Heartbeat // JK

17- Echoes

The subway lurched like it was trying to throw me off before I even got there. My shoulder was trapped between a kid with a slime-covered backpack and a guy playing Candy Crush at a volume that made me wonder if there was a cash prize for annoying strangers.

My phone was at 87%, but my stomach felt closer to 3%.

I smoothed my skirt — the one that usually made me feel like I had my life together, even if that was a documented lie. The blazer fit fine this morning, but now it was clinging to my arms like it knew I was nervous. My lucky necklace from my first open mic was tucked just under my collarbone, like it might hold me together if things went bad.

Jacket on. Jacket off. Jacket back on.

Is this too much? Too me? Should I have gone all black? Something that says I'm professional and unthreatening instead of "please like me before I even sing"?

The subway window gave me back a version of myself that looked like she'd been up all night rehearsing how not to flinch.

Earbuds in. I pressed play on the raw demo from yesterday — the one I recorded without trying to be perfect.

Play. Winced. Stop.
Skip to verse two. Stop again.

It's too raw. Too me.
And yet I pressed play one more time. Just long enough to remember it had meant something when I sang it.

I scrolled to my messages. Jungkook's name was right there. The voice memo from yesterday still unopened.
I wanted to hear it.
But if I did now — if I let his voice in — I might forget how to keep my knees from buckling before I even made it inside.

Not now. This was about me.

I locked my phone and typed to Namjoon.

On my way. Trying not to implode.
Delivered.

A few seconds later, his reply lit the screen.

Implode later. Be magic now.

Mentor advice. Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one about to sing for people who could decide the next year of his life with a single raised eyebrow.

The train rattled into the next stop. Crosby Street was only a few away. I tucked my hands under my thighs to hide the shaking and told myself, Just show up. Just sing.

The subway smell still clung to my coat when I stepped inside.
The lobby was all glass and chrome, the kind of clean that made you aware of every wrinkle in your clothes.

My boots hit the tile too loud. I slowed, like that might help. It didn't.

Behind the front desk, a woman in a tailored blazer and perfect eyeliner looked up from her iPad. One earpod in, mid-scroll.

"Name?"

"Eva Simon."

She tapped once, eyes skimming me — not lingering long enough to be rude, but enough that I felt her filing me somewhere.

"Starlane, with Hale."

She slid off her stool, already walking toward the elevators. No handshake. No welcome.

Just, "Follow me."

I did, tucking my hands into my sleeves.
The hallways were too white. Too quiet. Every step felt like it was echoing into a room I hadn't even reached yet.

I followed her, keeping half a step behind. The hallway felt colder than the lobby, lined with platinum plaques and oversized photos of artists mid-performance. I knew their names without reading the captions. I didn't look too long — staring at other people's milestones before walking into your own audition was a fast way to trip over your own feet.

The assistant's pace didn't slow. Her heels clicked against the polished floor in a steady, unbothered rhythm. She didn't check if I was keeping up. People like her didn't need to — if you couldn't match their speed, you didn't belong here.

We stopped at a matte black door with no sign. No noise leaked from inside.

She turned just enough to glance at me.

"They're ready."

No smile. No good luck. Just the same flat professionalism that made it clear this was just another slot in the schedule.

My fingers found the chain at my collarbone. I breathed once, slow, and pushed the door open before I could think about it.