I  woke up to the sound of the twins arguing in the hallway.

Not yelling — arguing. Which, in their case, was somehow worse.

I buried my face into my blanket with a groan. “It’s too early for this.”

Across the room, Renji was already awake. He sat on the edge of his bed, hair messy, scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a man questioning all his life choices.

“Good morning,” I muttered, voice muffled by the pillow.

He hummed quietly. “That’s debatable.”

I lifted my head just enough to look at him. The faint morning light slipping through the curtains softened his features — he looked more peaceful than usual, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed how little any of us had slept this week.

“Can you believe it’s tomorrow?” I said, stretching. “Our actual debut. The music video, the stage… all of it.”

Renji looked up from his phone. “Terrifying.”

I laughed. “You don’t look terrified.”

“I’m internalizing it,” he said deadpan, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. “Screaming inside.”

That made me snort. I sat up properly, running a hand through my hair. “Well, at least one of us looks calm. I woke up with my heart doing laps in my chest.”

Renji gave a half-smile — that small, rare one that always made it hard to breathe for a second. “You’ll be fine, Minjae. You always are.”

For some reason, that simple line did more to calm me than any amount of caffeine ever could.

By the time we dragged ourselves into the kitchen, the chaos was in full swing. The twins were making eggs (and somehow burning them), Yujun was nursing a mug of black coffee like it had wronged him personally, Jiahao was already dressed and checking the group chat, and Geon was standing in front of the mirror, practicing his smirk.

“I think I’m having an identity crisis,” Geon said suddenly. “I’ve been smirking for ten minutes and now I can’t stop.”

“Maybe that is your identity,” Yujun muttered.

Jiahao clapped his hands, snapping everyone to attention like a general. “Okay, listen up. Today we run the stage routine start to finish — formation, camera blocking, everything. No more freestyle disasters, no last-minute improvising, Boom.”

Boom raised his hands defensively. “That was one time!”

“You tried to spin-kick Bang during the chorus,” Jiahao deadpanned.

“It would’ve looked cool if he didn’t duck!”

“Because you almost hit my head, you maniac!” Bang yelled back.

Renji sipped his coffee slowly, expression unreadable. “This is going to be a long day.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The tension was thick in the air — that pre-debut mixture of excitement, nerves, and caffeine overdose. But underneath it all, there was something unspoken between us. A quiet understanding that we were almost there.

The past weeks of sweat, tears, blisters, and sleepless nights were about to pay off.

As we grabbed our bags and headed for the door, Jiahao stopped us for a moment. “Hey,” he said, looking around the group. “Let’s do our best today. Tomorrow’s a big day, but this — this is what makes or breaks it.”

For once, everyone went quiet.

Then Boom broke the silence. “Can I still eat breakfast, though?”

“Eat in the car,” Jiahao groaned, shoving him toward the door.

As we filed out, Renji brushed past me, his hand briefly grazing my wrist — so subtle it could’ve been accidental. But it wasn’t.

“Let’s make it count today,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

I nodded, my pulse jumping for reasons that had nothing to do with debut nerves.

The moment we stepped into the broadcast building, the air changed.

It wasn’t like walking into a normal studio — it was charged. Cameras, stage lights, and the smell of hairspray clung to everything. You could almost taste the anxiety in the air, mixed with the sound of mic checks and squeaky sneakers sliding over the glossy stage floor.

The LED backdrop of our debut stage was already being tested — swirling patterns of red and gold, the faint outline of our group name V1NE pulsing in the background. Seeing it lit up like that for the first time made my stomach twist.

“So this is it,” Geon said, hands on his hips. “Where we either ascend to idol heaven or crash and burn in 4K.”

“Positive thinking, Geon,” Jiahao muttered, but he was pale too.

Manager Garam appeared from the side, clipboard in hand, his expression somewhere between tired and proud. “Alright, rookies. We’re here for camera blocking and live sound checks. Don’t screw up. The crew here won’t go easy on you just because you’re new.”

“Good morning to you too,” Yujun said flatly, bowing anyway.

“Morning,” Garam replied, completely ignoring the sarcasm. “Make sure you’re all mic’d up. Wardrobe team will fix any last-minute issues before tomorrow. Minjae, you’re center for the first verse. Don’t drift left again, the camera hates that angle.”

“Got it,” I said, trying to ignore how dry my throat felt.

The stage directors gathered us for blocking. The room was freezing — probably because of all the equipment — and the polished floor reflected every movement like a mirror. It was surreal.

When the music started, it echoed through the empty studio — our debut track, “Original Sin.”

Even though I’d heard it a hundred times in practice, the sound hit differently here. Louder, heavier, real.

The first run was fine. The second was messy. The third… well, that’s when the chaos started.

“Boom, you’re half a beat late again!” yelled the stage director through his mic.

“I swear I’m on time!” Boom yelled back.

“You’re not,” Bang said, not missing a beat. “You just think you are.”

“Stop fighting!” Jiahao barked, spinning mid-dance move to glare at them.

“Guys, focus!” Renji’s voice cut through the noise. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. Everyone straightened up immediately — even the twins.

After the fourth run, we collapsed near the stage edge, panting and sweating. A few stylists rushed in with towels and water bottles.

“Do idols normally sweat this much?” Geon muttered, fanning himself dramatically. “I feel like a roast chicken.”

“More like burnt chicken,” Yujun said, smirking.

“You’re just mad I dance better than you.”

“You tripped over your own mic cord, Geon.”

“That was part of the choreo,” he said, completely serious.

Renji almost choked on his water. “Right. Modern art in motion.”

We kept going until noon, redoing camera angles, light cues, and mic tests. Every time the intro played, my heart thumped harder. It was strange — the song felt like a heartbeat now, syncing all seven of us together.

When Garam finally called for a lunch break, we nearly cheered.

The cafeteria inside the building was packed with other celebrities and staff. We sat in a corner with our trays, trying not to draw attention.

Geon picked up a lettuce leaf and frowned. “This diet food is depressing.”

“That’s because it is diet food,” Jiahao said, poking at his boiled egg.

“Why is everything dry?” Boom whined. “Even the rice is sad.”

Yujun sipped his black coffee. “Welcome to the world of televised starvation.”

I laughed softly but then noticed how seriously everyone else had gone quiet.

Renji leaned back in his chair, his chopsticks hovering midair. “They really push it, huh?”

“What?” I asked.

“The diet thing,” he said. “I overheard one of the stylists saying we have to look even ‘tighter’ on camera tomorrow. Like we’re not already practicing six hours a day.”

Geon sighed, looking down at his tray. “My old trainer once told me if I ate after 8 p.m., I might as well drink oil. I still can’t eat at night without feeling guilty.”

“That’s messed up,” I said quietly.

“Common, though,” Jiahao added. “They want you camera-thin, not healthy. Remember the second-gen days? Some of those idols fainted on stage. It’s not better now — it’s just more hidden.”

I stared at my own tray — half-finished rice, steamed vegetables, a sliver of chicken. It felt wrong, eating so little when we were burning ourselves out every day.

Renji must’ve seen my expression because he nudged my elbow lightly. “You don’t have to starve for them, you know.”

I looked up. “I know.”

But even as I said it, I wasn’t sure I believed it.

For a moment, the table went silent. Then Geon broke the tension, tapping his chopsticks against the bowl. “Okay, emotional hour’s over. Who’s stealing dessert for me?”

“I’m not risking Garam’s wrath for pudding,” Yujun said flatly.

“I’ll do it,” Boom said, already standing up.

Bang sighed. “And this is how we get banned from the cafeteria.”

By the end of the day, when the director finally called “That’s a wrap!”, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else. We had just finished our final full run — camera-ready, synchronized, dripping sweat but nailing every beat.

As we packed up, Garam clapped his hands once, sharply. “Good work, everyone. Tomorrow, it’s showtime. No pressure.”

“Sure,” Geon muttered. “Just millions of people watching. Totally fine.”

Renji grinned slightly. “We’ll survive.”

By the time we got back to the dorm everyone was too exhausted to talk much — just groans, clattering dishes, and the sound of Boom complaining that his legs no longer functioned like human legs.

Dinner was simple — takeout, for once. We didn’t even sit properly; just scattered around the living room, eating from plastic containers while the TV played some late-night variety show in the background. The noise was comforting, but my mind wasn’t really there.

I kept glancing at the clock. Eleven. Then eleven-thirty.

Tomorrow was it.

The day everything would really begin.

After finishing my food, I slipped out to the balcony with a cup of tea. The air outside was crisp, cool against my sweat-damp skin. The city stretched endlessly below — streets glowing like veins, cars crawling like fireflies. From up here, it looked peaceful. Like the world was sleeping and I was the only one awake.

But my mind wouldn’t stop.

It kept replaying the weeks that led me here — the moment I accepted the Apex Weekly deal, the first day walking into SDR’s building, every little lie that stacked up to this point. And now, standing on the edge of debut, pretending to be someone I wasn’t… or maybe I was that someone. I couldn't differentiate what I was lie and what was truth.

It felt like I was balancing on glass. One wrong move and everything would shatter.

I told myself it was for justice — for those kids who disappeared, for the truth that no one else dared to uncover.

But tonight, that righteousness felt thin.

Because I’d started to love this life again. The music, the stage, even the ridiculous early morning rehearsals.

And worse — I’d started to care about the people in it. About him, especially.

I set the cup down, watching steam curl into the night air.

It would be so easy to forget why I came here.

So easy to stay.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Renji’s voice startled me. I turned to see him standing by the balcony door, hair damp from a shower, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. His usual unbothered expression was softer than usual, his eyes catching the city lights behind me.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Too much adrenaline, I guess.”

He stepped outside and leaned on the railing beside me. “You’re nervous.”

“Of course I am. Tomorrow decides everything.”

He gave a quiet hum, then said, “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

I huffed a small laugh. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” His voice was steady, firm in that way that made you believe him, even when you shouldn’t. “You worked hard. You deserve this.”

For a while, we stood there in silence — the kind that wasn’t awkward, just comfortable. The hum of traffic below filled the space between us.

After a minute, he nudged my shoulder lightly. “Come on, you’ll freeze out here. Let’s go inside.”

Back in our room, the lights were dim. My bed was a mess of sheets and practice clothes, his side perfectly neat — typical Renji. He tossed a towel onto his chair and sat on his bed, scrolling absently through his phone.

I laid down but couldn’t stop fidgeting, twisting the blanket between my fingers.

He noticed, of course. “You’re thinking too much again.”

“You read minds now?”

“Only yours,” he said, smirking faintly.

That made me laugh, just a little. “You’re too confident.”

“I call it observational skill.” He put his phone down and lay on his side, facing me. “You really can’t relax?”

“I’m trying,” I said honestly. “But I keep thinking — what if I mess up tomorrow? What if—”

“Then you fix it,” he cut in, matter-of-fact. “That’s what we do. We mess up, then fix it.”

I looked at him. His expression was calm, unwavering. There was something grounding about that — like he was an anchor, holding me steady while my mind spiraled.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But we’ll do it together. That’s what matters.”

There was a quiet beat before I spoke again. “Renji?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks. For… everything. Not just for helping me practice or whatever. Just— for staying.”

His gaze softened. “Where else would I go?”

My chest tightened at that. He said it so casually, but something in his tone made my heart skip a beat.

Maybe he didn’t mean it like that.

Or maybe he did.

He reached over and tugged the edge of my blanket, pulling it up to my chin. “Sleep, idiot. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah…” I murmured, suddenly too warm to breathe.

He turned off the bedside lamp, and the room fell into darkness. I could still feel his presence — close enough that the space between our beds felt smaller than ever. His breathing was slow, steady, and I matched mine to his without realizing.

And for the first time that night, my thoughts quieted.

Tomorrow, the world would meet V1NE.

But for now, it was just the two of us — two tired souls sharing a quiet night before everything changed.