Luka knew the boy was a clone the moment he saw him.

It wasn’t a surprise. The corporations always tried to recycle what worked.

And the twins — they had worked.

But even knowing that didn’t make it less unsettling.

The resemblance was uncanny. Physically, they had done a near-perfect job. But the posture was loose, the gaze unfocused. The boy swayed on his feet while Luka finished adjusting the old speaker cable, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Too light. Too loud. Too unbothered.

Luka didn’t speak at first. He didn’t greet him. The studio was quiet, stripped-down. Mats on the floor, one mirror cracked in the corner. A projector that flickered when it ran too hot.

The boy dropped his bag onto the floor with a thud and sat cross-legged like he owned the place. Luka blinked once.

They had told him the teen wouldn’t be going to kindergarten. Too "special." Instead, someone up top had paid Luka more than a decent amount to take him a few times a week.

No curriculum. Just “teach him what you know.”

Vague and insulting. As if that knowledge was still worth anything now.

Luka didn’t sit. He stood against the wall, arms folded.

The boy kicked off his shoes and tapped a beat against his ankle, oblivious to the silence. “So, what are we doing today?”

Luka’s eyes narrowed slightly. Still no answer. He waited a moment longer, then pointed toward the center of the room.

“Stand.”

The boy scrambled up like it was a game.

Luka crossed the room slowly, step by step. No flair, no energy wasted. Just watching. Analyzing. The boy stood loose, weight on the wrong leg. His shoulders curled forward, not with tension — with laziness.

“Raise your arms.”

The boy did. One higher than the other.

Luka adjusted him. Wordless. Tap on the elbow. Pull at the wrist. Shift the hips. The boy grinned the entire time, like it was funny.

It wasn’t.

“You’re off-balance.”

“I thought it was a warm-up.”

“It is. You’re still off-balance.”

The boy puffed a little. “Well, you didn’t say how perfect it had to be.”

Luka stepped back, tone flat. “It’s not about perfection.”

The boy tilted his head, confused.

Luka didn’t explain.

He rarely explained anything anymore.

After a while, he walked over to the monitor and played a slow beat loop — a basic tempo used for rhythm training. Something Hyuna had hated. Something Hyunwoo had been naturally good at.

He watched the boy try to follow it. He missed every third beat.

After the fifth round, Luka turned the sound off.

The boy shrugged. “Sorry. I’m more of a freestyler.”

Of course he was.

Luka sat finally, scribbling something in the corner of a small notebook. The boy plopped down beside him again without invitation, close — too close — clearly not understanding personal space.

Luka didn’t look up.

“That’s enough for today.”