The waiting room was too bright, the kind of sterile white that made everything feel more exposed. The air hummed with quiet, overly filtered cold, and Haru sat alone on a stiff couch that didn't quite welcome him. His hands were folded tightly in his lap—knuckles pale, shoulders tense—as the clock on the far wall ticked in long, exaggerated seconds. It had been two days since Yoon Haejin made the call that shifted the course of his entire future. Two days since she quietly pulled him out of the debut evaluation unit and slipped him into a project no one was supposed to know about yet. No press release. No company announcement. No fan theories. The silence of it made it feel both unreal and weighty—like standing at the edge of a stage before the lights come on.
He hadn't told anyone. Not Jihoon, not Jisung, not Taeyul. And especially not Hyunsoo. The choice felt personal in a way Haru couldn't explain—less like a secret and more like a sacred thing he didn't want touched yet. Hyunsoo, with his endless optimism and belief in them as a unit, would've looked at him with those wide eyes and asked, But… weren't we doing this together?
Minju hovered cross-legged near the ceiling, chewing imaginary gum and spinning slowly in the air like a bored ceiling fan. Every few seconds, she glanced down at him, her expression unreadable behind the playful floating act.
"You look like you're about to take a college entrance exam," she teased lightly.
"I feel like I'm betraying someone," Haru murmured, not looking at her.
"No one knows," she said, voice softening. "And you're not. This isn't betrayal. It's realignment."
But the guilt was sticky. Heavy. Jihoon had once clapped him on the back and said, We're all chasing this together. Haru didn't know how to tell him he'd quietly stepped off the race track. He didn't know how to explain that this wasn't quitting—it was something else. A different path. One he hadn't expected, but couldn't ignore.
Before he could spiral deeper into the knot of his thoughts, the door clicked open.
Yoon Haejin stepped in, clipboard tucked under one arm, flanked by two staffers Haru hadn't seen before. She didn't smile. She didn't offer comfort. She simply scanned the room, then looked directly at him.
"It's official," she said, cutting cleanly through the room's static. "You've been added to the final debut project."
Haru sat straighter, heart thumping once—too loud. "The others…?"
"They'll arrive in a few days," she continued. One of the staffers flipped a folder open and added, "The top three trainees from the survival show. It wrapped up last night."
Haru's breath caught.
Top three?
Minju grinned, somersaulting once in the air. "Ohhh, do you think it's them? Your old team?"
He wanted to say no. Wanted to brace himself against disappointment.
But the hope—it was already rising. Swift. Dangerous.
Meanwhile, across the city, back at the glassy facade of the company's main building, the elevator doors pinged open to a lobby stripped of spectacle. No confetti. No screaming fans. Just staff with clipboards and crisp expressions. The silence almost felt strategic.
Seojun stepped through the front doors first—sharp jawline set, eyes cool and observant. He carried himself like someone who had known this moment was coming and had trained himself not to flinch when it arrived. His duffel bag looked weightless in his hand, but his gaze held a heaviness that hadn't been there during the finale.
Behind him came Riki, quieter than usual, face unreadable. His bag was slung low, almost dragging behind him, like he'd refused to adjust the strap. He didn't speak, but his eyes flickered from wall to hallway to staffer like he was piecing together a puzzle no one else knew existed.
Minhee was the last to enter. As soon as the cameras disappeared, he ripped his mask off with a grin that was far too large for the room's atmosphere. "We made it," he whispered under his breath, glancing sideways at Riki with a kind of breathless awe.
"Yeah," Riki said, his voice low and clipped. "But something's weird."
Minhee raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"They didn't announce the group yet," Riki replied. "Just 'top three.' No group name. No member lineup. Just us. That's not the final debut team."
Minhee blinked. "So there's more?"
Riki nodded, eyes narrowing. "Feels like it."
The elevator doors yawned open.
No one said anything else.
The three of them stepped inside in silence.
A few days later, the new group finally gathered for orientation in one of the smaller rehearsal studios—plain walls, heavy curtains, and a camera set in the corner to record everything. Haru arrived first. Then Minhee burst in with his usual flair, arms spread like he'd just entered a variety show.
"Oh my god, you?" he cried, practically skipping toward Haru.
Then Riki entered, sharp eyes locking on Haru immediately. His face gave away nothing—but his step slowed. Just a little. Just enough.
"You're here," he said quietly.
Haru gave a soft smile. "Guess I am."
And then Seojun appeared in the doorway. He paused mid-step, staring at Haru with furrowed brows like he was seeing a mirage.
"…Didn't expect to see you," he muttered.
"Yeah," Haru replied, scratching the back of his neck. "Didn't really expect to be seen."
"Whatever," Seojun said, but there was a glint in his eye. "Let's just hope you didn't get worse."
"Let's hope you got nicer," Haru muttered.
Minhee dropped into a chair beside Haru, kicked his feet up on the bench in front, and sighed dramatically. "It's honestly kind of crazy how everything's looping around again. You know who I miss?"
Haru tilted his head. "Who?"
"Jae. Our old roommate. Remember?"
"Oh—yeah." Haru smiled a little. "How is he?"
Minhee grinned wide. "Turns out he's a chaebol."
"…Excuse me?"
"Like, actual rich rich," Minhee said. "Came to the trainee system to 'experience real life.' I thought he was just weirdly polite, but no—he had his own driver and everything."
"What happened to him?"
Minhee cackled. "He got sick of being scolded by the dance coach. Said—and I quote—'I don't need this emotional damage. I already have a family business to inherit.' Then he left mid-practice with a smoothie in his hand and a bow like he was quitting a K-drama role."
"…No way."
"Way."
Minju was laughing so hard she phased through a wall.
And for a moment—for just a second—Haru forgot the fear, the pressure, the stakes.
Because this?
This felt like the beginning of something real.
Something worth chasing.
And maybe—finally—he wasn't chasing it alone.
Far from the noise of Seoul—in a glass-walled, practically empty private terminal in another country altogether—a pair of sneakers landed softly on smooth, polished tile.
The figure who wore them walked with an almost ghostlike calm, hood pulled up, sunglasses on. Shiro didn't look like someone returning from a break. He looked like someone stepping onto a battlefield he'd already scouted in his dreams.
His bag was small. His phone was off. The arrival board overhead glowed in quiet green letters.
From behind, a voice called out in Japanese. Familiar. Firm.
"Welcome home."
Shiro turned slowly to find his manager waiting with a clipboard and a smile just a little too wide to be natural. Behind him, an assistant trailed with a rolling suitcase and a bottle of water.
"Ready?" the manager asked, already walking toward the car.
Shiro didn't answer at first.
His eyes scanned the terminal, even though there was nothing there to scan—just empty seating, silent monitors, and morning light casting long shadows through the windows. But his gaze stayed focused, as if he saw something—or someone—far ahead.
Then he shifted his shoulders, pushed his hands into his coat pockets, and exhaled.
"So," he said in fluent Korean, his voice low and careful, "when do I get to see him?"