Who really am I?
The rehearsal room was silent at four in the morning.
No managers. No bandmates. No camera crews setting up equipment. Only Elliot, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the soft echo of his sneakers against the polished wooden floor. The mirrors lining the walls reflected him from every angle—a lone figure swallowed by emptiness, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead, breath already uneven from the repetition he'd been forcing on himself for hours.
He had slipped into the building before dawn, using the spare keycard that nobody knew he still had. The city outside was quiet, only the distant buzz of traffic and an occasional passing truck. Everyone else was sleeping—his neighbors, his friends, even the other idols who'd performed with him the night before. But Elliot? Elliot hadn't slept in two days.
He couldn't afford to.
The upcoming collaboration loomed in his mind like a storm cloud. He and Noob had been chosen to perform alongside their senior— that senior. The one so untouchable they were practically myth, their reputation built on flawless performances and an unshakable presence that commanded every stage they stepped on. Performing next to them meant perfection wasn't optional. It was required.
Perfection didn't come naturally to Elliot—not anymore. Not since the fire.
Not since the burns.
His chest rose and fell as he leaned forward, palms braced against his knees, sweat dripping onto the hardwood. The old scar tissue pulled uncomfortably with every movement, tight and unyielding where smooth skin had once been. He could still feel the ghost of heat on his right cheek and neck, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The doctors had called it a miracle he survived at all. A miracle that he could still sing.
But miracles didn't make him whole again.
He straightened, exhaled, and hit play on the track again.
The speakers crackled to life with the opening notes of the choreography's instrumental—a sharp beat, quick tempo, relentless pace. Elliot fell into position without hesitation, feet sliding into muscle memory. His movements were precise, every step honed from years of repetition, but there was no softness to them anymore. No playfulness. Only grit and desperation, like he was carving himself down to bone in search of something he'd lost.
"One, two—" he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse as he pivoted into a spin. The mirror caught him mid-turn—hair clinging to his face, eyes dull, lips cracked. He didn't look like an idol. He looked like someone clinging to the idea of one.
Again.
His limbs trembled with fatigue. His body screamed for rest, but Elliot ignored it. He had ignored it for months, pushing past pain and nausea, silencing every warning sign his body gave him. The burn had left him weaker—his stamina shorter, his lungs tighter—but he refused to let that weakness define him. If he stopped moving, if he stopped singing, if he let himself think too long, he feared the fire would catch him all over again.
Again.
The music reached the bridge. He stumbled slightly—off-beat by half a second—but corrected quickly, forcing his body through the motion. Sweat burned his eyes, blurred his vision. He clenched his jaw and pushed harder.
Again.
By the final chorus, the edges of the room were spinning.
He didn't stop.
Not until the world tilted violently and his knees buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor with a harsh thud.
For a moment, Elliot just lay there, chest heaving, cheek pressed against the cool wood. The silence after the track ended felt deafening. His vision swam in and out of focus; black spots danced in the corners of his sight.
Get up, he thought weakly. You can't— you can't stop now—
But when he blinked, the reflection in the mirror was no longer his own.
The boy in the glass stood upright where Elliot lay sprawled on the floor. Same hair color. Same build. Same scar—except lighter, faint, as though it belonged to a memory instead of a wound. His posture was loose, confident, shoulders rolled back with an ease Elliot hadn't felt in years. And his expression—
It was his face. But brighter.
Cheerful. Cunning. Alive
"He" tilted his head, a crooked smile playing on "his" lips, like "he'd" been waiting there all along.
"Well," the boy drawled, voice light, teasing. "Look at you."
Elliot's breath caught. His fingers curled weakly against the floorboards. "...What—"
"Pathetic, huh?" the reflection interrupted, leaning casually against the edge of the mirrored frame, though no such edge existed. "Dragging yourself out of bed at four a.m., beating yourself bloody just to keep up with people you used to outshine. "
The words stung. Elliot flinched.
The reflection grinned wider. "Remember when I used to be you? When stages were fun? When microphones felt like wings, not chains?"
Elliot swallowed hard, throat dry. "You're not real."
"Real enough," the boy shot back. "Real enough to see what you've become."
"He" stepped forward—though the mirror remained intact—closing the nonexistent gap between them. The cheerfulness in "his" tone wavered, softening into something almost pitying.
"You used to love this," the boy murmured. "You used to love singing. Now look at you. Flinching at every camera. Hiding behind makeup. Acting like the fire burned everything you were."
"It did," Elliot rasped, voice breaking. "It did burn everything."
For a heartbeat, silence hung between them.
Then the boy laughed—not cruel, but sharp, like a spark in dry air. "No. That's the lie you tell yourself. The truth?" "He" leaned closer, eyes glinting. "The fire didn't take me. You left me behind."
Elliot's chest tightened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream. But exhaustion weighed heavy, pinning him down.
The reflection straightened, hands slipping into "his" pockets, still smiling like he knew something Elliot didn't. "You're not done yet. You know that, right? Deep down, you're still me."
And just like that—"he" was gone.
The mirror reflected only Elliot again, slumped on the floor, shaking and sweat-drenched. The room felt colder now, emptier. The echo of the boy's words lingered in his chest, sharp and unyielding.
He pushed himself upright slowly, wiping at his forehead with the back of his sleeve. His whole body ached—burn scars throbbing with each heartbeat, muscles screaming from overuse. He grabbed his water bottle, found it empty, cursed under his breath.
The door creaked open behind him.
"...You're here early."
Elliot startled violently at the sudden voice—so much that he nearly dropped his mic stand. He turned sharply, pulse hammering.
A figure stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. Their posture was relaxed, one hand tucked in the pocket of a loose black hoodie, the other holding a bottle of cold water. Hair slightly tousled from sleep, expression unreadable but not unkind.
Two Time.
Senior. Fellow idol. One month older. Rumored perfectionist, but Elliot knew better—knew the truth of their quiet nature, the way they hovered at the edges of crowds, observing more than speaking. The chill calm that followed them everywhere like a second shadow.
They stepped forward slowly, the bottle still in hand. "You look like hell."
Elliot tried to muster a smile. "Thanks. Are you always this blunt?"
"Only when it's true." Two Time crouched in front of him, the soft rustle of their clothes loud in the silence. Without warning, they pressed the cold bottle gently against Elliot's cheek.
The shock of it made him flinch.
"Relax," Two Time murmured, almost amused. "You're burning up. Thought this might help."
Elliot blinked at them, startled, words caught in his throat. The chill from the bottle seeped into his skin, grounding him in the moment, quieting the echoes of the boy in the mirror.
Two Time didn't push. They didn't ask why Elliot was there so early, or why he looked like he hadn't slept. They simply offered the bottle, waited for him to take it, and settled onto the floor beside him with an ease that felt... safe.
"You should rest," Two Time said softly, breaking the silence. "Rehearsal's in a few hours. No point burning yourself out before it even starts."
"I can't," Elliot whispered. "I have to get this right."
Two Time's gaze lingered on him—steady, calm, unreadable. Then they leaned back against the mirror, eyes half-lidded, voice barely above a murmur.
"Then at least don't forget to breathe."
For the first time all night, Elliot did.
He let out a slow breath, long and shaky, and for a brief moment—just a moment—the weight in his chest eased.
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