You were pacing back and forth in the practice room, frustration scribbled all over your face. Your jacket was half off, your hair clung to your temples, and your voice cracked from repeating the same line over and over. You threw your hands up. “I can’t do this today.”

Sophia, who had been quietly watching from the mirror, stood up slowly and walked over — no smile, no teasing this time. Just that sharp Sophia presence.

She pointed to your chest, eyes locked onto yours.

“Who are you?”

You exhaled, wiping your forehead. “Don’t start—”

“No. Who. Are. You.”

“…Katseye,” you muttered, barely audible.

Her brows shot up. “Louder.”

You stared at her.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“…I’m Katseye.”

Sophia nodded, but she wasn’t done. Her voice dropped lower, steady and sharp like a thread tightening:

“You’re Katseye. You're not just some girl who got lucky. You're not someone who folds when it gets hard. You're the one who walks into a room and makes people look. You're the standard. You’re the moment. You hear me?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough for her.

“No, you need to believe it and I'm not stopping until you do. You better stop talking to yourself like that because I’ve seen you kill it onstage with a smile like you own the world. So don’t come in here acting like you don’t belong just because you’re tired.”