Trainee Ch.32

Chapter 32: The First Performance (5)

It was nothing new to see fans waiting outside the dorm building during commuting hours.

On the way to the practice location after the performance songs had been assigned, everyone had already experienced the same scene—it wasn’t much different from the first day after the initial stage recording.

During the trip, Lai Yudong heard several fans calling out his name. Somewhat surprised, he smiled back at them and, imitating Mo Li and the others, made several heart-hand signs in return, which earned him a continuous flurry of shutter clicks.

The strange feeling brought on by this “fan service mode” was even more intense than taking selfies in the mystery box.

But he hadn’t expected that fans would still be waiting this late at night. As soon as he stepped out of the building, a loud and energetic “Yuzu—!” rang out, startling him so much he jolted—he almost thought he had wandered into a farmer’s market by mistake.

He had thought this kind of welcome only happened on the first day of recording—after all, he wasn’t as well-known as Mo Li and the others.

Startled but flattered, Lai Yudong looked toward the source of the shout. The fans were quite a distance away, and he could only vaguely make out a few people holding up phones with flashlight mode turned on. In the dark, they flickered like scattered fireflies, faint light clustering together to shine on him.

To get his attention, the white beams swayed back and forth nonstop.

The moment he turned his head, the happiness and excitement of being noticed made the lights wave even more enthusiastically—dancing like flames flickering in the wind, alive and unyielding.

“Yuki! Get some rest!”

“Eat on time!”

“We’ll be waiting for you on the first performance stage!”

“Good night, baby! See you tomorrow!”

“Yuzu, talk more on camera!”

Their voices broke through the distance, and though there were only a few of them, the energy they carried felt like that of dozens.

The anticipation from his supporters injected new energy into a day that had left him physically and mentally exhausted. If before, Lai Yudong had been working hard merely to clear the “level” he was thrown into, then now, there was a heartfelt urgency growing in him—a need to answer the love he received with results onstage.

It was such a cold night, and they had waited outside for so long. That in itself was already too much.

Especially when it wasn’t even for anything important—just to catch a glimpse of him after practice. And yet here he was, barefaced and disheveled, his clothes soaked and dried several times over. It felt as unworthy as someone making a long trip to the museum just to see a potted plant by the entrance.

If he performed poorly, he would truly feel he had let down their expectations.

But right now, what mattered most was responding to their calls.

Lai Yudong raised his arms above his head and made the clearest heart shape possible within the limits of the setting. After holding it for a few seconds, he spread his hands open and, eyes curved in a bright smile, waved toward that patch of man-made starlight.

Even as he stepped toward the dorm building, whenever someone called his name, he would still turn slightly to look their way, smiling sweetly as he greeted them. He kept this up until his figure finally disappeared into the building and out of the fans’ view.

It was a sincere, physical declaration that he wasn’t ignoring them.

Watching the entire sequence unfold, Zhou Rui couldn’t help but marvel inwardly—this friend of his really had a knack for fan service.

Let alone someone who had never been part of the entertainment industry, even new trainees rarely handled such situations this well. They typically reacted in one of two ways: either flustered and visibly awkward, or with a quick smile and wave before brushing past the whole thing.

Oh—and then there was the third case: not having any fans at all.

In any case, very few people could naturally pull off such a smooth combo of heart gestures, hand waves, and backward glances, especially off the clock, during after-hours.

Zhou Rui said with certainty, “Yuki, your ranking is definitely going up.”

Judging by how things looked during the commute, he had every reason to believe that Miura Yuki’s popularity was already skyrocketing.

In the first ranking episode, the two of them had only been five spots apart, so logically, their popularity should’ve been similar. But not a single person had called Zhou Rui’s name—that was understandable. Instead, it gave him the strange feeling of walking alongside a trending contestant.

Unless it was an unusually die-hard fan, no one would wait outside until 4 a.m. in the dead of winter just to see someone irrelevant.

“I hope so too,” Lai Yudong replied, thinking Zhou Rui was encouraging him as usual. He returned the blessing, “You’ll definitely rise in the ranks as well.”

Zhou Rui drooped his head, sounding deflated. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You’re the center. Everyone will see you.”

“If the stage turns out well… right?”

The moment those words left his mouth, the two of them fell silent. A wave of unpleasant memories surfaced, and they both let out a long sigh in unison—saying nothing, yet everything was understood.

Their group wasn’t weak, and yet somehow gave off the impression of eight people crammed into a beat-up old tricycle—like a Damocles’ sword was hanging over their heads, ready to come crashing down and blow that poor tricycle into a mushroom cloud at any moment.

No one knew what kind of performance their group would manage to deliver.

Lai Yudong returned to dorm 707, lost in his thoughts. He had assumed that his roommates would already be asleep at this hour, but through the crack in the door, he could see the light still on inside, and faint voices belonging to Liang Zhisheng and Li Xu drifting out.

He paused for a moment at the door to collect himself, not wanting to walk in looking so worn out and make the others worry.

“…How do I put this… your expression really doesn’t go well with the word ‘cute.’ You get what I mean, right?”

Dressed in fleece-lined pajamas, Liang Zhisheng sat at the desk, offering Li Xu—who looked visibly conflicted—a tactful critique. At that moment, someone knocked on the door. He turned and called out, “Yuki, Yuki, come take a look too. Xu An and I shouldn’t be the only ones suffering here.”

Lai Yudong stepped into the room and took off his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. “What’s going on?”

Liang Zhisheng spoke with mock solemnity: “Our classmate Li Xu has truly explosive facial expressions.”

The corner of Lai Yudong’s mouth twitched as a very specific scene surfaced in his mind—Li Xu giving a devilish smirk while wiping his lips.

Sometimes, having a good memory wasn’t necessarily a blessing.

Liang Zhisheng raised his hand and flicked it with flair. “Li Xu, give Yuki a demo!”

“No way,” Li Xu snapped, both embarrassed and annoyed. He was about to flop down into a chair to show his refusal when Xu An, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, pressed a hand to his lower back, stopping him mid-motion so that he hovered awkwardly in a half-squat, half-stand.

The instigator of all this gave a sheepish smile. “Come on, Yuki’s not going to make a difference, right? We all watched it—only fair. That way we can give you better feedback.”

“…”

Li Xu stared in disbelief at the short-haired boy. His once-trusted roommate had somehow, without warning, transformed into a devil hiding in plain sight. “Do you even know what you’re saying right now?”

Xu An blinked innocently. “What? Did I say something wrong…?”

[Is Xu An secretly manipulative?]

[Been a fan for three years—Xu An never has bad intentions. He probably does mean it that way…]

[Got it. He’s a natural-born savage.]

Lai Yudong, who had once been a victim himself, felt this deeply in his soul.

When he caught Li Xu glancing at him for help, he responded with a polite smile—and then delivered the final blow without mercy: “Let’s see it?”

“…What’s there to see!” Li Xu grumbled.

Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, Li Xu was forced to surrender. He stood on an empty patch of floor in front of a white wall, muttering about how they were making a big deal out of nothing. He struck a typical tough-guy rapper pose as if he didn’t care at all—but his face had turned bright red.

He gave a small, awkward cough, then started singing a segment from “Cheese,” pairing it with the newly learned choreography. From the details alone, it was clear that he had practiced the song and dance to a highly refined level.

But only the singing and dancing part.

In an instant, Lai Yudong completely understood what Liang Zhisheng meant when he made that comment earlier.

From the lyrics to the melody, the movements to the expressions, the core of “Cheese” was sweetness and cuteness. And yet, Li Xu had boldly chosen to walk in the complete opposite direction. Whether it was his overly aggressive peace signs, eye twitches disguised as winks, or chipmunk cheeks puffed up with 100% air, every move screamed that God had forgotten to give him even a single drop of cuteness when He made him.

A long, excruciating dozen or so seconds passed. Even Liang Zhisheng—who had already seen it once—was barely holding it together. He hugged a pillow tightly, pressing it over the lower half of his face in case he accidentally burst out laughing and shattered Li Xu’s fragile dignity.

And then there was Xu An—who, bafflingly, clapped in support. That well-meaning gesture only made the awkward silence hanging in the room even more suffocating.

Li Xu’s face practically said, ‘You’d have done me a favor by not clapping at all.’

Only one person hadn’t spoken yet.

Meeting the slightly hopeful gaze of the red-haired boy, Lai Yudong hesitated before speaking. “You kind of remind me of…”

Li Xu raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“A pufferfish.”

“…”

[I laughed myself awake in the middle of the night.]

[To be fair, that’s actually kind of a cute comparison.]

[No lies were told—pufferfish are spiky. Hahaha.]

Liang Zhisheng was laughing so hard he nearly strangled his pillow. “Out of all songs… why did your group have to get this one?”

Li Xu’s face was thunderous. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

[@Qu Xincheng, look what you’ve done.]

[The Crown Prince has spoken—who dares defy him!]

After teasing the now-mute and self-exiled Li Xu as he climbed into bed, Liang Zhisheng turned his attention to the last roommate to return. “How’s your group? Going okay?”

This time, it was Lai Yudong’s turn to be emotionally wrecked.

He wasn’t the type to openly express negative emotions, so he just gave a subtle, bitter smile. “It’s okay.”

Liang Zhisheng understood immediately. Trying to comfort him by sharing his own group’s disaster, he said, “Okay is already good. Our group argued for half the day.”

“Argued?”

Lai Yudong thought he was exaggerating. Even in their own group, things had never escalated to that point—especially with all the cameras constantly filming them.

“Yeah.” Liang Zhisheng shrugged helplessly. He was in the ‘All Night’ group—the one Lai Yudong’s team had originally wanted to choose. “There were disagreements over part distribution. We only resolved it this afternoon, so we lost a lot of time. But even after that, people had different views on how much we should practice, so more small conflicts happened. Hopefully things smooth out in the next couple of days.”

Lai Yudong could completely relate. The only difference was that no one in their group had actually argued. “So that’s why you came back so late?”

“Yeah. Didn’t expect everyone else to be back around this time too.”

“Our group didn’t argue,” came Li Xu’s voice from the top bunk—it seemed he had already recovered his mood. “We didn’t set a fixed end time. We practiced until past 3 a.m. and stopped when someone couldn’t stay awake anymore. Then we agreed to meet at 1 p.m. tomorrow.”

Xu An, from ‘Spring Color’ Group A, joined the conversation as well: “Our performance focuses more on vocals, so we get more free practice time. I’m only still at it ‘cause I suck at dancing.”

Lai Yudong did a quick mental calculation. Even if the ‘Cheese’ Group B only regrouped in the afternoon, the amount of time they had for sleep and rest was still shorter than what his group got.

Not that everyone needed to train together at the same time—but he doubted his teammates were as self-motivated as Xu An when it came to staying late for extra practice.

Seeing one roommate after another—none of whom were even that determined to debut—treat the first performance with such seriousness, Lai Yudong couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.

Please allow him to take back the nonsense he’d declared during the theme song evaluation.

It wasn’t Dorm 707 that was doomed—it was Peppermint Group A.

Even so, Lai Yudong’s approach to practice would never be swayed by outside factors. Even if a teammate suddenly announced they planned to stand motionless on stage, he would still give his all and perform in the best condition he could manage.

…

The next morning, bright and early, Lai Yudong finished breakfast and left the dorm. Amid greetings and warm wishes from fans, he arrived at another building—becoming the first person to reach the practice room.

Yes, the very first, even across both groups. He arrived thirty minutes earlier than Group B, whose call time was 9:00 AM.

It was his way of putting Su Junzhe’s advice about early morning reinforcement into action.

[Wait, did I read that right? Is Yuki in Group A or B?]

[Group A—the one where Zhou Rui is center.]

[I saw posts this morning saying he didn’t get off work until past 3 a.m.]

[So he barely slept then?]

[You must be new. Yuki’s always been like this.]

One of the comments reminded Lai Yudong of the camera. He walked up to it, smiled, and gave a little wave. “Good morning.”

[OMG he’s so close]

[My heart just stopped… that face… it’s perfect.]

[Good morning, baby! (kiss emoji)]

“I don’t know if this will actually reach you.”

His gentle baritone flowed like a quiet stream, washing away all traces of early morning drowsiness. With soft pauses after every few words, the fragmented delivery only highlighted the shy reserve of someone not used to speaking on camera.

“You really don’t have to wait for me after work. It’s too cold out there. You’ll catch a cold. And it’s not safe at night.”

The pale-blond boy curled his lips into a faint smile, and that warmth softened his otherwise sharp, stoic features—radiating a charm that felt almost magical, like it could make someone drown in his beauty.

From the other side of the screen, he looked so close, almost within reach—yet it felt like he was trapped behind the glass. If only one could respond to his request, maybe then, he could be freed.

“If possible, please wait for me on the stage.”

“I hope…”

He lowered his lashes, and when he looked up again, a soft smile tugged at his lips. “…you’ll see a better version of me.”

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