The days that followed were a blur of preparation and pressure. Jiayi's life became a whirlwind of vocal exercises, dance rehearsals, and media training. Mei had thrown her into the deep end, determined to mold her into the perfect candidate for Starforge, South Korea's most competitive music reality show. Jiayi felt like a puppet, her strings pulled by Mei's relentless ambition. Every morning, she woke to a schedule packed with lessons and coaching sessions. Every night, she collapsed into bed, her body aching and her mind numb.
But the hardest part wasn't the physical strain—it was the emotional toll. Mei had made it clear that Jiayi's story, her tragedy, was her greatest asset. "People love a broken star," Mei had said during one of their many strategy sessions. "They want to see you rise from the ashes. So give them what they want."
Jiayi hated it. She hated the way Mei reduced her pain to a selling point, the way she turned her parents' memory into a marketing tool. But she didn't know how to push back. Mei was her lifeline, the only person who could help her save the family land. So she swallowed her pride and did as she was told, even as it tore her apart inside.
The day of the audition tape filming arrived, and Jiayi felt like she was walking to her execution. The studio was a stark, sterile space, filled with cameras, lights, and a small crew of technicians who moved with quiet efficiency. Mei stood in the corner, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She had chosen Jiayi's outfit—a simple white dress that made her look fragile and innocent—and styled her hair in loose waves that framed her face. "You look like a wounded bird," Mei had said approvingly. "Perfect."
Jiayi sat on a stool in the center of the room, her hands clenched in her lap. A camera was pointed at her, its lens like a cold, unblinking eye. Behind it, a director gave her instructions in rapid Korean, which Mei translated with clipped efficiency.
"They want you to tell your story," Mei said. "Start with the accident. Talk about your parents. Make it emotional, but don't overdo it. You want to seem vulnerable, not desperate."
Jiayi's stomach churned. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to share her pain with strangers, to turn her grief into entertainment. But Mei's gaze was unwavering, and Jiayi knew she didn't have a choice.
The camera rolled, and Jiayi began to speak. Her voice was soft, hesitant, as she recounted the night of the accident. She talked about the rain, the headlights, her father's last words. She talked about waking up in the hospital, about the crushing weight of loss. She talked about the silence that had followed, the way it had swallowed her whole.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done. Every word felt like a betrayal, like she was selling a piece of her soul. But she kept going, her voice trembling, her eyes filling with tears. She didn't have to fake the emotion—it was all too real.
When she finished, there was a moment of silence. The director nodded, seemingly satisfied, and the crew began to pack up. Mei stepped forward, her expression unreadable.
"Good," she said. "But it's not enough."
Jiayi stared at her, her heart sinking. "What do you mean?"
"They need to see your talent," Mei said. "They need to hear you sing."
Jiayi's stomach twisted. She hadn't sung in front of anyone since the recording studio, and the thought of doing it now, under the harsh lights and the cold gaze of the camera, was terrifying.
But Mei didn't give her time to protest. She handed Jiayi a sheet of paper—a song she'd chosen, something emotional and dramatic. "This is your moment," Mei said. "Don't waste it."
Jiayi looked down at the lyrics, her hands trembling. The song was in Korean, a language she barely understood. It was about loss and longing, about finding hope in the darkness. It was beautiful, but it wasn't hers.
She shook her head, her throat tight. "I can't."
Mei's expression hardened. "You don't have a choice."
Jiayi's chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. She felt trapped, suffocated by Mei's expectations and the weight of her own fear. But then, in a moment of defiance, she made a decision.
She stood, her legs trembling, and walked over to the piano in the corner of the room. She sat down, her fingers hovering over the keys, and took a deep breath. She didn't know what she was doing, didn't know if she could do it. But she had to try.
She began to play, the notes soft and tentative at first. And then she began to sing.
It wasn't the song Mei had chosen. It wasn't in Korean. It was a hymn in Creole, a song her father had taught her when she was a child. The melody was simple but haunting, the words a mix of sorrow and hope. Jiayi's voice was raw and unfiltered, filled with the pain and longing she'd been carrying for so long.
She didn't look at the camera. She didn't think about the crew or Mei or the audition. She just sang, pouring her heart into the music, letting it carry her away.
When she finished, there was a long silence. Jiayi's hands trembled as she lifted them from the keys, her chest heaving. She looked up, her eyes meeting Mei's.
For a moment, Mei just stared at her, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled, a small, satisfied smile. "Perfect," she said. "Broken sells."
Jiayi's heart sank. She'd thought, for a moment, that she'd done something real, something authentic. But Mei had turned it into another performance, another piece of the narrative she was crafting.
The director nodded, seemingly pleased, and the crew began to pack up. Mei walked over to Jiayi, her heels clicking against the floor. "You did well," she said. "But next time, stick to the script."
Jiayi didn't respond. She just sat there, her hands clenched in her lap, her mind racing. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. She didn't know if she could keep doing this, if she could keep selling pieces of herself to survive.
But as she sat there, staring at the piano keys, she felt something stir inside her—a faint, flickering spark of determination. She didn't know what the future held, but she knew she couldn't give up. Not yet.