Override

Every Wednesday at 4 PM.

The auditions at “Override” always begin at that exact hour.

Those desperate to stand on the stage are drawn toward Override as the appointed time approaches, almost as if pulled in by gravity itself.

Outside, the daylight is still painfully bright. But the moment you step inside, the club is swallowed in deep darkness. The floor, still empty before opening hours, seemed stained with the lingering residue of last night’s bass.

About a dozen people lined up near the entrance. Dancers, singers, drag queens, failed models, influencers of uncertain origin. Every one of them was “trying” in their own way. Heavy makeup. Unfamiliar high heels. Excessive accessories. Strong perfume sprayed on to hype themselves up.

But in this club, that very effort was the first layer to be stripped away.

The judges were Iris, Dahlia, and Camellia.

Iris was the club's longest-serving stage director—a professional dancer who somehow ended up responsible for keeping everyone else in sync.

Dahlia normally worked floor security, though she occasionally disappeared halfway through the night for wrestling shows or guest performances elsewhere.

Camellia handled floor security as well, only slipping into the dance lineup once the night's performances began.

The role had once belonged to the owner, FLORA, but she had a habit of recruiting only “strange people.”

Queens who vanished after three days. Performers who got emotionally involved with customers. Dancers who suddenly decided they wanted to become DJs. People with explosive stage presence but zero social skills — fully formed anomalies.

As a result, authority over the first round of auditions had been handed over to the three working performers.

“FLORA picks people based on their faces,” Iris said in exasperation, still sucking on the straw of her enormous drink.

“And on whether they seem ‘kind of interesting,’” Dahlia laughed.

“…And they never last,” Camellia added quietly, delivering the final blow.

“Big crowd today,” Dahlia muttered, sinking deep into the sofa.

“Every week it’s getting worse.”

Camellia flipped through the applicant list with obvious exhaustion.

“It’s basically turned into an open mic for weird talents. Half of them aren’t even here because they want to work.”

“We’ve got a special guest judge coming today. Once she gets here, we’ll let her handle the rest.”

Camellia held the applicant list in her hands.

On the table sat crude paper number tags with digits scrawled in marker. For a luxury club, the place was strangely careless about details like this.

“Alright then, Number One,”

Iris said, clapping her hands sharply.

The first applicant appeared: a tall drag queen covered head to toe in glitter, silver hair shining beneath the dim lights.

A revealing costume. Perfect styling.

But the instant she began to walk, Dahlia cut her down.

“Too stiff.”

One second. That was all it took.

The applicant froze.

“You’re trying too hard to perform. You’re the type who watches the mirror more than the audience, right?”

“…Yeah.”

The quiet follow-up made the applicant’s expression visibly darken.

“But your face is good. You’d probably do well on social media,” Iris added as consolation.

Then Camellia ended it.

“We’d get tired managing you here. …Next.”

The next applicant was a dancer overflowing with confidence in their technique.

They tried to overwhelm the room with sharp, precise movements, but halfway through, Iris raised a hand.

“That a copy of someone?”

The music stopped.

“…What?”

“You got a reference, don’t you?”

“I saw something in a short video and rearranged it…”

The dancer’s eyes darted nervously.

Iris burst out laughing.

“Well, that’s over. We don’t need copies here. Thanks for coming.”

Someone in the back let out a small sigh.

At that moment, the heavy entrance door swung open, and harsh daylight sliced into the darkness.

“Whoa, made it just in time.”

A red-haired queen entered lazily, oversized sunglasses resting on her head.

It was Nimbus, one of tonight’s performers.

Glitter from the previous night still clung to the collar of her long coat.

“You’re late,” Camellia said, looking up.

“I was asleep. I was on the west side till morning.”

“You’re gonna die someday at this rate,” Dahlia laughed.

Shift, the DJ apprentice and general errand runner, quickly brought Nimbus a bottle of water.

Nimbus accepted it with one hand.

Without looking, she flicked a poker chip into the air.

It vanished.

Shift blinked.

Nimbus smiled faintly, then reached behind his ear and produced the chip between two fingers.

“Relax. I’m awake now.”

“Still doing that trick?” Iris laughed.

“It pays.”

Nimbus glanced over the line of applicants as though amusing herself, then claimed an empty sofa.

Crossing her legs, she naturally slipped into judging within seconds.

“That walk is outdated. You still haven’t shaken off 2019 social media dance trends.”

“Huh?”

“You can tell from the way you use your hips.”

“True,” Iris nodded, laughing.

“This is basically a public execution.”

The auditions continued.

Nimbus needed only a glance.

Nimbus barely needed thirty seconds per applicant.

“Next.”

“Next.”

“Not yet.”

“Come back when you’ve got something that’s yours.”

“You’re chasing trends.”

“Too much technique.”

“Good face. Wrong stage.”

“Come back in six months.”

“Next.”

The pile of numbered cards disappeared at an alarming speed.

One after another, names disappeared from the list until only two remained.

“…Alright, that’s enough for today.”

Camellia closed the stack of papers on the table.

Only two applicants remained.

“Rare. We kept two people.”

“That’s actually a lot for one week.”

Nimbus spoke flatly.

“You two passed.”

The pair stared blankly in disbelief as Iris shoved several sheets of paper toward them.

“So, what names are you using?”

“…Names?”

“Not your daytime names. Your club names. If you already have a stage name, that’s fine. Otherwise, pick one from this list.”

The paper was filled with names — mostly flowers and goddesses. The ones already taken had been crossed out with double lines.

Dahlia leaned over to look.

“You’re still using that list? That’s where I got my name too.”

“Because it’s convenient. Who even made this thing?”

“Probably FLORA. Feels exactly like her naming sense.”

One of the newcomers cautiously looked down at the page.

“Rose.” “Phoenix.” “Marigold.” “Artemis.” “Sage.”

Names like those stretched across the paper.

For just a moment, the newcomer’s eyes lit up.

“So it’s real…”

Their voice carried a slight excitement.

The expression of someone seeing an urban legend with their own eyes.

Iris answered casually.

“Yep. We just fill the empty slots with the next ones.”

Nimbus peered at the list too.

“Didn’t all of you use this thing?”

One newcomer decided to keep the drag name they already used: Luna Moth.

The other chose Amaryllis from the list.

“Okay. Then that’s your name starting today.”

Iris waved the papers lazily.

Camellia scribbled onto the applicant sheet.

“Want me to put you in for debut this week?”

Both newcomers looked up.

“What?”

“That soon…?”

Dahlia laughed.

“Override isn’t a training school. You learn on the floor.”

Still chewing her straw, Iris continued.

“But come tomorrow. We do group rehearsals every Thursday.”

“All performers together. Walking, stage positions, lighting checks, audience flow,” Camellia explained calmly.

“And cleaning up after the stage too.”

“Way to kill the dream,” Dahlia laughed.

“But it matters. A club runs on that kind of grunt work.”

The newcomers exchanged glances and gave small nods.

“What happens if we’re late?”

Iris and Nimbus answered at the exact same time, smiling.

“You just disappear.”

“…Um, why did I pass?”

Amaryllis asked hesitantly.

“Hm? Where’d that come from?” Iris replied.

“I mean… I get why Luna Moth passed — she’s cool. But Applicant 8 was incredible too. She had technique, style… I honestly thought she’d make it instead of me.”

Dahlia, still lounging with crossed legs, burst out laughing.

“Ohhh, Number 8. The one trying to be Mother Echo.”

Iris nodded while biting her straw.

“We get tons of those lately. The type that thinks ‘quiet madness’ automatically makes them look deep. People who think standing still equals atmosphere.”

Camellia continued flatly.

“But she never looked at the audience.”

At that moment, Nimbus — who had been preparing for rehearsal deeper inside the club — finally spoke.

“And she was too complete. People who already have all the answers from the start never grow.”

“Huh?”

“Number 8 already had her own world, right? But it was finished inside her already. There was no room left for the audience.”

For a moment, the room fell silent.

Dahlia stood up slowly.

“Ah… yeah. That’s it.”

Iris nodded too.

“That’s what was bothering me.”

As Camellia closed the applicant list, she murmured:

“She wasn’t a performer looking for a place to be seen. She was a closed piece of art.”

Nimbus shrugged.

“She’d probably do great in photos, though. But in a live venue? People would get bored.”

Iris laughed.

“It’s important bringing in different perspectives sometimes. If it’s just us, our standards start getting biased.”

At that exact moment, a deep bass thudded through the club from somewhere in the back, like a punch to the heart.

The soundcheck for opening preparations had begun.

Nimbus’s solo stage rehearsal was starting.

Little by little, the air on the floor took on the crushing weight of night.

At Override, Wednesday 4 PM was the hour when some people grasped the light—

—and others disappeared without a sound.