The makeup lights buzzed softly above Haru, casting a tired glow over his reflection. He sat still in the chair, hands folded in his lap, posture tense. The stylist dabbed concealer beneath his eyes and brushed powder over his cheeks, but none of it masked the exhaustion in his gaze.
"You don't need to look so scared," she said gently. "It's just a shoot."
But it wasn't just a shoot.
It was Eclipse's first real moment. Their pre-debut teaser was being filmed today — five boys, five cameras, one concept: duality.
Minju hovered quietly by the wall, unusually subdued. She didn't crack a joke. Didn't make ghost puns or float upside down for attention. She just watched Haru with wide, unreadable eyes.
"You okay?" he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
Minju didn't answer right away. Then, "You look like you're trying to breathe underwater."
"I kind of am."
She nodded slowly. "Let me know when you come up for air."
The studio buzzed with soft tension as the shoot began.
No fanfare. No music playing in the background. Just the click of cameras, the shuffle of light rigs, and the weight of being seen.
The concept was simple on paper: a visual representation of light and shadow — a metaphor for their group name, their journey, their debut. But in practice, it meant delivering raw emotion in silence, while the cameras picked apart every breath.
Minhee spun through his solo like he was born for the lens. Riki delivered quiet magnetism with nothing but a glance. Shiro brought controlled chaos, equal parts smirk and sincerity. Seojun… Seojun moved like he was sculpted out of the concept itself. Every pose, every shift, was deliberate. Clean.
And then there was Haru.
The main vocal.
He stood in front of the camera and froze.
Not in fear — not exactly. But in pressure. In expectation. The director's voice rang out from behind the lens.
"More intensity. You're supposed to ache. You're supposed to want something."
Haru tried again.
And again.
The director sighed. "You're still holding back."
He knew. He could feel it. That hesitation, that question in his chest — Do I really belong here?
After the third take, Haru stepped outside, slipping into the alley behind the studio where the cool air hit him like an unspoken truth.
The door creaked open a minute later, and Seojun joined him without a word.
They stood in silence for a while, just listening to the distant hum of Seoul beyond the wall.
"I don't get it," Haru finally muttered.
Seojun raised an eyebrow.
"I want this. I think I do. But I keep holding back."
Seojun leaned against the wall beside him. "You're scared it'll be taken away the second you reach for it."
Haru blinked, surprised.
"Same thing happened to me during my first broadcast. My vocals were shaky. My mentor told me I looked like I was bracing for failure."
"Were you?"
Seojun shrugged. "Honestly? Yeah. Still am. Every day."
Haru looked at him. Really looked at him. "You never seem scared."
"That's the point," Seojun said. "It's a mask. Same as yours. Yours just… cracks easier."
That stung. But it also felt weirdly comforting.
Then Seojun added, "But I'll say this. When you do let it slip? When you let the real stuff through? It hits harder than the rest of us trying to be perfect."
Haru was quiet for a long time.
Then: "Thanks."
"Don't get soft on me now," Seojun said, pushing off the wall. "Go back in there and scare the director with your feelings."
Haru snorted. "That your version of a pep talk?"
"Take it or leave it."
The next take, Haru didn't aim for perfect.
He didn't think about camera angles or fan expectations or vocal ranking charts.
He just sang with the weight he'd been carrying since the moment his name was announced as main vocal. Not to impress. Not to prove.
Just to be heard.
The silence after he finished was thick.
Then: "That's the one," said the director.
Later that night, the five boys collapsed on the dorm floor in a heap of limbs, empty water bottles, and half-mumbled complaints.
Minhee groaned, "If I die, I want to be buried in our debut outfits."
Shiro grinned. "Please don't die. It's bad PR."
Riki barely opened one eye. "Also we'd have to re-record the harmonies."
Seojun didn't speak, but he let his head rest back against the wall without moving — the closest thing to relaxed Haru had ever seen from him.
Minju floated above the ceiling light, watching them with a warm smile.
"This is it," she whispered to herself. "This is what we were waiting for."
Haru sat up, chest still sore from emotion.
She floated down near him and asked softly, "You still feel like you're drowning?"
He thought about it.
Then shook his head.
"No. Not drowning. Just… finally learning how to swim."
Outside, the city moved like always.
But inside their dorm — in that messy, cramped room full of dreams and cracked voices — a new story was forming.
And Haru, finally, was in the middle of it.
Not chasing light.
Becoming it.