Hollow Where My Heart Should Be

tick...tick...tick

The van was silent.

Not the kind of silence that comes from peace—but the thick, pressurized kind. The kind that sat on your chest. Made every breath feel like an effort. Like you were about to walk into war, and everyone knew it, but no one wanted to be the first to say it.

Outside the tinted window, the city glided past in smeared streaks of grey and gold. Neon signs blinked in automated rhythm. Towers of glass curved like blades into the sky. Even the clouds looked too clean—like they'd been photoshopped onto the horizon.

Inside, five boys sat in rows of two. Julian alone in the back.

tick...tick...tick

The sound wasn't real.

Not loud.

But he felt it. In the hollow place beneath his ribs. In the metal that hummed faintly behind his breastbone. He stared out the window, chin resting against his knuckles.

They were on their way to the Star Program facility—a compound that, until now, had only existed to them as rumor and holograms. A place for the new gods. And they were going there as sacrifices.

His mind shaked as he remembered their discussion a few ago

---

Six months after the collapse

The rain had seeped through the ceiling again. Their agency had taken everything or at least everything they could. Julian stared at the spreading water stain above the couch, watching it form the vague shape of a lopsided heart. It pulsed slightly as droplets gathered, bloated, and fell—soft plops that echoed in the hollow rehearsal room.

"Thieves and betrayers".he thought, they deserved better than this.

No one spoke.

The fluorescent lights flickered like they were thinking of giving up. One already had. The heater was busted, so someone had brought in an old quilt and draped it over Julian's shoulders while he dozed on the couch. It smelled like reheated oil and incense—probably from Tae's place. He didn't mind.

"Six months," George said said at last, voice tight and quiet. "We said we'd give it eighteen. That leaves us with twelve."

"No," Marvo corrected. He was perched by the window, knees to his chest, scribbling in a beat-up notebook. "Twelve would've been three weeks ago. We've got eleven and a half."

"Not helping," Ren muttered. He was cross-legged on the floor, fixing a broken ear monitor with surgical intensity. He'd dyed his hair black again—something about going back to basics. No one asked.

Julian let the quilt slip from his shoulder. The chill clung to his skin.

"Maybe we should just say it," George said. "That we're not coming back. We could do one last show, close the chapter clean."

Ren snorted without looking up. "Close it clean? With what money? What venue? We can't even get booked for a college festival."

Silence.

It was the same conversation they'd been having in spirals for months now. Since that night—that night—when Julian collapsed mid-performance, body crumpling like a marionette with snapped strings. The headlines had eaten them alive.

"Drug scandal?"

"Health scare or sabotage?"

"Faking for attention?"

Even after the truth—vague as it was—settled ("overwork and low blood sugar," the label had announced), the damage was done. Their small agency dropped them two weeks later. "Reevaluating artist priorities." Bullshit. No brand wanted to be associated with unstable idols.

It was inevitable. Their agency didn't really care after all, they were just boys that survived the slums. And with this defeat, it had cemented to the agency that they might never truly be free of the slums.

They weren't completely alone. A few ride-or-die fans had stayed, rallied even. Some indie producers still responded to Aji's demos. But when you weren't perfect—visibly perfect—you were invisible. Especially now.

The idol scene had shifted in six months. Everything sleek. Engineered. Everyone beautiful in the same haunting, symmetrical way. The Star Program had launched the very first wave of "Ascended Idols," sculpted from curated genes, synthetic vocal cords, and the sort of public favor money could buy. They were everywhere—24/7 Smile, No Fatigue, No Flaws, No Room for You.

The group had tried. God, they'd tried.

And now they had lost. As children they had given everything.

They played street festivals. Sang in echoing warehouses. Released a digital EP that got 400 downloads—most of them from the same thirty people. But the tide hadn't shifted.

"We can't afford another six months of hope," George said. "We should all just move on. Marvo could solo. Tae could produce. Julian—"

Julian blinked. "What about me?"

"...You could rest."

Rest. Like a terminal patient. Like a pity project.

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs off the couch. "What if we don't move on?"

Tae raised an eyebrow. "What's left to try?"

Julian hesitated.

"The Star Program."

The room went still.

Even the ceiling leak seemed to pause, mid-drip.

"You're joking," Ren said flatly.

"No."

"They'd eat us alive," George said. "We don't belong in that world."

"I know."

"They don't want us."

"I know."

"Julian," Ren said, soft now. "You're the reason they think we're broken."

That stung. But it wasn't wrong.

"I'm also the reason people used to care," Julian replied.

"We give it one more shot," he said. "Not a slow bleed. Not a fade-out. One last try, full force. If we fail, we fail knowing we didn't falter."

And for eleven and a half more months—they were not done.

---

He remembered when they first called themselves a group.

NOX.

Back then, they didn't have a name. Just an abandoned gym with a cracked mirror and a busted speaker they'd salvaged from a junkyard. The mirror had a web of fractures down the center. Julian always ended up dancing right in front of it.

He used to joke that it fit him.

---

Four years ago.

It had rained that night. The roof of the training room leaked in three places. Kai was counting beats, fast and clean, snapping fingers like a metronome.

Ren fell again.

"Your center of gravity is garbage," George groaned.

Ren flipped him off from the floor, laughing. "Your mom's gravity is garbage."

Marvo, still twelve then and barely taller than the speakers, tried to hide a giggle behind his hoodie.

Tae didn't speak. He just helped Ren up and reset the sequence.

Julian had watched them. All of them. Broken in different ways, but moving together. It was the first time he felt like maybe he belonged somewhere—even if he still couldn't name what that feeling was.

tick...tick...tick

---

In the present, George sat nearest the door. His jaw was tense, and he kept flexing his fingers. His hands always did that when he was overthinking. Julian didn't ask. He didn't need to.

They all knew what this meant.

---

Marvo, age 13.

He'd come to Julian with a bleeding lip and a half-filled form.

"They said I could audition with a guardian's signature," he'd whispered.

Julian had forged it that night with a shaking pen and a stolen ID number. He'd never told anyone.

Marvo had cried in the bathroom when they passed the first round.

"I didn't think they'd say yes," he said.

Julian had handed him a wet paper towel. "You earned it."

---

A soft voice brought him back.

"Julian?"

Ren. Sitting in the seat just ahead, twisted sideways, eyes dark and unreadable.

"You good?"

Julian nodded once.

Ren didn't look convinced.

"You're always quiet," he said. "But lately, it's different. Like... disconnected."

Julian shrugged. "Just nervous."

Ren smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

"We've already made it this far."

That was the lie they all told themselves. That "this far" meant something. That surviving meant winning.

---

First showcase, 3 years ago.

Only ten people showed up. Half were just there for the free drinks.

Tae's hand shook before they went on. George's voice cracked in the final verse. Ren tripped during the first dance break and played it off with a laugh.

Julian had felt nothing.

No nerves. No joy. Just the rhythm in his head and the weight of eyes on his skin.

The audience had clapped anyway. Not loud. But they clapped.

And that night, Marvo had hugged him around the middle and whispered, "You're the best brother in the world."

Julian didn't reply.

But he remembered the way it made his throat feel tight.

tick...tick...tick

---

Back in the van, the facility was coming into view.

The building rose from the ground like a promise or a threat—tall, gleaming, immaculate. Each panel of mirrored glass reflected the city behind them, warped and glittering like melted stars.

"Damn," Ren breathed.

Marvo pressed his face to the glass. "It's real."

Tae just nodded once. He hadn't spoken since they left.

Julian stared at their reflection in the windows. The van itself was mirrored. For a moment, he couldn't tell who was who. Their faces blurred together—five silhouettes. Imperfect. Tired. Real.

Something tugged at him.

Not pain.

Nor memory.

More like... recognition.

Like a system trying to wake up, to break free.

---

They stepped out of the van one by one.

Flashes burst from the line of cameras stationed across the drive. Fans stood behind chrome barricades, holding up phones and crying out names. Some cheered. Others whispered.

Julian kept his face still. Smile soft. Eyes focused. He knew how to be seen.

Marvo waved. George nodded at the press. Ren made a heart with his hands. Tae walked with practiced grace.

They moved in formation without needing to speak.

---

As they crossed the threshold into the facility, Julian glanced up.

Above the doors, etched in silver on matte black glass, were the words:

"Perfection Is Purpose."

His chest clicked.

Once.

Then again.

tick...tick...tick

He didn't falter.

But he felt it.

Deep inside. Beneath bone and skin and circuitry.

Like a warning.

And....a beginning.