A Voice That Stands Alone
(4) I’d made it sound like some grand operation, but it was really nothing special. All I did was sneak into an employee’s desk whose computer was still on and blast the recording file through the company messenger to everyone. People would wonder who sent it, but there was zero evidence pointing to me, so I had nothing to worry about. The file contained plenty of other material anyway—half of it was my own complaints, but there were plenty of digs at the other trainees and some very colorful grievances about the company itself. I couldn’t understand how a bunch of perfectly normal family members could have so many problems.
“Those three will probably debut somewhere else even if they fail here…”
If the Public Float Trio couldn’t make it at Cha Entertainment, they’d still have a decent shot elsewhere. Attractive faces, solid skills, and usable superpowers weren’t exactly common among trainees, so they’d likely find another company. Not that I cared. To me, they were just that—three people who happened to float a little higher than the rest.
“Superpowers really do matter, huh. That aside… I wonder what Na Yeri registered hers as. Officially it’s still unconfirmed.”
Most superhumans instinctively knew what their ability was the moment they awakened. But sometimes people awakened without fully grasping what they could do. Na Yeri had been one of those half-baked cases—awakened, yet clueless about her own power. Of course, I knew exactly what this body could do, but the Na Yeri of this timeline had no idea. Given her personality, that uncertainty must have stressed her out quite a bit. It might even have been what made her anxiety worse.
Normally, when someone’s ability was unclear, they reported it as “unconfirmed” and underwent a detailed examination at the Superhuman Bureau. Those exams were notoriously tedious, so in the past plenty of people just faked a plausible ability on the registration form. These days the Bureau’s equipment could identify most powers, but back when Na Yeri awakened, the technology still lagged behind reality, so the tests weren’t very useful anyway. And the Na Yeri I knew would never have volunteered for pointless examinations. She’d been thirteen at the time—exactly the age when anyone would want to avoid government scrutiny.
“Doesn’t matter. She probably just wrote down whatever. The Bureau doesn’t care much unless the ability is highly lethal anyway.”
In the first timeline, I hadn’t known what my own ability was either. An incident had forced it to manifest, and my registration had been updated automatically. That event wouldn’t happen again, so from now on I had to live under whatever ability Na Yeri had registered. My real power was far too destructive to reveal openly; hiding behind a fake registration was the safest option.
“Whether I make the debut team or not, I can figure it out later. For now, let’s deal with what’s right in front of me.”
I was a little curious what she’d put down, but it wasn’t urgent. A fake registration usually meant a power so minor it had no practical use in daily life, so there was little risk of suspicion. Besides, once something was registered, the only way to change it was through another full examination—and I had zero intention of taking one. Since the ability wouldn’t be used in everyday life and couldn’t be corrected anyway, knowing now or later made no difference. Asking someone outright would look suspicious too, so I’d just wait until the debut team profiles went up and check then. Right now, getting into the debut team was obviously the priority.
After several experiments, I concluded that if I wanted to make the debut team, I had to drop dancing entirely. It wasn’t something I could fix in a day or two. It was a risky choice, sure—singing without dancing meant I’d be performing with only my voice. At first I felt uneasy, but the more I thought about it, the less of a problem it seemed. The debut team selection stage let each trainee design their own showcase of personal charm. There was no rule saying you had to do both singing and dancing. This was an internal company audition; the judges already knew Na Yeri’s abilities after watching her for six years. If complete strangers had been judging, they might have wanted to see her dance, but these people already knew exactly how bad her dancing was. No need to confirm it again.
“Focusing on vocals actually feels easier. My singing isn’t half bad, after all. Besides, the Na Yeri of this period didn’t even know what her real strengths were.”
Na Yeri’s voice was huskier than most girls’. Not quite as rough as a man’s, but it definitely didn’t match her delicate appearance. A kind of reverse charm, you could say. Because the tone was so uncommon, it caused problems whenever she had to harmonize or share a stage with other trainees. If she’d gotten along with them it might have been different, but Na Yeri’s relationships with the others were poor. Her voice stood out too much, so she kept being told to match everyone else. She couldn’t ruin the stage, so she adjusted—until eventually she started forgetting what her own voice had sounded like. The Public Float Trio had been the worst about it. If you’re going to ruin the stage anyway, just quit. Looking back, it was almost funny. The trainers had never once complained about her tone; only the other trainees had made a fuss. Maybe they’d actually found her unique timbre attractive and wanted to bury it on purpose.
I only realized my distinctive voice could be an asset after transferring companies. At the new place I’d managed to keep decent relationships with the other trainees. I hadn’t received any special treatment, and I’d simply stopped with the weird makeup and odd behavior, yet people still gravitated toward me. My looks drew envy, of course, but that was inevitable. No group liked everyone equally. The friends I made there openly envied my tone. They said it was the kind of voice that stuck in your ears. Trying to match everyone else had been the real mistake. Once I reclaimed my own color at the new company, I sang however I wanted. After that, no one ever told me I couldn’t sing. I could be proud of my skill. Sure, the Special Task Force rookies would clap even if I sang like garbage, but I’d also performed requiems at important ceremonies. If my singing had been truly awful, they wouldn’t have let me near those stages, trainee background or not.
Once I decided to sing only for the selection, I picked the song I liked and performed best: “Loss” from singer-songwriter Mia’s album. I’d worried it might not have been released yet, but thankfully it was already out—just not famous. The kind of hidden gem only a few people knew? It would stay buried for now, but one day it would become hugely popular after a famous foreign artist praised it on their YouTube channel as an underrated masterpiece, sparking a massive reverse run. Whenever a colleague died, I used to sing this song to comfort their soul. So it was both my favorite and the one I least wanted to sing—the track I’d performed the most.
“It’s not really the kind of song you’d normally do at an audition, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I’m in a hurry, after all.”
Fortunately, all of that was in the past now. It would never repeat. I could sing this song a little more comfortably. Maybe using it to shake off old emotions and say goodbye to the past wouldn’t be so bad. One thing was certain: when it came to this song, I could pour more feeling into it than even the original artist—perhaps more than anyone else.
“If this doesn’t work either, then there’s nothing I can do. It’ll be exhausting, but it’s not like there’s no other way…”
I wanted things to go smoothly this time, but if I did everything I could and still failed, there was nothing left to do.
The day of the debut team selection arrived. The twenty or so remaining trainees at Cha Entertainment waited for their turns with tense expressions. Their nervousness made the Public Float Trio’s relaxed chatting stand out even more. They looked like people who believed they could never fail.
“Their personalities are one thing, but they really do have the goods. Even with confidence, it’s not easy to act that relaxed in this situation.”
No matter how confident someone was, most people felt nervous when standing in a place like this. One mistake could erase years of effort. That same pressure was why even talented students struggled to show their full ability on the college entrance exam. The fact that the trio could lounge around like this proved they weren’t ordinary either. Still, it made me marvel once again at how thoroughly Na Yeri had lost everyone’s favor compared to them. What kind of life had she lived? Even now, the other trainees—who were visibly anxious—kept shooting silent glares at the trio. That meant the three of them had already lost a fair amount of goodwill themselves. Yet whenever Na Yeri clashed with them, most people still sided with the trio. A perfect storm of favoritism, emotional instability, and social withdrawal really was a powerful combination. Quietly reflecting on how nightmarish Na Yeri’s past must have been, I took a seat in the corner.