The soft creak of wood beneath her feet echoed in the stillness of the apartment. The curtains were pulled back, letting in the golden morning light, and in the middle of the sun-drenched living room, Ayesha moved like a breath of wind.
Her feet glided across the floor, her arms curved with poised elegance, and her back held the quiet confidence of someone who knew her body like second nature. Her long limbs moved with fluid grace, her 5'7" frame stretched out like a swan mid-flight—delicate, powerful, utterly ethereal. Her dark, waist-length hair, tied in a high bun, caught slivers of light as it swayed with each pirouette. She looked less like a teenager and more like a scene from an impressionist painting—haunting and alive.
But her mind was miles away.
She wasn't thinking of her posture or form. Her muscles, trained by weeks of ballet and years of dance, carried her without instruction. Instead, her thoughts drifted.
April 2016.
Her board exams were done—neatly wrapped up with that peculiar finality only 12th grade endings carried. There were no more classes, no more chalk dust, no more teachers chasing last-minute submissions.
In those last two months of school, something had shifted in her. Maybe it was the knowledge that time was running out. Maybe it was the realization that she had spent so long standing at the edges, quiet and calculating, always hiding more than she showed. So, she changed that.
Ayesha had started talking to her classmates more—not just to exchange notes or homework but to actually talk. Laugh. Joke. Tease.
Her neo-sarcastic, sharp, observant personality emerged like sunlight through mist. And people noticed. They were stunned, some even a little in awe. This version of Ayesha—bright-eyed, witty, still a little distant but no longer untouchable—was magnetic.
Her parents had been shocked too. Especially her mother, who had grown used to the quiet daughter locked in her bedroom-turned-recording-studio. But now, Ayesha laughed more during dinner. She spoke about silly school events, teased her father for his dad jokes, even helped her mom cook a few times.
And it felt… good.
She had never loved a life like this before. Not even her last one.
She leapt into an arabesque, her form perfect, yet her mind whispered, So this is what it means to be real.
---
The quiet hum of the ceiling fan blended with the subdued clack of her MIDI keyboard as Aisha sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, headphones perched like a crown atop her messy bun. Her eyes were narrowed in laser focus, her fingers fluttering between her MIDI, laptop, and a small digital piano. Around her, the room was dim and warmly lit, soundproofed with layers of foam, stacks of lyric notebooks, and post-its stuck across the wall like constellations.
She was building something new. Something bold.
The inspiration had crept in slowly, like a whisper of wind brushing her cheeks during ballet practice. There was something about the grace of classical music—its purity, its structured elegance—that had started to take root in her chest. But she was Aisha, after all. She didn't want to mimic. She wanted to merge. So she began fusing the echo of violins, the solemn hum of cellos, and the fragile chimes of ballet compositions with her own musical blood—gritty hip-hop beats, streetwise flow, and modern dissonance that still found harmony.
It was a strange kind of alchemy. Her beat started off simple: a soft piano progression in E minor, underscored by a solemn cello loop. Then came the whisper of classical ballet percussion—distant tambourines and finger cymbals, like they were echoing off the stage curtains of an empty theatre. Over that, she layered a synth that mimicked the soft trill of violins but dipped in tempo every few seconds, giving it a haunting, almost liminal quality.
And then came the drums. Sharp, visceral, layered with a trip-hop texture that grounded the floating strings like anchor weights. Her rap verses were minimal for now, half-written on a napkin beside her, filled with metaphors that danced between elegance and rebellion.
"Tell me what it means to be still but fight,
Tiptoe on glass, barefoot through night,
I'm no muse, I'm the voice in the pit,
Swan wings bleeding but I still don't quit…"
She paused the track and leaned back against the bean bag. The ceiling stared down at her like a judge, its cracked plaster looking like fractured sheet music. She closed her eyes, letting the latest loop seep into her ears again.
It was working. It was weird, and a little raw, but it was working.
As the outro echoed—violins that faded into silence like the hush of an audience after a final bow—Aisha's phone buzzed against the floorboards.
She didn't check it right away. Probably another SoundCloud message or some recruiter she still wasn't ready to respond to. But the second buzz came with a gentle chime. Her system notification tone.
Grumbling, she picked it up.
One email.
From: [email protected]
Subject line: "Congratulations, Aisha - Your Journey Begins."
Her breath stopped in her throat. Her heart fluttered like a skipped beat.
She tapped the message open, hands trembling.
> Dear Aisha Singh,
We are thrilled to inform you that you have successfully cleared all evaluations and have been accepted into the Film and Television Institute of India's Undergraduate Program for Music Production.
We are honored to welcome such a passionate and promising artist into our community. We look forward to the vibrant contributions you will make at FTII.
More details and next steps are included in the attached acceptance packet.
Warm regards,
Admissions Committee
FTII Pune
Aisha stared at the screen. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. Her fingers pressed to her lips.
She'd done it.
She'd actually done it.
For a full minute, she couldn't move. She felt like she had just performed the final act of a solo ballet in front of an invisible crowd—and the applause was deafening in her soul.
Without a second thought, she bolted out of the room, barefoot, nearly knocking over a guitar stand. Her mother, halfway through slicing cucumbers in the kitchen, looked up with surprise.
"Maa!" Aisha cried, her voice cracking. "I got in! I got into FTII!"
There was a pause. The knife dropped to the cutting board with a soft thud. Then, the quiet turned into chaos.
Her mother gasped, covered her mouth, and ran over to hug her tightly. "Aisha, oh my god! Oh my god, really? Let me see!"
Her father, hearing the noise, stepped out of the study, adjusting his reading glasses. "What's going on?"
"She got in!" her mother shouted, tears rolling down her cheeks. "FTII, she got in!"
Aisha nodded through the laughter, the sobs, the joy. "Yes… yes, Appa… I got in. They sent the email just now."
Her father smiled. Not the calm, school-principal smile he wore at work—but the unguarded smile of a father overwhelmed with pride. "We knew you would. But hearing it… oh, beti, we're so proud of you."
They celebrated right there in the middle of the kitchen. Her mom called up her cousins in Kerala. Her dad brought out the mango ice cream from the freezer. They didn't have a party or a cake—but they had everything that mattered.
That night, after the quiet settled and the warmth of celebration simmered into a gentle hum, Aisha returned to her room. She sat down at her workstation, put on her headphones again, and listened to her nearly-finished track with new ears.
The song had no name yet. But now… it felt like it needed one.
She renamed the file: "Pas de Rébellion".
It meant "the rebellious step." A nod to ballet's pas de deux—and to her own refusal to fit inside the lines others drew for her.
She smiled.
Tomorrow, she'd add the final verse.
Tonight, she let herself feel the joy. The joy of music. Of dance. Of family.
Of freedom.
---
The summer heat of June 2016 pressed gently through the windows of the Singh household, filtered by gauzy curtains that fluttered in the breeze. Ayesha stood in front of the computer screen, refreshing the CBSE results page for what felt like the hundredth time. Her heart pounded, but not from anxiety. She already knew she had done well. The system had predicted it. But even then, she felt that odd flutter in her stomach, the irrational what-ifs.
And then, it flashed across the screen: Ayesha Singh – Topper, City Rank 1.
Her mother gasped before Ayesha could even process the words. "Ayesha! You did it!" she squealed.
Her father—stoic, calm, and almost always unreadable—broke into the biggest smile she had seen on his face in years. "That's my daughter," he said, his voice thick with pride. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a firm, fatherly squeeze. "You've done more than I ever dreamed, Ayesha. You didn't just meet expectations—you soared past them."
They ordered samosas and mango kulfi. Her mother made her favorite paneer butter masala for dinner. That evening, they laughed, shared stories, and clinked glasses of chilled mango juice over the dining table. Ayesha didn't know when exactly she started loving these people—her parents—but she did now, deeply and fully.
After dinner, she excused herself, changed into a light tank top and joggers, laced up her shoes, and tied her hair into a neat ponytail. She pulled on her zip-up hoodie, the one with "Aeon" printed on the back in small, faded embroidery, and stepped out into the warm night.
She walked the familiar streets to The Rhythm Den, the dance studio where she had trained for years. Bhavesh, the ever-energetic instructor in his mid-thirties with a mischievous grin and lightning-fast footwork, was in the middle of demonstrating a choreography when she stepped in.
The moment he saw her, he paused. "Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!"
Ayesha smiled, a flash of her signature sass sparking in her eyes. "I'm here for a rematch, Bhavesh sir. One last dance battle before I leave."
The room stilled. Then Bhavesh chuckled, tossing a towel over his shoulder. "You sure, Aeon?"
She stepped onto the polished wooden floor, cracked her knuckles, and struck a pose. "Dead sure."
The music blared—hard-hitting, rhythmic, a blend of bhangra and dubstep. Bhavesh went first, sharp and fluid, his steps a blur. Then Ayesha took the floor. Her style had evolved—it was fierce, graceful, and precise, with classical spins layered with hip-hop footwork and the smooth elegance of ballet. She was a storm wrapped in silk, and by the end of her round, the studio erupted in cheers.
Bhavesh gave a theatrical bow. "Fine, fine. You win."
The students clapped and laughed, forming a circle around her. "We heard about FTII," one of them said. "You're going to be famous."
"Not yet," Ayesha replied with a grin. "But thanks."
Bhavesh stepped forward again, his eyes twinkling. "We actually planned something for you. A surprise."
She raised a brow. "What kind of surprise?"
"Follow us."
A convoy of students, bikes, speakers, and laughter spilled out onto the streets of the city, threading their way toward the town square—a lively place of street vendors, fountains, and twinkling fairy lights. The group set up a massive speaker in the center, right under the worn marble clock tower that had stood for a hundred years. People paused, curious.
Then the music dropped.
The beat of "Gallan Goodiyan" pulsed through the square, and the students burst into synchronized movement. Bhavesh pulled Ayesha into the center.
"What are you doing?!" she laughed.
"Flash mob!" someone shouted.
One by one, passersby joined in—children, office workers, even the chaiwala on the corner. The square came alive in a riot of colors and movement. From "Malhari" to "London Thumakda," Bollywood bangers played back to back as they danced under the open sky. The city shimmered in twilight and joy.
Ayesha laughed till her cheeks hurt, danced until her limbs were sore. For once, she wasn't thinking about the future or strategizing her next song. She was here—completely and unapologetically present.
As the final beat echoed into the night and the crowd clapped and cheered, Bhavesh pulled her into a side-hug.
"You've always been a star, Ayesha. Go make the world your stage."
She didn't say much. Just smiled, a real, warm smile, and nodded.
She didn't need to say anything.
She already knew this night would become a memory stitched into her skin—a moment that would remind her, no matter where in the world she ended up, that once upon a time, she danced in the middle of a city street with people who loved her.
And that she, Ayesha Singh, had been cherished.
---
The first rays of golden sunlight filtered through the linen curtains, casting long beams across the quiet room. Ayesha stirred beneath the light cotton sheets, yawning softly as the breeze played with the edges of her diary, left open at the foot of her bed.
She rolled onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling when—
DING!
The familiar, gleaming blue system prompt popped up in her line of vision like a heads-up display in a video game, clean and polished with a celebratory fanfare playing softly in the background.
> [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Congratulations, Ayesha Singh, on turning 16! (Sorry the system was late due to upgrade issues)
You have achieved LEVEL 7.
Current Class Progression: Epitome of a K-Pop Trainee
Your journey has been extraordinary.
Ayesha sat up with a jolt, brushing the sleep from her eyes. Her heartbeat accelerated slightly, excitement blooming across her chest as she focused on the expanding system interface. Her system had been radio silent for 4 months due to an upgrade. (She hadn't realised it would take so long for it to upgrade but who was she to know about mysterious, out of this world system.)The details unfolded like a status report, glowing with a soft violet aura:
---
NAME: Ayesha Singh
AGE: 16
LEVEL: 7
TITLES UNLOCKED:
Prodigious Dancer
Rapping Sensation
Polyglot-in-Motion
Synesthetic Performer
Music Composer (Rank B+)
SKILL PROGRESS:
Dance Styles:
Urban Hip-Hop: 98%
Ballet (Contemporary Fusion): 89%
Classical Kathak: 72%
K-Pop Choreography: 95%
Languages:
English: Fluent
Hindi: Fluent
Korean: Fluent
Japanese: Fluent
Marathi: Basic Conversational (Initiated)
Music Production:
DAW Mastery: 81%
Composition: 87%
Lyricism: 78%
Rhythm Mapping: 90%
Vocal Skills:
Chest Voice: 75%
Head Voice: 70%
Mixed Voice: 60%
Breath Control: 82%
Range: A3 – C6
Falsetto: LOCKED
Ayesha's breath hitched when the screen shimmered again.
> [SYSTEM PROMPT – NEW UNLOCK]
You have now fulfilled all requirements:
– Vocal Range: Above C6
– Breath Control: Above 80%
– Emotional Expression: Assessed as HIGH
– Commitment to Daily Training: 900+ days
You have unlocked the advanced skill: FALSETTO.
This vocal layer allows greater control of tone, emotional texture, and dynamic performance across languages and genres.
> SYSTEM GIFT: Falsetto Pack (Multi-tone integration bonus + Korean ballad optimization)
Ayesha sat in stunned silence. Then, a wild smile spread across her face as she buried her face into her pillow to muffle her squeal. It had taken her years. Nine years, in fact. Nine years of rewiring herself from the inside out. From a reincarnated soul in a mundane world to this—an artist with a growing path.
She sat up straight and swung her legs off the bed, feeling the sunlight on her bare feet. Everything was real. The emails, the music, the people she had grown to love—and now this. Her system wasn't just rewarding stats; it was reflecting the truth of her progress.
She looked around her room, now a creative mess of foam panels, mic stands, her beloved old headphones hanging by a single screw, and a packed folder labeled "FTII Submission - A. Singh."
And now… it was time to pack.
She grabbed her notebook and flipped it open, checking the list.
"Clothes – done. USBs – done. Keyboard – packed. Diary – definitely coming."
A soft knock tapped against her half-closed door.
"Ayesha?" her mom called gently. "Papa made poha and is acting suspicious."
She grinned and stood, stretching. Her long 5'7" frame cast tall shadows across the pale rug as she padded into the living room. Her parents were at the dining table, with her father beaming like a proud eagle. In front of him lay a small, rectangular box.
"Happy late Birthday, Superstar," he said, gesturing at the gift. "From us, before you leave for Pune."
She opened it with trembling hands—and nearly gasped. Inside was a compact, brand-new Neumann condenser mic, one of the best tools a music producer could dream of.
"How—?" she whispered, blinking back tears.
"We saved," her mother said gently, smiling. "For years. You deserve to have your voice captured the way you hear it in your heart."
Ayesha hugged them both tightly, unable to speak. This life—they loved her, truly. And for the first time in her two lives, she loved them with her whole heart too.
---
Later that day, Ayesha stood at her window with the sun setting behind her, a soft breeze fluttering the edge of her oversized hoodie. Her room was half-empty now, neatly packed suitcases stacked by the door. She still had one project folder open—an idea that had come to her while practicing ballet to a lo-fi hip-hop track a week ago.
She pulled up her DAW and began layering a soft piano piece, with high classical notes reminiscent of a ballet recital. Over it, she overlaid a trap beat—light at first, then gradually heavier. As the rhythm kicked in, she started writing lyrics, half in English, half in Korean, her falsetto now smooth and capable.
It was like painting with breath.
The track wasn't done, but it was her next step, her new sound. She saved the project and titled it: "Petals & Asphalt."
---
That night, lying in bed, the system pinged one last time.
> [SYSTEM NOTE]
Congratulations, Ayesha Singh.
You are now officially ready to enter the world stage.
Current Mission:
– Begin Training @ FTII
– Maintain Anonymity
– Level Up Through Experience
She closed her eyes, fingers curled around the edge of her blanket, and whispered to herself:
"Let's do this."
---
Scene: December 2016 – FTII Dorm Room
The soft hum of the ceiling fan blended with the distant sounds of the campus, creating a serene ambiance in the FTII girls' hostel. Ayesha sat cross-legged on her bed in the triple-sharing room, her gaze fixed on the window where the winter sun cast golden hues over the campus. Her two roommates, both three years her senior, were engrossed in their scripts, leaving Ayesha to her thoughts.
Flashback: First Day at FTII
Three months earlier, Ayesha had stepped onto the FTII campus with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The sprawling 21-acre campus, dotted with colonial-era buildings and lush greenery, felt like a different world. She remembered the orientation session in the main theatre, where faculty members introduced themselves, emphasizing the institute's legacy and the rigorous journey ahead.
Meeting her roommates had been an experience. Both seniors, they had initially been skeptical about sharing a room with a 16-year-old. However, Ayesha's maturity and dedication quickly won them over. They became her guides, helping her navigate the complexities of campus life.
The past three months had been a whirlwind. Ayesha immersed herself in her coursework, which included subjects like film history, scriptwriting, and sound design. The institute's facilities, such as the Gajanan Jagirdar Library and the preview theatres, became her sanctuaries. She spent hours watching classic films, analyzing scenes, and discussing them with peers.
Despite the rigorous academic schedule, Ayesha found time to explore Pune's vibrant culture. She frequented local cafés, attended art exhibitions, and even joined a weekend yoga class to maintain her physical and mental well-being.
One evening, while exploring the city, Ayesha stumbled upon an underground hip-hop battle in a dimly lit basement near Fergusson College Road. The energy was electric, with rappers exchanging verses and dancers showcasing their moves. Intrigued, she returned the following week, this time prepared to participate.
Taking the stage, Ayesha delivered verses that blended her classical training with contemporary beats. Her unique style captivated the audience, and she quickly gained recognition in the local hip-hop scene. Over the next few weeks, she participated in several battles, often emerging victorious.
Parallel to her live performances, Ayesha continued to produce music. She released three new tracks on her anonymous SoundCloud account:
1. "Petals & Asphalt" – A fusion of ballet-inspired melodies with hip-hop rhythms.
2. "Echoes of the Alley" – A raw portrayal of urban life, reflecting her experiences in Pune.
3. "Midnight Raga" – A blend of traditional Indian instruments with modern beats.
Each track received significant attention, with listeners praising her innovative style. Despite the growing popularity, Ayesha maintained her anonymity, choosing not to respond to messages or reveal her identity.
She had system to play with afterall.
---
Great! Here's the next scene featuring Ayesha's daily training with the system, complete with vivid imagery, inner reflection, and the seamless integration of her system's interaction. Let me know if you'd like this expanded into a longer format later.
---
Scene: January 2017 – FTII Dorm, Early Morning
The room was still and quiet when Ayesha's eyes opened. It was 4:30 a.m. Her internal clock, sharpened by years of discipline, needed no alarm. She slid out of bed soundlessly, careful not to wake her roommates, and padded across the cold floor to her training space—just a cleared-out corner of the room with a wall mirror she'd charmed from the prop department.
Her smartwatch buzzed softly.
[System Prompt: Daily Training Routine Unlocked – Level 7 Trainee Protocol Initiated.]
Ayesha tied her hair back into a tight bun and changed into a sleek black training outfit. Her muscles warmed in anticipation. As the virtual timer began ticking in her vision, projected only for her by the system, she entered a series of precisely tailored drills:
Flexibility calibration: A full-body ballet sequence to refine form and balance.
Strength endurance: High-intensity core training mixed with isolations for muscle control.
Rhythmic layering: Freestyle rap exercises set to a fluctuating tempo, forcing adaptability.
Voice modulation: Breathing techniques combined with falsetto pitch control and falsetto-acoustic balance, newly unlocked.
The system tracked every movement, measuring precision, timing, energy output, and even emotional consistency. Ayesha had begun treating the system like a secret mentor—ever-present, always watching, but only intervening when necessary.
Sweat rolled down her back as she completed the final combination, ending with a pirouette that transitioned into a back arch and a ground-level freeze. She held it for three counts.
The moment she returned to standing, her vision blinked with golden light.
[System Prompt: Task Complete – 100% Execution Accuracy.]
[Rewards Granted:]
+5 Agility
+10 Vocal Range Points
+1 Passive Skill: Seamless Tempo Shift
New Title Earned: "Precision Virtuoso"]
Ayesha breathed hard, hands on her knees, grinning through the burn in her lungs.
[System Prompt: You have maintained flawless streaks for 30 consecutive days. Would you like to activate Elite Trainee Bonus?]
[Y/N]
She tapped her fingers in the air. [Y]
A new cascade of light filled her senses.
[Bonus Granted: One Rare Skill – Falsetto Harmonization (Lv.1)]
[Your falsetto ability can now synchronize in dual-tone harmonic layering, applicable in live performance and production.]
"Finally," Ayesha whispered.
The ability had been locked behind dozens of conditioning modules and vocal tier achievements. The system didn't hand anything out easily. But that made the rewards sweeter.
As the sky began to warm with dawn, she stretched, cooled down, and prepared to blend back into the ordinary day. But inside, she felt sharper than ever—like a blade honed on fire and effort. FTII might have been a film institute, but she was crafting something broader: a mastery of sound, motion, and presence.
And with the system by her side, there was no ceiling—only the next level.
---
The late morning sunlight filtered in through the tall windows of the FTII sound production classroom, illuminating the various machines, soundboards, and digital interfaces lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Ayesha sat cross-legged on the second row, her tablet open in front of her, stylus in hand, eyes focused with a hunger that could devour the very air around her.
It was the second week of the new semester, and today was one of her favorite modules: Musical Production Theory and Application. Her professor was a wiry, silver-haired man who had once been the background genius behind many of the late '90s indie hits. He had no patience for dilettantes, and he never spoke unless he had something worth saying. Ayesha loved that.
"Today," he began, pacing slowly across the front of the room, "we build from raw emotion. Not samples. Not loops. Emotion."
Ayesha felt a tingle run up her spine. This was exactly the kind of challenge she craved.
Her smartwatch pinged.
[System Notification: Skill-Based Lecture Detected – Activating Learning Sync Mode] [Experience Points Earned in Real-Time: 1.2x multiplier active for practical applications.]
Her stylus clicked in her hand.
The professor dragged a small keyboard and MIDI pad setup to the front. "We're going to experiment with fusion today. I want to hear pain with joy. Loss with rhythm. Layer it until it makes you feel something you can't name."
He gestured toward the class. "Singh, you go first."
Without hesitation, Ayesha stood and walked to the front. There was no fear anymore. FTII had taught her that art didn't wait for permission. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, slow at first. She began with a soft minor chord progression that reminded her of lonely monsoons back home in Uttar Pradesh.
The system tracked her mental state.
[Emotion Detected: Melancholy Nostalgia] [Musical Composition Stat Boosted: +2 for the session]
She shifted. A rap beat slowly layered in, delicate, like footsteps on marble. Then she added breathy high notes using the falsetto harmonization skill she'd unlocked weeks ago. Her own voice became an instrument, weaving in and out of the melody.
[Skill Activated: Falsetto Harmonization Lv.1] [Progress: 74% Mastery – Improvisational use detected – Bonus XP granted]
The class watched silently as she built a sonic landscape out of pain, grace, and street-style swagger. The professor didn't interrupt.
By the time she ended, a single final note hanging in the air like a frozen teardrop, even he had nodded in rare approval.
"Very good," he said. "That's a starting point. Don't forget it."
[System Notification: Experience Gained – Music Production: +1,050 XP] [New Title Unlocked: "Emotion Weaver"] [Progress to Level 8: 93%]
She returned to her seat, heart pounding not from fear but from the rush of doing something real.
The class continued. Other students came forward. Some impressive, some awkward, all trying to capture something human through machines.
Ayesha took notes rapidly, but not on what they were playing. Her system had long since activated a passive "Sensory Memory Transfer" function.
[Skill: Auditory Memory Lv.2 Active] [Learning Passive: Mimic and Analyze Sound Structures – +0.8x Composition Retention]
She learned by listening.
The class transitioned to DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) manipulation. Each student sat at a console, and the professor projected his screen to the front.
"Anyone can use software. Only a producer makes it sing."
He began layering a bass line into a pre-mixed sample, and Ayesha's system pulsed again.
[System Prompt: Adaptive Learning Mode Enabled] [Subfield Engaged: Experimental Fusion] [Hidden Objective: Create a track merging ballet string themes with lo-fi hip-hop – Reward: Advanced Loop Crafting Skill]
Her eyes widened.
Immediately, she got to work. On her screen, she opened a custom file she'd begun the night before – an idea born from a dream where she danced on clouds while city lights flickered beneath her.
She began with a violin pluck sample. Then she slowed the tempo, added synth overlays that mimicked delicate pointe steps. Her beat began to build – the percussion mimicking the dull thud of feet on wood and the soft rustle of ballet fabric.
Then came her voice. A soft hum, chopped into intervals, altered into a rhythmic background pulse.
[System Prompt: User Skill – Vocal Sampling Lv.3 Applied] [Bonus XP Activated for Experimental Integration]
She added layers.
A high-pitched melody inspired by a childhood music box.
A reverse-wind sound effect recorded during her last visit to the city square.
A tap sample from her own footwork.
Everything bled into each other with precision.
As the track looped back, a thrill surged in her chest. This wasn't a project. This was hers.
[System Notification: Music Production Skill Level Up – Now Level 8] [New Skill Unlocked: Loop Architecture (Basic)] [New Passive Learned: Precision Layering – 12% reduction in noise clashes during harmony development]
[New Title: "Loop Architect"]
She sat back in her chair, smiling to herself.
After class ended, the professor passed by her desk and gave her a look. "You're going to disrupt things," he said softly. "Good."
She stayed behind in the studio room even after others left. The air was cooler now, the sound equipment humming with quiet anticipation.
[Optional Mission: Publish New Track to SoundCloud within 24 Hours – Bonus: Reputation Growth + Exposure Metric Boost]
She tapped "Accept" and began mixing down the track.
The file name was simple: Cloud Ballerina.
As the export bar filled, she looked up at her reflection in the glass. She didn't just see herself. She saw potential.
FTII wasn't breaking her. It was refining her. Every challenge, every sleepless night mixing vocals or battling software bugs or missing meals to complete a chorus—they were all sharpening her sound.
Aisha wasn't just learning to be an artist.
She was becoming one.
---
The room hummed with the bass of BLACKPINK's "Whistle," each beat like a pulse through Aisha's body as she danced alone in her dorm room, arms cutting sharply through the air, feet sliding into position with the precision of someone who wasn't just imitating idols—she was studying them, breathing in their aura. The sound system wasn't anything professional, just a mid-range Bluetooth speaker she had managed to get from a second-hand store in Pune, but it did the job.
Aisha's thoughts floated quietly behind her eyes as she hit each move with practiced strength.
Thank you, she thought. Thank you for existing in this world, for making music like this. For showing me it's okay to be powerful and feminine, loud and soft, hard and vulnerable. Thank you, BLACKPINK.
It wasn't worship. It wasn't fandom. It was gratitude.
She was still learning all the choreographies, one by one. Every single one since debut. It wasn't even a conscious choice anymore; it was just what her soul wanted to do. The repetition soothed her, and it gave her something familiar to rely on in the ever-changing chaos of FTII and Pune.
After an hour, her shirt clung to her back, and strands of damp hair clung to her temples. She paused to catch her breath, wiping her face with the hem of her tank top. The mirror across her desk reflected back a girl who didn't look quite like the one from a year ago.
She stared. Observed.
Her hair, once chestnut-brown in her early teens, had deepened in shade. The sun, stress, maybe even her lifestyle in Pune, had darkened it into a rich, inky black that glinted cool blue under certain lights. Her eyes had changed too. Where once they were a warm, trusting brown, they now glinted a more ambiguous greyish-black—not cold, but unreadable, calm and steady. Her skin was impossibly clear, a natural porcelain that required no concealer or foundation. She barely used anything other than some balm and sunscreen.
And yet, recently, she had started experimenting.
She began small—just eyeliner. She liked bold strokes. Sometimes a sharp cat-eye, sometimes a smudged, smoky line that made her look fierce. Never mascara. Her lashes were long enough.
Lipstick? Rarely. And when she did wear it, it was something nude, natural. But her eye makeup was where she expressed herself. She could be dramatic there. Mysterious. Powerful.
It wasn't just makeup. Fashion had entered her radar like a storm.
During her late-night walks through the city, and her dives into Pinterest moodboards, she found herself drawn to streetwear—oversized bomber jackets, cargo pants, combat boots, chunky silver chains, mesh tops layered under graphic tees. There was something about it that screamed untouchable. It was armor.
But there was another side of her too.
The ethereal side. The part that adored sheer silks, flowing gowns with glittering beadwork, pearl detailing, and the soft shimmer of pastel tones. Jimmy Choo heels, Atelier couture—things she couldn't afford but dreamt of wearing on world stages. Dresses that made her feel like a floating mirage in moonlight.
Both styles made sense to her. Both were Aisha.
One was the warrior. The other was the dream.
She lined up her outfits on her bed. One was a baggy, navy blue sweatshirt with graffiti lettering and matching track pants with white stripes. The other was a delicate white chiffon dress with tiny silver sequins that caught the light.
She stood between the two like they were choices, when really, they weren't.
"I'm both," she said aloud.
The speaker had stopped. BLACKPINK's song had ended, but her rhythm hadn't.
Aisha sat on her chair, cross-legged, chin resting on her palm. The system interface pinged quietly in her mind, like a soft overlay.
[SYSTEM NOTICE] "Aisha has earned +15 Style Awareness Points." "New sub-trait unlocked: Aesthetic Identity."
She smirked at the text, dryly amused.
"Took you long enough," she muttered.
Then she opened a drawer, pulling out a soft velvet case. Inside were a pair of silver earrings shaped like crescent moons. She clipped them on, stood again in front of the mirror, and this time, smiled a little. A small smile. Enough to light up the eyes. Her eyes.
She would dance again tomorrow. She would write again tomorrow. But tonight was for her. For finding herself.
---
The hum of the ceiling fan blended seamlessly with the soft beat pulsing from Aisha's phone speaker. She was sprawled on the wooden floor of her dorm room, back arched against her large exercise ball, earphones in, legs bouncing gently in rhythm. Her notebook lay open beside her, filled with scribbled lines of lyrics, chord notations, and sudden thought bursts. It was 2:14 AM. The world outside was asleep. But Aisha's world? Wide awake.
Aisha wasn't in a rush. She never was when it came to her craft—not when it was this personal.
The track she had been building for the past week had no name. Not yet. But it had a soul.
It started with a low-pitched hum—her voice, raw, layered into a faint harmony. Then, a synth line rolled in like the slow current of a stream. The beat dropped unexpectedly at the 28-second mark, deep and crisp—produced entirely on her laptop using a mix of samples, hand-tapped percussive loops recorded on her desk, and synths she'd designed herself. Over this, her rap verses danced in that hypnotic, almost introspective cadence she was beginning to make her signature.
> "Didn't ask for the crown, but they left it in my room / I just wanted rhythm, but I found a whole monsoon…"
Aisha's voice flowed with measured precision, reflective, sharp, and vulnerable. Each verse pulsed with quiet confidence and a deep longing—her lyrical choices mature beyond her years.
This song wasn't for a competition. It wasn't for SoundCloud or some underground stage. It was for her. The beat was her solitude. The verses were her late-night thoughts. The harmonies? Her walls coming down—quietly, privately, momentarily.
She pulled her knees to her chest, staring at the ceiling with a faint smile.
"Let's shoot this," she whispered to herself. Not for views. Not for clout. Just for a keepsake—for proof that she had been here, and felt this deeply.
---
Scene Transition: Two Days Later
Her dorm desk had transformed into a mini production studio. One tripod. One ring light. One brand-new iPhone—gifted to her by her parents a few months back, after she topped her city in board exams. It was the only time she had accepted a material reward without guilt.
She carefully positioned her camera by the studio mirror. She had no crew, no director—just herself and her vision.
Outfit one: a loose, fire-red bomber jacket over a black crop top, high-waisted track pants, and Jordan sneakers. Her hair was tied into a sleek ponytail, sharp and clean. She looked at herself through the camera lens and hit record.
She moved with fluid confidence—her choreography sharp but deeply personal, every movement accentuated by a flick of her wrist, a shift in her gaze, the dip of her shoulders. She didn't copy anyone else this time. These moves were hers—created in long, silent nights dancing alone. The way her feet hit the beat, the way her breath aligned with the bridge. It wasn't flashy. It was intentional. Story-driven.
Cut to Outfit two: an ethereal, silver slip dress with pearl-dusted mesh sleeves. She had styled her hair down this time, flowing, soft waves framing her jawline. She wore no makeup, save for a touch of silver eyeliner that made her grey-black eyes shimmer.
This part of the video? She simply sang. Raw vocals, no filter. Standing by the window, catching natural golden-hour light, she let her voice carry the emotion that couldn't be danced out. She stared straight into the lens, as if telling the viewer: this is me—no persona, no armor, just Aisha.
Cut to final sequence: shots of her room, her handwritten lyrics, her laptop screen showing layers of music tracks, sticky notes, books, posters of Blackpink and old school hip-hop icons taped above her desk. B-roll of her walking the FTII campus at sunset, head down, hoodie up, hands in her pockets.
The video ended with a black screen and a line of text:
> "For no one but myself."
She rendered the video, watched it in full once. Then once more. Then again.
And then she smiled.
Not wide. But deep.
She attached the video to an email and sent it with the subject: "I made something for you."
To: Mom & Dad
---
: A Few Days Later – Evening
Aisha was curled on her dorm bed, reading a novel with lo-fi beats playing in the background, when her phone buzzed.
It was a video call from her dad. She hesitated a second—then picked up.
Her father's eyes were glassy. Her mother, standing beside him, looked radiant with pride.
"Beta," her dad said softly, voice thick with emotion. "That was… art. You made us feel something we didn't know music could. You're growing into someone extraordinary."
Aisha's throat tightened, but she kept her expression casual. "Thanks," she said, giving a faint smile. "It's just a small thing."
Her mom grinned. "You say that every time. And every time, we're more blown away. We're proud of you, sweetheart."
Aisha didn't reply immediately. She didn't need to. Her silence, her softened gaze, her slight nod—those were her way of saying: Thank you for seeing me.
---
December 2017 had settled over Pune with a chill in the air, but Aisha barely noticed. The days had begun to blur into one another as she threw herself into her third semester with unwavering focus. By now, she was halfway through her graduation program at FTII, and every day brought with it a new layer of intensity—new lessons in music theory, advanced audio production, and immersive studio labs. She'd built up her proficiency in DAWs like Logic Pro X and Ableton Live, and her system had recently leveled her Music Production skill to Intermediate Tier 2.
On the evening of December 28th, a soft chime rang in her ears as her system interface blinked into view.
[System Prompt:] "Congratulations, Aisha. Global K-Pop Survival Audition Program: FO:RGE has been greenlit by the upper echelon of Korean entertainment conglomerates. The online audition phase begins February 2018. You have two months to prepare. However, pre-audition content submissions are encouraged by March 2018. This is the pathway intended for your debut."
Aisha blinked. Her fingers hovered above her MIDI keyboard, the chord progression she'd been experimenting with now a distant background hum. Her heart thudded. This was it. The start of something real. Something irreversible.
[System Update:] "Audition Requirements:
Submit minimum one video in any of the following categories: Dance / Vocal / Rap
Maximum video length per category: 1 minute
Optional: Submit all three to increase your selection probability."
[System Recommendation Analysis:] "Based on your current stats and skill trajectory, it is advised that you prepare:
Dance: 1-minute freestyle performance combining hip-hop and contemporary fusion
Vocal: 1-minute live vocal performance showcasing vocal control, range, and falsetto
Rap: 1-minute original rap composition with multilingual integration (English + Hindi + Korean)"
"Target Perfection Score: 97+ Estimated Preparation Timeline: 10 weeks Modules Activated: High-Intensity Talent Training Protocol v3.2"
Aisha sat back, absorbing the full weight of what this meant. According to the system FO:RGE wasn't just any show. It was the most anticipated co-ed idol survival series, backed by top-tier K-pop entertainment labels and airing on a global platform. The stakes weren't just high—they were absolute.
Week 1–2: Concept Design + Mental Training She began by watching and rewatching legendary K-pop audition tapes and survival show clips, jotting down notes on presentation, stage presence, and X-factors. She studied Jennie's calm confidence, Taemin's body control, CL's charisma, and Lisa's stage command. But she wasn't trying to imitate. She wanted to understand how they communicated essence through performance.
The system also incorporated daily 15-minute mental conditioning sessions—guided visualizations, confidence training, breath control, and emotional anchoring. Her inner dialogue was clearer now, her trust issues gently massaged through performance therapy modules.
Week 3–4: Dance Video Prep Her dorm's common room was cleared every night by 10 PM, and that's when she moved. In the cold, unheated floors, barefoot or in her favorite Jordans, she choreographed and perfected every beat.
The song she chose was an original mix—a blend of EDM, trap, and a hint of classical strings. She merged sharp pops, hip isolations, and wave flows with ballet-inspired turns and floorwork. Every move had to be cinematic. Every look into the camera lens had to command.
She recorded trial clips every three days and watched them obsessively.
[System Assessment:] "Dance Technique: 94 Stage Presence: 88 Precision: 90 Improvement needed in: Transition Smoothness + Ending Pose Stability"
Week 5–6: Vocal Video Prep She chose an original ballad she had composed a year ago and reworked it with orchestral backing. It was vulnerable, honest. In her acoustic recording booth (i.e., the sound-treated corner of her dorm closet), she rehearsed the falsetto bridge until it stopped feeling like a ceiling and more like a step.
Each vocal session was followed by feedback from the system.
[System Assessment:] "Vocal Control: 92 Emotional Expression: 89 Pitch Stability: 93 Improvement needed in: Microdynamic Variance, Falsetto Sustain"
She sang it again. And again. She cried once. Then wiped her eyes and did it again.
Week 7–8: Rap Video Prep This was the hardest to settle on. She wanted to make it hers. Not overly produced, but not careless either. She wrote an original 60-second verse in three languages. Her bars flowed from Hindi into English and ended in a confident Korean outro.
The beat was self-made—thumping, confident, raw. She practiced breath control running stairs, her system pushing her VO2 max every morning with drills. She'd watch herself rap in the mirror and adjust her posture, her expressions, her pacing.
[System Assessment:] "Lyricism: 95 Flow: 93 Delivery: 90 Improvement needed in: Aggression Balancing, Eye Contact Execution"
Week 9–10: Filming Week She booked a local studio, simple white cyclorama walls, three-point lighting rig, and a DSLR setup. She shot all three videos over the span of four days. She wore minimalist outfits, no distractions, just presence.
She edited everything herself. Added subtitles, minor sound mastering, color correction. Her final output files were labeled:
DANCE_FINAL_V1.mp4
VOCAL_HEARTBRIDGE.mp4
RAP_AISHAKILLS.mp4
But she didn't send them. Not yet. She would, in March. When they were perfect.
Now, she was ready. Or close.
Closer than ever.
---
January 2018
The year began with a bite of cold air and the distant sound of fireworks still echoing in her memory. But for Aisha, the real explosion came not from the sky but from her phone.
> [SYSTEM PROMPT]
Congratulations. The moment has arrived. The global K-pop audition survival program FO:RGE will be announced officially in one week. You are advised to prepare performance videos in dance, vocal, and rap. This is the platform selected for your debut. Your moment. Your mission. Your destiny.
Aisha stared at the glowing screen. The corner of her lip twitched upward—but only for a second. Then her thumb pressed the power button, darkening everything.
She sat in silence.
So this was it.
The thing she had dreamt about with the intensity of a thousand comeback trailers. The thing she'd danced for till her knees felt like soggy biscuits. The thing she'd rapped for alone in her room until her walls started beatboxing with her.
And now, it was real.
And terrifying.
The silence in her dorm room was broken only by the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the muffled chorus of a girl group from the room next door—Red Velvet's "Peek-A-Boo," of course.
"Peek-a-boo indeed," she muttered, hugging her knees. "Life really just went 'Congratulations, now suffer.'"
The weight pressed on her chest like a failed high note.
Aisha didn't cry. Not really. But the heaviness didn't go away either. It settled, quietly, like fog over her. She stared at her phone for hours, not knowing what to say or do, and then finally, she did what she always did when the world felt too big: she went home.
---
At Home – Later That Week
Her father looked up from his book the moment she stepped in.
"You're early for the break," he said, though his voice was warm.
Aisha nodded, not bothering to drop her bags. She stood in the living room like a statue carved out of pure panic.
"Appa," she said.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to audition. For a K-pop survival show. Global one. It's called FO:RGE. It's everything. I think I have to do it." She paused, then added, "...Please don't tell Dadi."
Her mother entered with a cup of chai and blinked. "Why not tell her?"
"She still thinks BTS is a math coaching center," Aisha deadpanned.
Her parents exchanged a glance.
Her father set the book down. "Is this what you want?"
"It's what I've always wanted," she said. Then more quietly, "I'm scared, though."
"Do it scared," her mother said, walking over and pressing the chai into her hand. "Just do it."
Her father nodded, pride and concern etched on his face. "We'll be with you."
And just like that, the fog lifted a little.
---
March 25, 2018
The sun had no business shining that bright—it was debut day.
Stray Kids' District 9 MV had just dropped, and Aisha had already watched it three times before breakfast. The fire in her chest that she'd felt watching their survival show in 2017 had returned—brighter, hotter, and more personal.
She had been there. She had watched Bang Chan lead with the strength of ten suns and Han Ji Sung rap like he had six lungs. She had cheered, cried, and rewatched all twenty episodes like it was spiritual practice.
And now, today, was her day too.
Her iPhone was propped up on a tripod. The room was cleared. Her laptop was open, waiting for her audition clips.
She was wearing black cargo pants and a cropped tee that said, "Your bias could never."
Her makeup? Sharp eyeliner wings that could slice through SM Entertainment's vocal processing.
> [SYSTEM]
All systems calibrated. Evaluating uploads: Vocals – Complete. Rap – Complete. Dance – Complete.
Confidence – 93%. Nerves – 7%. Eyeliner – 100% Sharp.
Aisha laughed. "You're learning to be sarcastic. I love it."
She clicked send.
And with that, her heart left her chest and flew straight to Seoul.
She plopped down on her bed, grabbed her headphones, and hit play on District 9 one more time.
The MV was chaos—glorious, synchronized chaos.
"Felix's voice should be illegal," she muttered. "How is he simultaneously a baby chick and the voice of the underworld?"
Then she paused. Rewound. Rewatched.
"Changbin's rap? I felt that in my bones. Han's flow? God tier. Hyunjin's hair? That's not just a look, that's a federal offense."
The music blasted through her room, and she headbanged lightly, then whispered, "I'm gonna stand on that stage. Not just because I want to. But because I have to."
Then she opened Twitter.
> #District9
#StrayKidsDebut
#StanTalentStanStrayKids
She smiled. A wave of something warm settled over her. Determination. And a little giddiness.
She posted a private tweet to her locked fan account:
"Sent my FO:RGE audition today. Feeling off. Shiny and mildly unhinged."
---
Later That Night
Her system pinged again.
> [SYSTEM UPDATE]
Audition submission: Successful.
Analysis: You are the top 0.003% in combined score for rap, dance, and vocal.
Response from program: Pending.
> Recommended Next Task: Rest. You did well today.
Aisha smiled and whispered, "Thanks."
She got under the covers, a Stray Kids playlist playing softly in the background.
As she drifted off to sleep, she imagined the stage lights on her face, the beat pulsing under her skin, the roar of a crowd calling her name.
She wasn't there yet. But she was on the way.
And she was going to burn the stage down. Sarcastically. Passionately. Quietly. Loudly.
Just like her.
---
Absolutely. Here's the final scene of Volume 1 — a soft, radiant, and powerful moment for Aisha, told partly from a bystander's point of view to highlight her beauty, presence, and hope as she steps into her destiny. It ends the volume with warmth, ambition, and grace.
---
April 5, 2018
The sun was golden that afternoon, casting everything in the city in a hazy glow, like someone had added a soft filter to the world.
It was her birthday. Her eighteenth. And Aisha hadn't woken up feeling any different — not until she looked at her bank statement, smiled, and finally said aloud:
"This is it. I'm an adult. A broke one, but an adult nonetheless."
She had busked every weekend on the metro steps with a beat-up guitar and a smile. She had tutored two younger kids in Math and English, even though she hated their gossip mother with passion untold. She had sold homemade earrings to her classmates, negotiated rates like a seasoned CEO, and once wrote a breakup song for a senior girl who paid her in Starbucks gift cards and eternal gossip.
And today — finally — she walked into the tech store like she owned it.
---
She ran her hand over the silver laptop casing, then opened it reverently. The sales assistant had started saying something about discounts and extended warranties, but she wasn't really listening.
Her gaze was on the screen — the new canvas where her dreams would live, bloom, and maybe even bleed a little.
"I'll take this one," she said. Her voice was calm. Steady.
The transaction beeped through. She paid in full. No hesitation. She had earned every rupee.
Outside, the sky had turned into pastel watercolor.
---
Later That Evening – Visa Center
She held her papers in a neat little folder — passport, ID photos, proof of funds, letter of explanation that sounded formal but was basically:
"Hi, I'm going to be famous. Please let me in."
She handed it to the clerk with both hands. Her nails were painted lavender.
"Purpose of travel?" the clerk asked without looking up.
"Art," Aisha answered.
The woman looked up now, a little amused.
"That's vague."
Aisha shrugged, her smile lazy and irreverent. "So is destiny."
---
Meanwhile – On the Street, a Bystander's Point of View
She walked out of the building just as the breeze picked up. For a split second, time seemed to pause.
A girl — no, a vision — glided down the concrete like sunlight given form. She wore a yellow sundress that fluttered just enough to look cinematic, not chaotic. Her black hair fell in loose waves down her back, catching the light with every step. Her skin was impossibly pale, like moonlight dressed in gold, and her smile… it wasn't wide, but it was alive.
She walked like someone who had secrets. Beautiful ones.
Her humming — soft, melodic, something between a lullaby and a promise — wove around her like a charm spell. She moved with a grace that wasn't forced or trained, but born of certainty. A dancer's posture. A queen's ease. She was tall — five foot nine and half, maybe taller in those cute white sneakers — and shaped like every god in the sky had argued over her silhouette.
The boy who watched her from across the street had meant to cross the road. Instead, he forgot the light was green.
---
Back to Aisha – The Girl Herself
She didn't notice the staring. She was too caught up in the song under her breath, a melody she hadn't written down yet.
The audition results weren't out. Not officially.
But she knew.
Not in the loud, brash way people know things.
In the quiet way fireflies know when to rise. In the certain way the moon shows up, even when no one claps for it.
Her phone buzzed in her new tote bag. She let it ring.
Tonight, she'd celebrate her birthday with cake, maybe cry a little over a cheesy K-drama finale, and then wake up tomorrow to practice again.
The road ahead was wild.
But today, she walked like a girl who had just stepped into the first chapter of a legend.
And the world watched her go — humming, glowing, unstoppable.
---
[END OF VOLUME 1]
Sneak peak of Volume 2 :
The sky above Seoul was a delicate lilac at dusk — the kind of sky that made even the jaded pause.
And he did.
A tall boy, handsome in a way that didn't try to be, stood in the golden haze of early spring. Dark hair tousled, blue eyes burning unnaturally — streaked with lavender in the right light — he tilted his head as if trying to figure her out.
"You," he said, voice smooth but curious, like a note half-played on a cello. "Do you make music?"
Aisha blinked. The world seemed to slow.
Before she could answer — chaos.
From her left, a stunningly elegant boy, European by the look of him, with soft brown hair and a guitar case slung across his shoulder, miscalculated his step and tripped spectacularly over Aisha's sneakers.
"Whoa—!" he gasped, crashing chest-first into a tiny, sharp-featured Korean girl with her hair tied in pigtails and a death glare that could stop traffic.
"Ack!" she shrieked as they both went tumbling down.
And as fate — or pure K-drama nonsense — would have it, one flailing hand smacked the phone from a passing blonde boy's grip. He turned slowly, eyebrows already halfway to a full-on brawl.
"Are you serious?" he hissed in fluent Korean, English, and probably emotional telepathy.
Aisha stood in the middle of the fray, jaw slack.
This was not in her system's plan.
And yet—somewhere deep in her chest, something whispered:
It begins.
---