The week that followed was a blur of caffeine-fueled adrenaline, ink, and exhaustion. There was no time for mourning the loss of the grand comeback they had hoped for.
That first night, after driving back from the rehearsal hall, Jaemin hadn't slept. He had sat at his dining table until dawn, going through the scores of the repertoire they had practiced so far, rethinking and rearranging the music for their reduced team. Do-hyun had stayed up beside him, mapping out a survival strategy on the back of old invoices.
Two days later, they were back in the rehearsal hall, struggling their way through a new arrangement.
"Violins, lighter! You're trying to be a symphony. Stop it."
Jaemin tapped his baton against the stand, cutting off the sound. The orchestra halted, a ragged collection of thirty-odd tired musicians.
"You're trying to fill the silence of the people who left." Jaemin's voice rang in the small hall. "Don't. Let the silence be there. This arrangement is about space. It's about intimacy."
He looked at Han Chaewon. "Second violins, when you take that harmony, don't support the firsts. Converse with them. It's a whisper, not a shout."
Chaewon nodded, adjusting her grip on her bow. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze was sharp. "Got it. Less epic, more gossip."
A tired smile broke across Jaemin's face. "Exactly," he said.
In the corner of the room, a young woman with purple ombre hair was crouching on the floor, aiming a camera lens up at Yoon Hyeonwoo.
"Hold that frown, Ajusshi," she whispered. "It looks very 'tortured artist.'"
This was Kwak Min-ji, Jung Eunji's housemate and a freelance photographer. She had been prowling the rehearsal for two hours, capturing black-and-white shots of calloused fingers, tired eyes, and sheet music covered in red ink.
"We're selling the struggle," Jung Eunji had explained when she begged Jaemin to let her in. "People love a comeback story. If we can't afford billboards, we'll take over social media."
"I'm not tortured," Yoon Hyeonwoo grunted now, though he obediently held the pose as the young woman snapped several shots. "I'm just worn out by my wife's nagging."
Nearby, Hwan Se-jin sniggered. "And the difference is?"
At the podium, Jaemin straightened, baton in hand.
"From the top. Kang Do-hyun-ssi, the entrance."
Do-hyun raised his Guarneri. He didn't look at the empty chairs. He looked only at Jaemin.
Unlike many concertos that wait for an orchestral introduction, the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto threw the soloist into the frontlines from the very beginning. A soaring, passionate melody that required absolute confidence.
In the original score, this would be supported by a lush bed of strings. But here, stripped down to the bone by Jaemin's new arrangement, it sounded different.
It sounded lonely. A prayer in the dark.
Do-hyun's violin sang with heartbreaking emotion. Every note was clear, precise, and aching with vulnerability. He wasn't performing for the back row; he was playing for the man on the podium.
Gradually, the orchestra came in underneath him—not a wall of sound, but a gentle tide. The reduced woodwinds wove around the violin line, delicate and haunting.
As the music swelled, Jaemin felt it: that tingling pull at the nape of his neck, just like in the days when he had just begun his time with the SPS. The black tea and bergamot flared in resistance, but this time, there was no nausea. Just a deep, resonant hum in his chest, vibrating in time with Do-hyun's song.
…
During the afternoon break the next day, Manager Park burst into the rehearsal hall, waving his tablet like a flag.
"Conductor-nim! Kang Do-hyun-nim!" he shouted, his face flushed. "You need to see this!"
Jaemin set down his water bottle, heart jumping. Another lawsuit? Another scandal?
Do-hyun was already at Manager Park's side, his body radiating tension. "What is it? Did Choi Seungcheol serve the papers?"
"No," Manager Park breathed. "Min-ji-ssi's photos. And the clip of the rehearsal Jung Eunji-ssi posted last night, of the opening solo. Look."
He held up the tablet. The video of Do-hyun playing the Mendelssohn solo—sweaty, shirt sleeves rolled up, playing with an intensity that looked like pain—had over two million views.
Some of the comments were still haters, but unlike before, a good percentage of them weren't talking about "Omega Scandals" or "Violent Alphas."
> I've never heard Mendelssohn sound so raw. It's not polite anymore; it's desperate.
> Is this the orchestra everyone is hating on? They sound incredible.
> Forget the gossip. Just listen to the violin.
> Who allowed that man to look that good while sweating? The arms on the Concertmaster... I am unwell.
> Wait, is this the alpha everyone's saying is violent or whatnot? He plays like a bleeding heart. I don't buy the rumors.
"The hashtag #SPSUnplugged is trending," Park said, his voice shaking. "And that's not all. Because of the buzz, I just got a call from the A— Foundation."
Jaemin and Do-hyun held their breath. The A— Foundation was one of the biggest cultural benefactors in the country. If the SPS could get them on their side…
"They want to book us," Manager Park continued, looking at them in turn, "for their annual Charity Gala next week. It's high profile. Almost every major donor in the city will be there. It's our chance to bypass all the blockades Choi Seungcheol has thrown at us, and prove we're not surrendering."
Jaemin felt the blood drain from his face. "Next week? We're not ready. We haven't finished the third movement. The arrangement is still a mess."
"Then we don't play the Mendelssohn," Do-hyun cut in swiftly.
Jaemin whipped to him. "What?"
"We play the Brahms," Do-hyun stated, his eyes dark and serious. "It's a piece we know. We spent so much time perfecting it; the musicians could probably play it in their sleep."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Jaemin could hear.
"Jaemin, we can't turn this down. This is an opportunity we can't afford to miss. It will be a bit of a scramble, yes, but if we can make it work…"
He trailed off, knowing he didn't have to belabour the point.
Jaemin looked at his mate. He looked at the tired faces of his musicians, who had no idea what the three of them were discussing, but were watching them with desperate hope.
They needed a win. They needed it now.
He took a deep breath, pushing past his reservations and the fearful shadow of the Revival Gala.
"Okay," Jaemin said, the decision settling in his chest like a stone. "We'll take it. And we'll play the Brahms."
"I'll handle the logistics," Manager Park said, already typing on his phone. "This is it. If we pull this off, we might be able to convince the sponsors to come back, or find some new ones at least. But if we fail…"
"We won't," Do-hyun said, his gaze never leaving Jaemin's face. "It just means we have a long night ahead of us."