The move happened at 4:00 AM. It was the only time PLEDIS could transport six high-profile rookies without a fleet of fans following the van. The new dorm was larger, boasting a living room that didn't feel like a closet and, most importantly, two bathrooms.
"I claim the top bunk!" Kyungmin shouted, dragging a stuffed penguin through the front door.
"You’re the youngest, you get the floor if we run out of space," Hanjin teased, though he was already helping Youngjae haul a massive box of kitchen supplies toward the cabinets.
Jihoon stood in the center of the living room, a single duffel bag at his side. He felt the weight of the group’s name—Twenty-Four Seven With Us. It wasn't just a promise to the fans; it was a pact between the six of them. They were about to spend every waking and sleeping second in each other's pockets. No more "going home" to a separate life. This was the life.
"Jihoon-ah, you’re with me and Dohoon in the big room," Shinyu said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Jihoon nodded, dragging his bag into the room. Dohoon was already there, meticulously organizing his closet. He was a perfectionist—every t-shirt was color-coded, every shoe aligned. Jihoon, by contrast, lived out of his bag. He was used to the transient life of a trainee.
The peace of the move didn't last long. With debut only fourteen days away, the schedule became a relentless machine. They were at the gym by 6:00 AM, in vocal lessons by 9:00 AM, and choreography practice until the sun went down—and then rose again.
By day five, the "Sparkling Blue" energy was beginning to fray.
They were in Studio C, working on a B-side track called "unplugged boy." It was a mid-tempo song that relied heavily on vocal layering.
"Again," the vocal director’s voice crackled through the intercom. "Dohoon, you’re coming in too heavy on the second verse. Jihoon, your harmony is sliding flat. If you two don't lock in, the whole bridge collapses."
They had been on this one section for two hours.
Dohoon took a sharp breath, his jaw tight. "I'm not coming in heavy. I'm following the guide track’s volume."
"The guide track doesn't have Jihoon's tone," the director snapped. "Adjust to your member."
They tried again. And again. On the tenth try, Jihoon tripped over a note, his voice cracking from sheer exhaustion.
"Can we just take five minutes?" Jihoon asked, pulling his headphones off. His ears were ringing.
"If we take five minutes now, we lose the rhythm," Dohoon said, his voice cold. He didn't look at Jihoon; he looked at his own reflection in the booth's glass. "We’re already behind because we had to relearn the blocking for you. We can't be behind on the recording, too."
The room went ice-cold. Youngjae and Hanjin, who were
waiting on the sofa, looked at each other in awkward silence. Shinyu, who had been monitoring the levels, stood up slowly.
Jihoon felt a flare of heat in his chest. "I've been practicing that blocking until my shins bled, Dohoon. If my harmony is flat, it’s because you’re pushing the pitch so you can be heard over me."
"I'm pushing the pitch because you’re not supporting the note!" Dohoon snapped, turning to face him.
"Enough," Shinyu said. It wasn't a shout, but the authority in his voice was absolute.
"Hyung, he’s—" Dohoon started.
"I said enough," Shinyu repeated. He looked at the vocal director. "Sir, please give us ten minutes. The air in here is too thin."
The director sighed and clicked off the mic.
The six of them stood in the cramped studio. The silence was heavy, filled with the hum of the computers and the sound of six different rhythms of breathing.
"Go to the lounge," Shinyu commanded.
They filed out like scolded schoolboys. In the lounge, Dohoon sat as far from Jihoon as possible, staring out the window at the Seoul skyline.
"We are TWS," Shinyu began, leaning against the vending machine. "Do you know what that means? It means we don't have the luxury of 'me' and 'you' anymore. Dohoon, if Jihoon is flat, it’s your job as the lead vocal to pull him up, not push him down. And Jihoon, if you're struggling, you tell us. You don't wait until you crack."
"He acts like I'm a guest," Jihoon muttered, his eyes fixed on his shoes. "Like I'm a temporary fix for a problem they had."
Dohoon’s head snapped toward him. "I don't think you're a guest. I think you're the one who’s going to determine if we're a 'one-hit-wonder' or a legacy. I’m hard on you because the world is going to be ten times harder. I’m scared, okay?"
The admission hung in the air. Dohoon, the most polished and composed member, looked vulnerable.
"I'm scared too," Youngjae whispered from the sofa. "I keep dreaming that I forget the lyrics on the debut stage."
"I dream that my shoe flies off during the kick-flip," Kyungmin added, trying to lighten the mood, though his bottom lip trembled slightly.
Jihoon looked at Dohoon. He realized then that the friction wasn't about the music. It was about the terrifying reality that their lives were now irrevocably tied together. If one of them tripped, they all fell.
"I'm sorry," Jihoon said softly. "I'm not trying to be the 'gap.' I'm trying to be the bridge. But sometimes I feel like the bridge is made of paper."
Dohoon sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. He stood up, walked over to the vending machine, and bought two cans of cold pear juice. He tossed one to Jihoon.
"Bridges are made of steel, Jihoon-ah. But steel has to be forged in heat." Dohoon cracked his own can open. "Let's go back in. I'll drop my volume by ten percent. You focus on the vibrato. We'll find the middle."
They went back into the booth. This time, when the music started, Jihoon didn't look at the sheet music. He looked through the glass at Dohoon. He watched the way Dohoon’s throat moved, the way he tapped the beat on his thigh.
When the bridge came, their voices met in the middle. It wasn't two separate lines anymore; it was a chord. A perfect, resonant harmony that made the vocal director finally lean back and smile.
As they walked out of the studio three hours later, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. They were exhausted, their eyes puffy, their voices gone.
"Breakfast?" Hanjin asked, yawning so wide his jaw cracked.
"My treat," Jihoon said, feeling a strange, new lightness in his chest.
As they walked toward the 24-hour soup shop, Shinyu walked beside Jihoon.
"You handled that well," the leader said.
"I’m learning," Jihoon replied. "Steel and heat, right?"
"Something like that," Shinyu laughed, throwing an arm over Jihoon’s shoulder. "But let's try to keep the heat to a minimum. I don't want to go gray before the first fan-sign."
The six of them walked into the morning light, shadows stretching out behind them—six individual shapes that, for the first time, moved as one.
***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***
Download
Like this story? Download the app to keep your reading history.
Comments