The announcement came faster than Kai expected.

“Next evaluation will be team-based,” Ms. Hoshino said, her voice sharp enough to slice through the practice room chatter. “Groups of four. Performance, synchronization, adaptability.”

The screen behind her lit up.

Names shuffled.

Kai watched them scroll past, pulse steady despite the knot in his stomach.

Then the groups locked in.

Team Three:

– Kai 

– Jae-Hyun

– Min

– Sora

The room reacted instantly.

Ren swore loudly from across the room.

Toma let out a low whistle.

Whispers rippled like static.

Kai didn’t look at Jae-Hyun right away.

Min did.

He adjusted his glasses calmly. “This will be… efficient.”

Sora blinked, then smiled gently at Kai. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jae-Hyun said nothing.

That silence was worse than any comment.

Practice began immediately.

Choreography first. Formation work. Breathing timing.

Kai followed along without singing, marking movements, counting beats under his breath. He stayed precise, careful not to push himself past his limits.

Jae-Hyun watched everything.

“Your timing’s good,” he said finally, during a break. “For someone not using his voice.”

Kai met his gaze. “Breath is still breath. Singing just makes it louder.”

Min nodded slightly. “Correct.”

Jae-Hyun’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. “Let’s hope the audience agrees.”

Because the audience already knew.

That afternoon, Kai’s phone buzzed nonstop.

Clips. Comments. Headlines.

ECHO RETURNS—BUT CAN HE STILL SING?

IDOL SURVIVAL SHOW KEEPS VOICELESS CONTESTANT

SYMPATHY OR STAR POWER?

Kai didn’t read long.

But some comments stuck anyway.

If he can’t perform, it’s unfair.

I loved Echo, but this is uncomfortable to watch.

Let him rest somewhere else.

Then others:

Healing isn’t weakness.

I’ll wait as long as it takes.

Sing when you’re ready.

Kai set the phone face down.

His chest felt tight—not from fear, but from responsibility.

The next morning, Ms. Hoshino stopped him before practice.

“Kai. Conference room.”

His stomach dropped.

Inside, a vocal therapist sat beside the director. A small recorder rested on the table.

“This is not a performance,” the director said calmly. “This is a sanctioned vocal test. Controlled. Private.”

Kai swallowed. “What kind?”

“Single sustained tone,” the therapist said gently. “Comfort range only. You stop the moment you feel strain.”

Kai nodded, hands trembling slightly.

He stood.

Adjusted his posture.

Inhaled the way he’d been taught—slow, deep, grounded.

Then he let the sound out.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t powerful.

But it was clear.

A single note, steady and unforced, vibrating softly in the room.

The therapist raised a hand almost immediately. “That’s enough.”

Kai stopped at once.

Silence followed.

No pain.

No burn.

Just warmth.

The director smiled faintly. “Good control.”

Kai exhaled shakily, a laugh threatening to escape his chest. He bowed deeply, emotion pressing hard behind his eyes.

Outside, Min waited.

“How did it go?” he asked.

Kai hesitated, then answered honestly. “I made a sound.”

Min nodded once. “Then we proceed.”

Back in the practice room, Jae-Hyun noticed immediately.

“You sang,” he said quietly.

“Barely,” Kai replied.

“But you did,” Jae-Hyun said.

Something shifted in his expression—not approval, not defeat.

Recalculation.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Jae-Hyun continued. “I don’t doubt Echo anymore.”

Kai met his gaze steadily. “Good. Because Echo isn’t the one standing next to you.”

For the first time, Jae-Hyun smiled for real.

“Then prove it,” he said. “In sync. As a team.”

That night, Kai returned to the balcony again.

He placed a hand against his throat—not to test it, not to push.

Just to acknowledge it.

The pressure wasn’t gone.

The doubts weren’t gone.

But something new had joined them.

Momentum.

Slow.

Careful.

Unstoppable.

To be continued…