The next morning, Haru showed up to the vocal room early.
Too early.
He wasn't scheduled until 10 a.m., but by 7:45, he was already at the piano, headphones on, looping the same melody over and over.
Minju sat cross-legged on the windowsill, silent. Watching.
She hadn't said anything since last night.
And he hadn't pushed.
Not after that.
"What if I'm not just haunting you—what if I'm fading?"
The words still echoed.
He hit the same chord again. And again.
His voice cracked for the third time.
He closed his eyes. "I need you to stay."
Minju didn't answer.
He turned.
She wasn't there.
When Riki arrived at 9:00 sharp, he found Haru sitting on the floor, back to the wall, humming softly.
"Haru?" Riki said gently.
Haru flinched. Looked up.
"You okay, man?"
"Yeah." He forced a smile. "Just thinking."
"You were… talking."
"To myself," Haru lied. "Thinking out loud."
Riki didn't press, but he lingered longer than usual before heading to warm up.
Later that afternoon, Eclipse had a choreography check in one of the main practice studios.
It started normal.
Until it didn't.
During their third run-through of the routine, Haru suddenly turned the wrong way — like he saw something behind them.
He froze in place. Just for a beat.
Minhee bumped into him.
"Dude—what are you doing?"
Haru blinked. The studio came back into focus.
"I—I thought I saw—"
Shiro raised an eyebrow. "Saw what?"
"Nothing. Sorry."
But the staff noticed.
So did Seojun, who didn't say a word but watched him carefully the rest of the session.
That night, Haru was called into the company's small side office.
Two managers were already seated. One of them was their group's main handler.
"Hey, Haru," the lead manager said, too gently. "Can we talk for a sec?"
Haru nodded slowly.
They didn't yell. They didn't accuse. That made it worse.
"We've noticed some… inconsistencies," the manager said, carefully choosing each word. "Moments during lives. Practices. Talking when no one's around. Disengaging mid-task."
"I'm fine," Haru said quickly. "I just get in my head sometimes. I'm not—crazy."
"No one's saying that." Pause. "But the pressure's high right now. If something's wrong, we need to support you."
There it was.
Support.
The corporate word for "We think you're slipping."
"We'd like to schedule you for a short wellness check. Just one session. Nothing formal."
Haru swallowed.
"What if I say no?"
The manager hesitated.
"Then we'll have to discuss next steps with your team and… possibly the label."
In other words: Say yes. Or risk everything.
That night, Haru sat in the dorm bathroom, hands gripping the sink.
He looked up.
The mirror didn't show Minju behind him.
But he felt her.
"I think I messed up," he said quietly.
Minju appeared slowly — like mist collecting into shape.
"They're sending you to therapy."
He didn't answer.
She sat on the edge of the counter. "Are you scared of them thinking you're broken?"
He met her eyes. "I'm scared they'll fix me."
She blinked. "Fix you how?"
"Make me forget you."
Minju didn't smile. Didn't joke.
"I think you're the only one who remembers me, Haru.And if you forget me…I don't know what's left."