Chapter 2 The Girl With The Torn Pages

They told us not to ask about Zion Park.

"They said he left the program," Coach Tae had snapped with finality, eyes cold beneath the fluorescent buzz of the rehearsal room.

Like it was that simple. Like someone as perfect as Zion could just... vanish.

But people don't just disappear from VAERA Dream Academy.

Not without whispers.

Not without blood.

And definitely not without someone trying to hide the truth.

My name is Kimora Black, and I wasn't supposed to be here.

Not in this school.

Not in this world.

But here I am-standing at the gates of the most elite K-pop-inspired idol academy in Nigeria, where Afrobeat rhythms and Korean pop collide under spotless studio lights.

My braids are pulled tight and neat, edges laid to perfection, skin glowing bronze under the Lagos sun. I'm dressed in the signature VAERA girl uniform: crisp black pleated skirt, white-trimmed collar shirt, matte knee socks, and my sneakers clean enough to pass inspection. Still, I feel like a glitch in someone else's perfect performance.

They say VAERA trainees are idols in the making-beautiful, controlled, desirable.

I grew up in Ekosodin, where people didn't have time to be desirable. You either survived or got swallowed.

The girl who stares back at me from the mirrored studio wall looks like someone else. She looks confident. Powerful. Like she belongs here. But she doesn't.

I don't.

Not yet.

Because I haven't told anyone that I found something.

Something I wasn't supposed to.

The moment I stepped out of the tinted VAERA shuttle bus, the air changed.

It was lighter. Cooler. Almost... artificial. Like the whole campus had its own atmosphere, different from the rest of Lagos.

VAERA Dream Academy stood like a glass pyramid, rising into the sky like something out of a futuristic music video. Chrome-lined edges. Holographic lights. The VAERA logo rotated above the main entrance in clean Hangul and gold serif English.

I'd seen it in videos. Interviews. Scandals.

Never in person.

My fingers clutched my duffel bag tighter as the doors slid open with a whisper.

Inside, it was almost too quiet.

Even though twenty other girls stepped through those same doors alongside me, it felt like I was the only one breathing loud. The only one sweating through her uniform. The only one whose heart was pounding like a kick drum.

Then I saw her.

Sasha Onome.

Standing in the middle of Studio 5A with one hand on her hip like she'd already debuted and won Artist of the Year. Her uniform was customized-still regulation black and white, but the cut was tailored, and her silver pin was shaped like a star instead of the standard triangle. Her honey-blonde wig curled just enough to look effortless. Her almond-shaped eyes scanned each girl like she was calculating threats. Her nails were glossy nude, almond-tipped, with a single rhinestone on each ring finger.

She looked like someone who could kill with a look.

And the second she saw me, she did.

"You're the wildcard," Sasha said, her voice too sweet. "Kimora Black. From YouTube, right?"

I nodded slowly, unsure if she was complimenting me or setting me up.

She smiled with all her teeth. "Cute. Raw talent. That's what Coach Tae called it, right? You're the one with the voice that cracks when she hits D5."

I tried to breathe through my nose.

"Guess I better work on that," I said, forcing a smile.

She tilted her head. "Yeah. You better."

Before I could respond, a door slammed open.

Coach Tae entered like a storm wrapped in muscle and precision.

Black slacks. Gray VAERA shirt. Hair gelled so tight it might've been painted on. His presence sucked the oxygen from the room. Every girl straightened. Phones disappeared into pockets. Smiles vanished.

"You are not idols," he said in a thick Korean-Nigerian accent, pacing in front of us. "You are products. Works in progress. If you want to debut, you will listen. Obey. Cry later."

He stopped in front of Sasha. She didn't flinch.

Then he turned to me.

"You are Kimora Black?"

"Yes, sir."

His gaze flicked to the tablet in his hand. "Rough edges. Audition submitted at the last minute. Zero formal training. Unstable vibrato. Conflict history."

I froze. "That's not-"

"You're here because of potential. Don't make me regret it."

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

" You won't survive on vocals alone," he continued. "You will train like your life depends on it. Because it does."

The way he said it made my skin prickle.

Orientation didn't last long.

We were split into dorms. Girls Block B. Third floor. Four beds per room. I ended up with Mei, a soft-spoken girl from Abuja who danced like she was weightless, and Tomilola, a Yoruba rapper with gelled baby hairs and a low tolerance for nonsense.

The fourth bed belonged to Sasha.

Of course.

At night, she FaceTimed someone in hushed tones, speaking rapid Yoruba and giggling behind a gold-trimmed phone case.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

That's when I saw it.

Something had been stuffed behind one of the benches in Studio 5A earlier during orientation. I hadn't noticed until I bent to tie my lace and saw the corner of it-black, spiral-bound, dirty.

Now, past midnight, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed back down the hall.

The studio was dark. Only red exit lights glowed in the mirror.

I slid the notebook out carefully. It was thicker than I expected. The cover scratched. Water damage on the corners.

I opened it.

Lyrics.

Dozens of pages of lyrics.

Handwritten in both English and Korean, with sketches and notes and vocal runs mapped out in margins.

Then I saw the signature.

Z.P.

Zion Park.

My chest went tight.

Zion's name hadn't been spoken since the moment we arrived. Not once. No explanation. No goodbye post. No trainee farewell.

I flipped faster.

Then I found the final page.

Torn. Half-missing. But I could still read the ink that bled across it:

"If I vanish before showcase night, know it wasn't an accident."

"Tell J he was wrong. The blackmail didn't stop."

"Dalex knows more than he admits."

Dalex.

I knew that name.

Dalex Lee-Osei.

VAERA's golden boy. The top male trainee. Half-Korean, half-Ghanaian. Looks like he stepped out of a perfume commercial. Jawline carved by the gods. Vocal range that could melt steel. Over two million fans. The internet's boyfriend.

And apparently...

A liar.

I swallowed.

Suddenly the air in the studio felt thinner.

I shoved the notebook under my hoodie and backed away from the mirror.

That's when I noticed something else.

In the reflection-behind me.

A figure.

Watching.

Standing completely still by the practice door.

I turned.

No one was there.

Just the exit light, pulsing red.

I ran back to the dorm, heart pounding. My breath shallow. My skin cold.

Zion didn't leave.

He vanished.

And I was holding the first piece of the truth.