRAINEES.

My stomach drops.

Six months. Six months of this place, and now we're finally at the halfway mark. The one thing that's kept me going, kept all of us going, is this: the chance to meet a group, a real group, someone who's made it out of the other side.

The bus doors hiss open. Cool air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of pine and something else—something metallic. Iron, maybe. Or sweat.

ATEEZ.

I don't know why. Maybe it's their music, the way they scream like they're fighting for their lives on stage. Maybe it's the rumor that they train harder than anyone, that they've been through their own hell to get where they are.

Maybe I just need to believe someone made it out alive.

The camp stretches ahead of us, row after row of identical concrete buildings. The uniform I'm wearing—mesh shirt over a sports bra, shorts that barely cover anything—suddenly feels tighter. A cold wind cuts through the fabric, and I see other trainees crossing their arms, hunching their shoulders, trying to disappear.

I catch my reflection in the bus window. Hollow eyes. Chapped lips. A girl I barely recognize looking back at me.

Six months. Just six more. And then—maybe—I'll be free.