The shelter's rec room was unusually quiet that evening. The walls, once a vibrant clash of colors, now seemed dull, worn by years of use. Only the faint hum of a portable speaker on the floor broke the silence, playing soft, instrumental music on loop. Thato sat cross-legged on an old couch, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping away on the keys without looking, as if the words were already embedded in the space between his thoughts. He wasn't just making music—he was listening to something that had yet to be born.
Haneul entered quietly, hoodie pulled low over her face, casting a shadow over her tired eyes. She closed the door behind her, but the usual sound of a latch catching didn't echo as it should. Instead, it was swallowed by the room's stillness. Without a word, she slid onto the couch beside him, her presence a quiet pull in the otherwise empty space.
Thato didn't glance up from his screen, but his voice was soft, more tired than teasing. "You're late."
"Schedule ran over. Again." Her voice, hoarse with exhaustion, scraped against the air. "Photoshoot. Then a two-hour vocal session. Then a brand meeting where I said exactly four words. I'm basically a glorified cardboard cutout." Her lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Thato smirked, but there was no humor in it. "A very photogenic one, though."
She chuckled, nudging his shoulder with hers. "Shut up."
They fell into a comfortable silence, one that wasn't awkward but felt like the kind of pause you took when the world outside was too loud. Haneul didn't speak for a while, but the weight of everything she wasn't saying hung between them, thick and undeniable. Finally, her voice broke the silence again, quieter now, more vulnerable.
"I'm serious, though. I think I'm burning out. And the comeback is close."
Thato paused the music, finally looking at her. Her eyes were tired, darker than usual, as if they'd seen too much for someone her age. But there was a certain stubbornness in the way she held herself, an undercurrent of defiance that he knew too well.
"Tell me more about your group," he said gently. "I've only seen them in snippets. I don't even know everyone's names."
Haneul shifted, sitting up straighter, and for a moment, her expression softened—just a little. "We're called *VELA*. It's an 8-member group—debuted back in 2015 under Eclipse Entertainment. We weren't big at first. Took almost a year before anyone noticed us."
Thato nodded, taking mental notes, but he could hear the weight of her words. So much had been packed into those few sentences. So much she hadn't said, but that he could feel in the spaces between.
"Eight members," Thato murmured. "That's a lot."
"Exactly," Haneul replied, her tone almost bitter now. "Everyone wants lines, but there's only so much airtime. Management gives the same few members the spotlight. The rest… fade out." She rubbed her forehead, like the thought itself was a migraine she couldn't shake.
Thato looked at her, a quiet understanding in his gaze. "And you?"
Her hesitation was sharp, but only for a second. Then, she spoke, her words carrying the weight of years spent fighting a losing battle. "I'm... not exactly the main vocal. Or the center. I'm the lead dancer and visual, sometimes support vocals. I love the stage, but I don't always get to show what I can do."
Thato studied her for a long moment. Her voice was soft, but he could hear the unspoken pain there—like a chorus of frustration she couldn't quite express.
"Sounds like a system rigged from the start."
Haneul didn't reply right away, but the slight downturn of her mouth was answer enough. "It is. We've been through hell together. One member nearly quit after she lost her voice mid-tour. Another was told she'd be cut unless she dropped ten kilos in three weeks. You start to feel like you're disposable. Just another pretty face in a lineup."
Thato felt a rush of something—anger, sympathy, disbelief. He hadn't realized how much Haneul had carried on her shoulders, how much weight she had to bear, just to keep standing.
"You care about them?" he asked, the question feeling like a confession of sorts.
Her eyes softened, distant for a moment, but then she focused on him with a quiet intensity. "They're family," she said without hesitation. "We fight like wolves, but we survived things that would've crushed other groups. I want something better for them. A comeback that actually lets all of us shine."
Thato's fingers twitched, restless against the edge of his laptop. His mind raced, visions of melodies and lyrics starting to unfurl like vines, twisting into something beautiful. Something *real*.
"You ever write a song for all eight?" he asked quietly, his voice taking on a note of something deeper.
Haneul blinked, her brows furrowing in surprise. "No one ever bothers. Too complicated."
Thato stared at the blank screen before him, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was already hearing the music—different voices weaving together in harmony, each one getting a chance to stand out without being overshadowed. His fingers moved of their own accord, scribbling something on his sketchpad.
"Maybe that's the problem," he said, more to himself than to her.
Haneul tilted her head, skepticism mixing with curiosity. "You thinking what I think you're thinking?"
He met her gaze, unshaken, unwavering. "I want to try. Give me some demos. Vocals. Something raw. Doesn't need to be perfect. I just want to hear them—each one. I want to write *for* them, not just around them."
Haneul stared at him, silent for a long moment. Her face softened, but there was a wariness there too, as if she wasn't sure whether to trust this moment, to trust him. "You sure?"
Thato didn't hesitate. "You said you wanted something that felt like *you*. I think I can make something that feels like *all* of you."
---
**Later that Night**
---
Thato spent hours listening—replaying old stages, interviews, fan compilations—anything he could get his hands on. He watched VELA, the group she called family. He studied them, searching for the spark in each of their eyes, the hidden depths that could only be uncovered through music.
Jihae's voice was like a storm—powerful and unyielding. But offstage, there was a quiet fragility that made him want to protect her. Rina had fire in her eyes, an intensity that flared every time she rapped. But her singing voice—smooth and soulful—told a different story altogether. Soyoon's smile was always a little too bright, a little too perfect, as though she were trying to convince herself that she belonged. Min's husky, late-night radio voice always caught him off guard—soft, vulnerable, but undeniably magnetic. Yujin's rap had a bite to it, sharp and hungry for attention, but her dancing was what set her apart. Eri and Nami, the twins, always blended into the background, even though their choreography was flawless—effortless, like they were born to do this. And Haneul. She was everything—charismatic, wild, loud—but not always loud enough when it counted.
Thato scribbled notes on his pad, the ideas taking shape like a puzzle he couldn't wait to solve.
> "Everyone needs a moment. Rina and Yujin split the rap bridge. Jihae opens the pre-chorus with a solo line. Min does harmonies—let her voice linger. Haneul gets the chorus drop. Give Soyoon the quiet build-up for once."
He didn't just want to make a hit. He wanted to make something that *mattered*—for Haneul, for the group, for every girl who had been lost in the background. This wasn't just about success. This was about *giving them their moment*.
Absolutely, let's refine that section to give it more weight and emotion. We want to capture Thato's excitement, the sense of purpose he feels, and the sheer ambition of what he's creating. Here's a more polished version:
---
By the time morning light spilled through the cracks in the curtains, Thato had a structure.
**Three songs.**
1. **"Starlight Sinners"** (C-rank)(10%)
– A moody R&B x hip-hop fusion, slow-burning and intense. The kind of track that would thrive in the hushed, late-night atmosphere of an underground club. Deep 808s would pulse beneath layered harmonies, while a fierce rap bridge sliced through the calm like a sharp breath in the dark. A song for recklessness, for raw emotion.
2. **"Orbit"**(B-rank)(10%)
– A bright, vibrant K-pop anthem, the kind that demanded to be played on repeat at every concert and blast through speakers in neon-lit arenas. Synth-heavy with a soaring, danceable drop, every member would get a moment to shine, no one left in the shadows. The hook, written to be split evenly, would let each girl's voice find its place in the spotlight, with no one left out.
3. **"Gravity"**(D-rank)(10%)
– A poignant pop ballad, aching with sentiment and ripe for live stages. The kind of song that would bring the crowd to a standstill, hanging on every note. Layered vocals, thick with raw emotion, would build to a crescendo—Haneul closing the final chorus, the first time she'd ever been allowed to carry that weight.
It was ambitious. It was risky.
And it felt like exactly what they needed.
|Ding|
The System buzzed faintly in the back of his mind.
**"Objective recognized: Multi-track project initiated. Reward: Lyric Writing – Intermediate unlocked."**
**"Mission detected: Complete full-length demo with multi-member structure. Complete missions to get rewards"**