The days after the evaluation passed in a blur of rehearsals and vocal drills, as if someone had hit fast-forward on the world and thrown Haru into a nonstop loop of choreography counts and pitch-perfect repetitions. The studio lights never seemed to dim, the mirrors always reflected a posture that looked right—even impressive—but something beneath the surface had begun to fray. Haru found himself in back-to-back sessions with his assigned debut unit—Jihoon, Taeyul, Hyunsoo, and Jisung—each practice stitched together with sweat, sharp beats, and the clipped commands of rotating coaches who cared little for exhaustion and even less for uncertainty.
At first, Haru went along with it all like a trained current in a flowing stream—fluid, obedient, unwavering. He marked every beat with exactitude, sang every harmony on time, adjusted his positioning during every formation shift as though he were born for it. His reflection in the studio mirror became something of a stranger—an idol-shaped silhouette in the making: composed, precise, even confident at a glance. But behind the steadiness of his eyes and the squareness of his shoulders, something trembled. Not loudly. Not all at once. But it was there. A growing hollowness that built in increments. Not in mistakes, but in silence. In the absence of connection.
At first, he told himself it was fatigue. Just burnout from the adrenaline spike of being chosen, followed by days of physically demanding training and emotionally dry routines. But that explanation wore thin quickly. It wasn't just exhaustion. It wasn't nerves. It wasn't fear of failure. It was detachment. A sense of being pressed into a mold that had looked good on paper, sounded promising onstage—but didn't fit the shape of his soul.
It showed in the small moments first.
Like the time Jihoon suggested a choreographic tweak to the bridge—something sharper, edgier, to match the chorus crescendo. Everyone had agreed. Even Jisung, usually too quiet to comment, had nodded with enthusiasm. Haru had smiled and nodded, too. But inside, it was as if the suggestion floated through him and evaporated before it reached his core. He had no objection. No agreement. Just… silence.
Then came the vocal rearrangement. Taeyul, ever the perfectionist, offered a falsetto suggestion for the bridge to soften the emotion and bring more contrast. Haru had executed it perfectly. The note floated where it needed to. Everyone gave approving nods. But when they listened to it back during playback, and Haru heard his own voice through the studio monitors, all he could think was: That's not me. It wasn't that it was bad. It wasn't even wrong. It was just unfamiliar. Like someone else had stepped into his skin and borrowed his tone.
Minju, who had kept quiet during most practices recently, finally said something one late night as Haru stood in the studio alone. The track was looping. He was on his third repetition of the same chorus, neck stiff, voice increasingly flat—not in pitch, but in energy. Everyone else had gone home. Even the staff had stopped checking in. But Haru kept pushing, as if by sheer repetition he could summon the connection that had gone missing.
Minju floated down beside him, her form flickering slightly as she hovered just in his periphery. "Okay," she said, gently but firmly, "that's enough."
"I'm fine," he muttered, throat dry.
"You're not," she replied, arms crossed. "You haven't smiled in three rehearsals, and just now, you sang a heartbreak line like you were reading out traffic instructions."
He stared at the floor. "I'm just tired."
"Liar," she said. Her voice wasn't accusing—just sad.
He sat down on the bench by the mirror, elbows on knees, fingers laced together. It took him a moment before he said it aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't know what's wrong. I've done everything they've asked. I've followed every note, every step. But this… this group, this concept—it's not me. I don't feel anything. I'm performing, but I'm not present. Like I'm wearing someone else's name tag."
Minju floated closer, her voice softer now. "So tell someone. You don't have to blow it all up just to say something."
He gave her a look, equal parts tired and frustrated. "That's not how this world works, Minju. Once you're in, you don't just change directions. The concept is locked. The contracts are aligned. The staff, the budget, the branding—it's already in motion."
There was a pause. Then Minju said, "There's one person you could try."
He blinked. "Who?"
"Yoon Haejin."
The name landed with weight. Haru straightened, surprised.
"She's the only one who looked at you and saw more than a checklist. She saw the way you sing—not just what you hit. She's the only one who might actually care enough to shift something if she believes in you."
It was a risk. A big one. Speaking up in this world often meant getting labeled difficult, ungrateful, unreliable. But doing nothing? That meant debuting under a lie.
The next morning, he stood outside the vocal trainer's office, palms clammy, heart unsteady. When Yoon Haejin looked up from her desk and motioned for him to enter, she didn't seem surprised. As though she'd been expecting this moment.
He bowed. Then sat. Then hesitated.
"I… I don't think I belong in this group."
She leaned back slowly. "Explain."
"I've been trying. I haven't skipped a single practice. I've given everything I have. But it's not right. It feels like I'm living someone else's dream, wearing someone else's voice."
She didn't interrupt. Just listened.
"I know how this sounds," he continued. "I know how it works. I'm lucky to be here. I'm lucky to have been chosen at all. But if I go through with this—if I debut like this—I think I'll lose the part of me that actually made any of this worth it."
There was a silence.
Then Haejin stood, walked to the window, and spoke without turning around.
"I once trained someone who said the exact same thing."
Haru sat still.
"He was told to play it safe. Fit a concept that wasn't his. He walked away. Everyone said he was finished."
She turned to him now. Her eyes were steady.
"He's a soloist now. Selling out halls. And he still sings like he means every word."
She moved to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folder. Inside were sheets Haru couldn't yet read, but they looked… different. Less polished. Less corporate.
"There's another project," she said. "A debut unit formed from a separate survival program. It's quieter. Smaller. But more vocal-heavy. Story-driven. Real."
Haru's heart pounded.
"I want you in that group instead," she said. "You're not background vocals, Haru. You don't vanish into formations. You lead with your voice. With your scars. With your honesty. You need a stage that allows you to bleed into the music."
His breath caught. The lump in his throat was too real.
"Are you serious?" he asked, voice cracking slightly.
"I'm not in the habit of wasting time," she replied. "It's unofficial for now, but I'll handle the contract transfer discreetly. You'll need to meet the others. Learn fast. Work harder. But it'll be yours."
He stood up slowly. Bowed again—deeply.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She simply nodded. "Don't thank me yet. You still have to prove you belong."
Outside her office, Haru stood in the empty hallway, heart racing.
It wasn't relief.
Not entirely.
It was something steadier.
Like a compass needle finally swinging north after being stuck too long.
Minju appeared beside him, her glow soft, face gentle.
"So… what now?"
Haru looked at her, then ahead.
"Now," he said, his voice finally his own again, "we wait for the others."