The Offer from SOL
Chapter 3: The Offer from SOL
The message arrived while Yichen was halfway through a chemistry worksheet he had no intention of finishing.
His phone buzzed once, screen lighting up with a DM notification from an account he didn’t recognize.
Hello, this is Ara from SOL Entertainment’s Talent Division. We’ve seen your livestreams and would love to speak with you about audition opportunities.
He stared at it, unmoving. His pencil rolled off the desk.
SOL.
The name pulsed like electricity. This wasn’t just any label. This was the label–home to top groups, the kind whose songs he’d covered at midnight with trembling hands and cheap lighting. His heart leapt, then stuttered.
They thought he was a girl.
Of course they did.
He clicked the profile. Verified. Real.
The next few minutes were a blur–heart thudding, fingers shaking, mind flipping through every frame of every livestream. Had he ever said anything to give himself away? Used the wrong pronoun? Let his voice slip?
He replied before he could think better of it.
Hello, thank you so much. I’d love to hear more.
He hit send.
Then turned off his phone.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. The ceiling seemed too close, his body too loud–every breath, every shift of fabric against skin felt like a question he couldn’t answer. What if they asked for a video call? What if they asked to meet in person? What if he told them the truth and they laughed?
Or worse–forgot him.
He sat up in the dark and whispered aloud, like a child trying to summon courage:
“I can do this.”
But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure who he meant. Xinyi? Or Yichen?
Two days later, the call came.
A woman’s voice. Polished. Professional.
“Hi Xinyi, this is PD Chae from SOL. I just wanted to say–we really loved your tone. It’s rare to find someone so emotionally expressive. Are you based in Korea?”
“Yes,” he answered, voice already lifted an octave, vowels soft and rounded. “I live near Seoul.”
“That’s perfect. We’re hosting closed evaluations next weekend. It’s small–just a few girls we’re interested in. Can you come?”
He paused. Then nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see it.
“Yes.”
“Great. We’ll send you the time and place. Just bring yourself, comfortable clothes, and a short dance cover. We’ll take care of the rest.”
The call ended. Yichen sat in silence, phone still pressed to his ear, like it might dissolve if he moved too fast.
He had one week.
One week to become real.
One week to become her.
He told Suwei the next day.
They were sitting in a nearly empty café near the university district, her straw poking at the last melting ice in her bubble tea.
“你开玩笑的吧？(You’re kidding me?),” she whispered, eyes wide. “SOL？Yichen, this is it. You’ve wanted this your whole life.”
“They think I’m a girl.”
She blinked. Then leaned in.
“So?”
He stared. “So… I can’t just walk in as me.”
“Then don’t walk in as you,” she said simply. “Walk in as her. As Xinyi. You’ve already done it for the screen. Let’s do it for real.”
Before he could protest, she was already pulling out her phone.
They went shopping that evening.
Yichen wore a hoodie drawn low over his face, mask snug against his skin. He kept his hands in his pockets, heart pounding at every corner they turned. Suwei, in contrast, moved like a woman on a mission.
She tugged him gently into a boutique near Hongdae. Racks of skirts, crop tops, soft knits. The lights felt too bright, the mirrors too honest.
“Try this,” she said, handing him a pleated skirt and a soft cream blouse. “Trust me.”
He stood in the changing room, palms sweaty, staring at the clothes. When he finally put them on, he didn’t recognize the reflection. The skirt swayed when he moved. The blouse clung to his shoulders in a way that was… comforting.
His throat tightened.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It… fits.”
“Not just the size,” she murmured through the door. “The whole look. It fits you.”
They tried more: long cardigans, fitted jeans, a dusty pink hoodie that Suwei insisted made him look “dangerously soft.” Then they ducked into a quiet corner café to reorganize the bags before their final stop.
“Now,” she said, sliding a compact across the table, “let me teach you some actual magic.”
In the mirror by the window, Suwei guided him step by step–foundation first, a shade lighter than he’d usually dare. “It helps catch the light,” she explained, dabbing it along his cheekbones. “You want that soft glow, not matte.”
She showed him how to soften his jawline with contour and widen his eyes with carefully placed brown shimmer. When she drew the eyeliner wings, Yichen flinched. “Hold still,” she whispered. “This is how she opens her eyes to the world.”
Then mascara, light blush, and the finishing touch–a coral-pink lip tint. Suwei stepped back, letting him see himself fully.
He barely breathed.
“You look like you,” she said.
“No,” he whispered. “I look like her.”
“Maybe they’re the same,” Suwei said, smiling softly.
They snuck into a lingerie store next, giggling like teenagers, and Suwei helped him pick out his first real bralette.
Later, as they walked back toward the subway station under the amber wash of streetlights, Suwei slowed her steps.
“You know,” she said, glancing at him, “I used to watch you when you sang in the park. Back in middle school. You thought no one was listening, but I always stayed behind the benches.”
Yichen looked at her, startled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugged. “You looked so free back then. Like the world hadn’t started pressing down yet. I didn’t want to scare it away.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
She added, quieter, “I think I always knew. That you weren’t just pretending. That maybe this–Xinyi–it wasn’t a role. It was a door you were too scared to open.”
His throat tightened again. Not from fear this time, but something softer. Grief and gratitude, tangled together.
“You’ve never judged me,” he whispered.
“I love you too much for that,” Suwei said, voice steady. “You don’t have to choose between being real and being seen. Not with me.”
Yichen nodded slowly, eyes glistening. For once, he didn’t look away.
“If you’re gonna be her,” she whispered, eyes gentle, “you should feel like her too.”
Yichen didn’t speak.
He just nodded.
That night, when he got home, he laid the outfits on his bed like relics. His hands hovered over them–not quite touching.
He didn’t know what scared him more: being found out, or feeling this right.
That night, he stood before the mirror again. The off-shoulder blouse, the lashes, the practiced smile–they weren’t enough anymore.
Not if they saw him up close.
He pulled open a tab on his laptop. Typed in: “how to pass as a girl in public.” Then deleted it. Tried again: “feminine passing makeup, Asian features.”
He didn’t sleep.
He studied.
Practiced.
By dawn, Zhao Yichen was gone.
And Xinyi was ready to be born.