The next morning, Haru woke up to the smell of something dangerously close to burning.
He rolled out of bed, dragging a blanket with him like a cape, and shuffled into the kitchenette where Minhee stood over the stove holding a pan with the same energy as someone holding a bomb.
"Why is the fire alarm winking at me?" Haru asked groggily, rubbing his eyes with one hand and steadying himself on the counter with the other.
"It's fine," Minhee replied breezily, as if smoke were an aesthetic. He poked the scorched blob with a single chopstick. "It's called culinary innovation."
"It's called a health violation," Haru muttered, opening the window with the air of someone who'd done this too many times before.
Shiro entered behind him, stretching and yawning with enough dramatic flair to wake the dead—or at least a bird outside the dorm window, which flapped away in startled panic. He scratched his head, hoodie askew.
"What's for breakfast, failure?" he asked, peering over Haru's shoulder like a cat sniffing its bowl.
"Charred ambition and burned dreams," Haru replied, grabbing the last cup of instant coffee from the counter like it was a lifeline.
"Delicious," Shiro said cheerfully, plopping onto the couch and pulling out his phone. He scrolled lazily through their group chat, eyes flicking across the screen. "Oop—Haejin-nim just messaged. Meeting at HQ. Stylist fitting, new shoot, and… oh. Final group name discussion."
That woke everyone up.
Seojun appeared from the hallway, brows furrowed, shirt half-buttoned. "They're still deciding?"
"I thought we were 'Eclipse,'" Riki said, voice still raspy from sleep.
"That's the song title," Shiro corrected. "Not confirmed for the group."
Minju floated through the wall holding a notebook labeled 'Name Ideas They Shouldn't Use'. "I vote for 'Glitter Havoc.' Or 'Five's Company.' Maybe 'Shadow Puppies.'"
"No," Haru said instantly.
They made it to HQ with seconds to spare, shoes half-tied and hair barely styled. A makeup artist hissed and chased Minhee with a powder puff. Someone else handed Riki a comb, which he accepted without looking up from his phone.
The five of them sat around a glass table in one of the smaller conference rooms. Posters of the company's biggest idol groups lined the walls—faces frozen in perfect lighting, perfect angles, perfect timing. Above them, the light buzzed faintly.
A staffer placed five folders on the table. Inside: potential debut names.
Some were generic. Others too intense. One literally read "PROJECT: NOVA REBOOT."
Minhee tilted his head. "Wasn't that a failed duo from 2019?"
"Shhh," Shiro whispered. "Let the dead rest."
Haru flipped through the names but kept glancing at the top corner of the folder—at the line that read: Provisional Group: Untitled.
No identity yet.
No final shape.
Just potential.
Then a voice cut through the room.
"What if we're not just light?"
They all turned. Haru hadn't meant to say it out loud. But now that it was out, he kept going.
"I mean… we're not all bright or soft or perfect. We've all come from something. We've all lost something. Minhee left his hometown. Riki's had three evaluations in a row. Seojun's always holding the weight of being second. Shiro—well, Shiro's Shiro."
"I'm insulted and honored," Shiro said at the same time.
"And me," Haru finished, quieter now. "I didn't want any of this. But now that I'm here… I want to make it count. Even if it hurts sometimes."
The room was quiet.
Minju hovered above the doorway, stunned. She stayed quiet too—invisible to everyone but Haru, but clearly holding her ghostly breath.
Even Seojun looked… moved.
The manager leaned forward. "So what are you suggesting?"
Haru exhaled. "Eclipse isn't just the song. It's… us. Light and dark. Past and future. Who we were and who we're becoming."
Slowly, Riki nodded. "Eclipse."
Minhee beamed. "It's cool. Dramatic. Mysterious."
Shiro fist-bumped Haru without asking. "And it has fan chant potential."
Seojun gave the smallest, reluctant smirk. "Fine. Eclipse."
The manager closed the folder.
"Approved."
That night, they returned to the dorm to find a new poster taped to the kitchen wall.
It was printed hastily. Slightly tilted. Probably made by an intern. But it said:
ECLIPSE – DEBUT TEAM
Underneath were all their names.
Haru stared at it for a long moment.
Not as a trainee.
Not as a shadow.
But as someone finally standing in his own light.
Minju hovered beside him, invisible to the others, and whispered, "You did that, you know."
He didn't respond.
Just smiled.
Because maybe—for the first time in his life—that was enough.