The next morning began with chaos.
Not the dramatic kind with fights or scandals—more the everyday disaster of five boys trying to exist in the same space without ending each other.
The alarm clock shrieked for the sixth time, and someone (definitely Minhee) smacked it again with a groggy arm, mumbling something about beauty sleep and rehearsal not being real unless you're fifteen minutes late.
"Five boys. One dorm. No sanity," Minju muttered, arms folded, floating above the kitchen table like an exhausted, exasperated ghost mom. She had positioned herself like a ceiling ornament in protest, glaring down at the domestic circus.
Their new dorm had technically been billed as "spacious" by trainee housing standards, and maybe it was—for people who weren't living like chaotic gremlins. There was a shared common room with gray couches that looked older than some of their dreams, a kitchenette that had three mugs, seven chopsticks (none of them matching), and a single pan that was probably cursed. Two small bedrooms were divided by seniority or argument—no one was sure. Riki had claimed the top bunk before anyone could speak. Seojun had taken the bottom without asking.
Haru, somehow, got stuck sharing a side with Shiro, who slept like he was chasing ghosts in his dreams—which was ironic, considering Minju existed.
At the moment, Haru stood in the kitchen, desperately attempting to microwave instant rice while dodging Shiro, who was shirtless and mid-flex in front of the practice mirror propped up against the hallway.
"You're not even sweating," Seojun grumbled from the couch, his hoodie half-zipped, watching Shiro with the disdain of a man forced to share oxygen with a TikTok influencer.
"It's called aesthetic, grandpa," Shiro said brightly, blowing a kiss toward his reflection. "You wouldn't understand."
"Don't call me grandpa," Seojun snapped.
"Don't flex at breakfast!" Haru yelled, fumbling with the rice lid that had exploded steam all over the countertop.
Minhee spun past in a blur of cologne and energy, already dressed in what looked like a full dance stage outfit. "We're going to be iconic," he declared. "Chaotic, but iconic."
Riki, who had been curled on the couch in a hoodie, holding a mug like a sleepy housecat, spoke in the same deadpan tone he always used for moments like this: "We're going to be late."
That did it.
The kitchen exploded into motion.
Toothbrushes were found in weird places. Someone's sock ended up in the freezer. Shiro tripped over Minhee's extra pair of sneakers. Haru's phone disappeared and reappeared in the microwave. The fire alarm almost went off when someone (again, definitely Minhee) tried to toast something using a hair straightener.
Minju was laughing so hard she literally phased through the wall and got stuck inside it for a full three seconds.
"Help—this wall tastes like paint and failure!" she shrieked from halfway inside the plaster.
"Serves you right for haunting the cereal box!" Haru hissed, grabbing his bag.
They sprinted out of the dorm like a pack of barely-contained hurricanes, hair tousled, clothes slightly crooked, breath fogging in the morning air.
By the time they got to the practice studio, the chaos faded into something else.
Silence.
The kind that meant cameras were already recording.
The kind that meant rehearsal was real now.
No more orientation montages.
No more goofy challenges.
This was debut prep.
They lined up without being told. The instructors didn't smile. Yoon Haejin stood in the corner, arms folded, expression unreadable. Another coordinator entered with a tablet.
"Your debut track has been finalized."
Five sets of eyes snapped toward the screen.
The title was simple.
Eclipse.
"Mid-tempo," said the vocal coach. "Synth-heavy. Lyrical. Introspective. This is not a show-off track. It's a storytelling track."
She passed around printed lyric sheets.
"A song about duality," she continued. "About light and shadow. About losing something and finding it again."
Seojun leaned forward, fingers tightening on the lyric sheet. "Who's main vocal?"
There was a pause.
Then Yoon Haejin said, without looking up, "Haru."
The room went still.
Haru blinked, then looked down at the lyrics again, heartbeat tripping over itself.
Minju floated just behind him, whispering with wide eyes, "That blink Seojun just did? Micro-expression of jealousy. I've seen K-dramas. I know the signs."
"Minju—please—"
"I'm just saying, you're the main now. Power move."
The rest of the roles came in quick succession. Minhee on lead dance. Riki and Seojun trading center spots and harmonies. Shiro with the rap sections—piercing and poetic lines tucked between the soft despair of the chorus.
Their first run-through was… rough.
Missed counts. Breathless verses. Two near-collisions during the floor transition. At one point, Shiro started rapping in the wrong verse entirely and shrugged it off like jazz improv.
"You're not clean," the dance coach said, watching them over steepled fingers. "But you're not forgettable."
And honestly, that might've been the first compliment they'd gotten all week.
After the break, Haru stood alone in front of the mirror, breath fogging on the glass. The others were gone—probably grabbing water, or bickering, or lying on the floor dramatically.
Minju floated into view beside him, quiet.
"You okay?"
He nodded slowly. "I think so."
"You didn't panic when they said main vocal."
"I was too shocked to panic."
Minju gave him a gentle smile. "Good. Stay shocked, then. It suits you."
He glanced at her, then back at himself. His reflection wasn't as foreign as it used to be. The eyes looking back were still tired, but they belonged to someone starting to believe they deserved to be here.
He turned back to the practice room. Laughter echoed faintly from the hall.
And he smiled.
Later that evening, the boys collapsed onto the floor after six hours of back-to-back drills. The hardwood beneath them was sticky with sweat and scuffed by sneakers. Their bodies were wrecked. But no one moved.
Minhee sprawled like a starfish in the center of the room, one arm draped dramatically over his forehead. "If I die, please delete my awkward predebut footage. Bury me with my fancams."
"You're not even in half of them," Riki muttered beside him.
Seojun sat against the mirror, head tilted back. He didn't speak, but he didn't walk away either.
Shiro tapped his fingers against his knee.
"Hey," he said after a long beat. "Let's make a pact."
"Oh no," Haru groaned. "Please don't do this."
"I'm serious," Shiro said, uncharacteristically solemn. "Let's promise that if we debut—we go all in. No backing out. No hiding. No running. Not from each other. Not from this."
There was a moment of silence.
Minhee cracked an eye open. "Was that… emotionally sincere?"
Riki snorted softly. "Are you okay, Shiro?"
"Shut up," Shiro muttered. "I'm trying to be deep."
Haru looked around the circle.
At Riki, hoodie still up but gaze softer than usual.
At Minhee, who despite the theatrics, hadn't stopped smiling all day.
At Seojun, who gave the smallest nod—barely a breath.
And finally, at Shiro. Loud, chaotic, ridiculous Shiro. Who, for all his noise, had always chased this dream with everything he had.
"I'm in," Haru said.
The others followed.
"I'm in."
"Same."
"Fine," Seojun mumbled.
They didn't high five. Or do a team chant. Or post it on socials.
But the room felt different afterward.
Not lighter.
Not heavier.
Just real.
As if, for the first time, the group had stepped into itself. Not a team created by contracts or schedules. Not a concept forced into harmony.
But something alive.
Something imperfect.
Something true.
Outside the studio, the sky had dipped into velvet.
The moon hung low and silver in the clouds—half-shadowed, half-lit.
Just like the five of them.
Just like Eclipse.