Three days after the retreat, Eclipse was back in the fire.
They walked into the company's blackbox recording studio one by one — no chatter, no games. Just a hallway of posters they'd grown up staring at and a door with their name on it now taped in neat block letters: ECLIPSE – VOCAL FINAL RECORDING.
The debut was no longer a dream.
It was a deadline.
The producer waited inside, headphones on, already tweaking levels behind the glass. A vocal director nodded once as they entered. Yoon Haejin was there too, seated in the back with a clipboard, no expression.
No second chances. Not now.
One by one, they stepped into the booth.
Minhee went first — bright, airy tone, surprising emotional depth when he focused. He flubbed one line, swore in a whisper, then nailed it the next take. "Not bad," the director murmured. "Less cute. More ache."
Minhee winked through the glass. "So… pain is the new sexy?"
Nobody laughed.
Riki was precision. Cold and clean. But when he hit the bridge harmony, he let something slip — just a crack of vulnerability in his voice like he wasn't singing to the mic, but to someone long gone.
The producer lifted a hand mid-take. "Keep that."
Riki stepped out saying nothing, eyes lowered.
Shiro surprised them all. Not just with flow or rhythm — but with rawness. One verse sounded like it had been clawed from his throat, then whispered into the void. His voice wasn't perfect. But it meant something.
Minju — invisible and curled above the studio light — actually sat up. "That was… kind of beautiful."
Haru whispered, "Don't tell him. He'll never shut up."
Seojun stood silent for ten seconds before starting. Then: clean. Focused. Like a final draft version of himself. But Haru saw it — the moment his hand clenched, just slightly, as if remembering every ranking, every time he was second-best.
When he exited, he met Haru's eyes.
"Your turn," he said.
The room dimmed slightly when Haru stepped into the booth.
Minju floated near the far wall now, arms folded, watching like someone afraid to blink.
This was his moment.
Main vocal. Final chorus. Center spotlight.
He put the headphones on.
The track started.
And for the first line… his voice faltered.
Just a fraction.
The director's hand paused over the control panel.
He took a breath.
Again.
This time, he closed his eyes.
Didn't sing it like a task.
Sang it like he meant it.
Like every quiet fear, every choice, every ghost clinging to his back was part of the sound.
When the final chorus hit — that high note, the one that had haunted him for weeks — he let it break.
Not off-key. Not sharp.
Just… human.
The silence afterward was long.
Then the director said, "That's the one."
Later, they gathered in the listening room.
Their debut song played in full over the speakers. Mixed, mastered, real.
"Eclipse" — the title track.
It didn't sound like a polished product.
It sounded like them.
Moments of chaos. Pain. Restraint. Surprise.
Their voices layered and cracked in all the right places. Haru's final line rang out like a promise, not a pitch.
Minju hovered near him, visibly shaken.
"You did it," she whispered.
He nodded, barely breathing. "We did."
Outside the building, it had started to rain.
The five boys stood under the company awning, hoods up, bags slung low, not speaking.
Until Shiro broke the silence.
"You know… it's funny."
"What is?" Minhee asked.
"We were never quiet," Shiro said. "But now the whole world's about to hear us."
Haru looked up at the sky.
He didn't feel fear anymore.
Not of the lights.
Not of the center.
Not of being seen.
Just one quiet thought:
It's finally starting.