Before Sami had time to argue, and no girl on the podium had any doubt she would - she feared no producer, no host, no audience member - the Host pointed the pistol from his navy blue jacket and shot Wisung in the face. Point blank. Almost execution style except that she was half-sprawled against the floor of the podium. She had been last to make it, delayed by the injury that the show had given her. An injury that she didn’t deserve.

Did any of them deserve this?

Some still couldn’t speak after the stress of staying silent throughout the challenge, their mouths open and breaths wheezing through restricted throats. Others’ voices racketed through the hangar, somewhere between scream and sob. Jun was the latter, rattled from the inside out and letting the world hear it. She was alive, and she would get to stay alive. And that didn’t feel even slightly real or fair.

The podium leaked blood by the cupful, Wisung’s life, her hard work, dripping to the floor. Sami reached for the girl, to hold her, but the Host was quicker. With a nudge of his shiny black shoe, Wisung tumbled, floppy, from the raised platform. They all heard the wet crunch on landing, flinching in unison although most couldn’t see the ground. Jun’s eyes were on Sami, on the glare she was directing up at the Host. A fire that could give you chills. He smiled back, not even a smile of enjoyment, just no care to be found in his handsome features.

He stepped away and the first few notes of the proposed ‘winning’ song began. It belonged to a girl group from previous generations, a classic hit, a reminder of why every little girl wanted to be an idol. The lyrics encouraged dreams, passions, pursuing the thing you loved. And yet, to Jun, Idol Survival itself had killed more dreams than encouraged them. Every girl had come to the show with the same dream, and now only six of them remained to even dream it.

Before anyone could protest, or refuse to sing and dance in Wisung’s blood, the back wall of the hangar slid apart in two pieces, revealing an audience of men with neon cardboard signs, photographers flashing lights at them and shouting instructions, production crew from the show filming every angle, and a huddle of normal-looking people with watery eyes and hands clutched together at their chests.

Jun’s mother was there.

Dressed in head-to-toe black, a group of crew members hopped onto the podium to shove earpieces onto them and rearrange their positioning for their big number. Their victory song. Jun looked around at her fellow survivors - ONE-HONEY. None of them appeared victorious.

Sami was furious.

Sara was hiccuping Wisung’s name.

Minji seemed empty, a saggy balloon that could be taken by the wind at any moment.

Hana was struggling to know where to look and how to breathe - an overwhelmed child stuck on a stage for everyone to watch her panic attack.

Myeong’s entire body had locked, as though bracing herself against something. Even her teeth were clenched.

They were ordered begin their performance through the ear pieces, and they all did, as though it was second nature to them now. Do what you’re told, or die.

All Jun had ever wanted to do was sing, to stand on a lit stage and feel special. No one had ever believed she could be a performer, she was too plain, never quite good enough. Her mother, watching her now from amongst the cameras and the jeering, appeared only relieved that she was still alive. Was she happy for her? That her daughter’s ridiculous gamble had paid off? The one she had explicitly told her not to take. Jun couldn’t tell her ‘I told you so,’ because she wasn’t proud of what she had done. She was here, and she had survived, and that was it. The achievement had not hit, she doubted it ever will. How could you hold up a trophy you won, when it was filled with the blood of others?

But she got what she wanted, she was getting to sing. The lights on the podium were muted under a layer of congealed blood, but this is what she had prayed for, right?

Whether they hit every note and move didn’t matter. They were the winners, they didn’t need to be perfect in this moment. By the end, they were panting, crying, distress pouring out of them with their sweat.

When the song finished, the crowd surged forward. The girls remained in their ending poses on the lifted stage, unable to move by their own decision anymore. It was all too much just to think. People were chanting their names, congratulating them, reporters throwing out questions, they were being told via their ear pieces to smile at the least.

A flash of camera light, and Jun was in a similar pose, on one knee with her hands out, creating a flat line along her arms. Panting and smiling softly for the ending fairy sequence that would wrap-up filming on their third music show so far that week. As they exaggerated catching their breath, there was an underlying tension, a sensation as they stared out at the crowd, that they had sacrificed so much for so little.

Their debut song was a hit. Jun was getting to sing on stages with lights. The girls had all been buried now. It still hurt so much. Every step hurt, every note hurt.

In their private dressing room, post-win, the girls sat in silence, a weary fury humming between them. They looked to Sami, whose muscle and fat had shrunk while her bones grew out of her. Their reliable leader.

With their staff away grabbing coffees, business cards from blathering wannabe industry insiders, and schedules from producers to coincide with their own - packing as much ONE-HONEY onto the nation’s screens and air-waves as possible, Sami spoke. When she spoke, her girls listened like soldiers.