Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stage was blinding. Deafening. A storm of cheers, tears, and anticipation swirled inside the studio as the final seconds ticked down. The air was thick with the electric weight of destiny, and for a moment, even time seemed to falter.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| MINHEE |

His heartbeat was louder than the crowd. Or maybe it was the crowd. Or maybe it was his heartbeat becoming the crowd.

“Rank #10… Kang Minhee.”

He blinked. Didn’t move. Time didn’t move.

Then he laughed and took Hyeongjun in his arms. He was happy, touched, he never thought that he would be chosen to debut.

After a moment, with a big smile on his face he walked to the mic and introduce himself loudly.

When he looked up and saw his parents in the audience—crying, laughing, glowing—something clicked.

This wasn’t a dream anymore.

He was going to debut.

But then as he turns back to take his seat, in the crowd, he saw Jungmo and Woojin, in the crowd, smiling faintly. If he is in the 10, would they?

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| DONGPYO |

“Rank #8… Son Dongpyo.”

He crumbled to his knees, the air knocked out of his lungs, his eyes blinded by tears and his fellow trainees crowding him.

All those nights thinking I'm not good enough. All the fears that cute couldn’t last. All the hate, the doubt, the ache. All the comment that he would be the first signal song center not to debut.

Gone.

He stood under the lights and still sobbing, his whole body shaking.

Not from sadness.

From knowing he made it.

His gaze found Seungwoo-hyung in the group, who gave him the smallest nod.

And Dongpyo knew: this was just the beginning of the real storm.

But this time, he wasn’t standing alone.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| SEUNGYOUN |

“Rank #5… Cho Seungyoun.”

Laughter exploded from his chest.

He laughed as he walked to the stage, because it was either that or scream.

He had been an underdog, a forgotten name, a second-chance joke to some.

Now?

He was standing in the Top 5.

He made sure to hug Dongpyo first, ruffling the kid’s hair. Then Minhee, then Dohyon.

When he turned toward the audience, he mouthed the word: thank you.

But when his eyes found Yohan, then Seungwoo—, still in the balance but confident.

He realized something heavier: this wasn’t just a comeback.

This was a rewrite. He could finally succeed.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| SEUNGWOO |

“Rank #3… Han Seungwoo.”

He was waiting for it but with stress and the tension mounting by the minute, he almost didn’t register it.

He stood automatically, walked like his feet already knew the path.

A part of him felt proud. Confident. Validated.

But another part—

That part kept whispering, Byungchan isn’t beside you.

He bowed to the crowd, but his heart bowed to something quieter. To the dorm room he wouldn’t return to. To Seungsik’s quiet encouragement. To Subin’s sleepy jokes. To Chan’s half-lidded grin.

He was debuting.

But it felt like leaving.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| HYEONGJUN |

“X position… The final member of X1… is…”

He didn’t breathe.

Neither did Jungmo.

The camera zoomed in. The lights slowed. Every sound became a eternity.

“Lee Eunsang.”

It was like the floor disappeared.

He turned toward Jungmo.

He was smiling. Always smiling.

And that shattered something in Hyeongjun.

Because he realized what this meant.

Jungmo-hyung and Woojin-hyung wouldn’t be coming with him.

He was about to debut on the biggest stage of his life—

Without the two people who believed in him when no one else had.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

| SEUNGWOO (2) |

The eleven of them stood center stage, sweaty, crying, stunned.

Someone said, “Let’s introduce ourselves.”

Yohan stepped forward first, voice loud, leader-like.

“We are—X1!”

The crowd roared.

And Seungwoo smiled.

But deep inside, a storm brewed.

Because in that moment, as they bowed, as the silver confetti flew, he saw Byungchan's face flash through his mind.

Instead, he thought of VICTON.

Of Seungsik’s quiet reassurance in the dorm, Byungchan’s relentless teasing, Chan’s sleepy “Hyung, come back soon,” said like a joke—but now, suddenly, not. Not a joke at all.

"They’re watching this… and I’m not going back—at least not yet."

He was VICTON’s eldest. Their hyung. Their anchor. And now he belonged to another group. A new orbit. A different future.

And so when the cameras cut and the mics turned off, Seungwoo whispered into the backstage hallway:

“Friends, dongsaengs… wait for me. I’ll make this worth it.”

Seungwoo felt their absences like phantom limbs. Like the air had a shape it no longer could hold.

With the confetti burst from the ceiling, raining gold and silver on the stage, he closed his eyes and let it wash over him. The crown on his head felt impossibly heavy.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Backstage was chaos—cameras, staff, managers, and family members weaving through one another in a blur of celebration and quiet mourning. The eleven boys who had made it stood in a row, dazed. Stylists adjusted collars. Producers whispered about contracts. Reality settled over them not with clarity, but with static.

Seungwoo sat at the edge of the makeup table, gripping a water bottle he hadn’t opened. In the mirror, his reflection looked older somehow—tired, not from the show, but from the weight that was already beginning to form.

He was in. But Victon wasn’t.

Sejun had sent him a voice message that was waiting on his phone. He hadn’t dared listen yet.

Byungchan’s name, unspoken in the finale, lingered like smoke. They had promised to debut together. They had nearly made it.

“Hyung.”

A voice pulled him back. Seungyoun, hair damp with sweat, stood beside him, face unreadable for once.

“You’re okay?”

Seungwoo hesitated, then gave a nod that fooled neither of them.

“Yeah.”

“Liar,” Seungyoun muttered, sitting beside him. “But... we made it.”

A beat of silence.

“Now we figure out how to stay.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Across the room, Hyeongjun clung to Minhee’s arm as they waited for their official group photos. His eyes were puffy, the aftermath of tears that came with too much emotion and not enough time to process any of it.

“They should be here,” he said, voice cracking. “Jungmo. Woojin. I trained with them every day.”

Minhee gave his shoulder a quiet squeeze.

“They’re proud of you.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“It should’ve been us together.”

The victory felt incomplete.

Like a song missing its final chorus.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Later, in the corner of the makeup room, Seungwoo sat down on a bench and stared at his reflection. The face was his, but sharper, more tired. More... leader-like.

“VICTON’s Han Seungwoo, meet X1’s leader.”

He didn’t notice the tears until they stained his collar.

A knock came at the door. Dongpyo peeked in, eyes red-rimmed.

“Hyung… do you ever think… maybe this is a dream we’re stealing from someone else?” he asked his voice full of doubt and of the image of Jungmo, Jinhyuk and all the other so close to debut yet not close enough.

Seungwoo looked up, stunned by the rawness.

He stood and walked over, pulling Dongpyo into a quiet hug. No cameras. No fanservice. Just two boys holding the weight of glory and grief on shoulders too young.

“No,” Seungwoo whispered. “It’s not stolen. But it is borrowed. So, we make it worth everything they gave up.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Later, in the van, the mood was muted.

The eleven of them sat shoulder to shoulder, but the silence in between was loud. Seungyoun leaned against the window, earbuds in, eyes closed but not sleeping. In his mind, beats and chords collided like puzzle pieces without corners.

What sound belonged to them now?

He had been an idol. A soloist. A rapper, a vocalist, a producer. But X1 wasn’t just another title. It was a blank canvas with eleven different brushes, a machine being constructed in real-time.

“They’ll try to give us a sound,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“But will it be us?”

He thought of their voices, their styles, their edges. How to blend them into something real. Something true. And he worried. That the pressure to please everyone might flatten them into something hollow.

He tapped open his note’s app, began sketching lyrics:

From broken lines, we draw a name 

In borrowed time, we stake our claim.

He didn’t know yet what the title would be. But he knew this:

X1 couldn’t afford to sound like anyone else.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, in the dorms assigned to them, eleven new members unpacked their suitcases in hushed tones. Their names had been etched into rooms like they already belonged there

In the dark, the X1 members laid on unfamiliar mattresses with dreams buzzing like electricity in their bones.

Some cried quietly.

Some stared at the ceiling, afraid to close their eyes in case it all vanished.

Seungwoo opened the group chat with VICTON, fingers hovering over the keys.

Finally, he played the voice message from Sejun.

“Hyung... I saw the results. You did it. Of course you did. I’m so proud. We all are. Don’t forget to eat, okay? And don’t ever think we’re not with you. Victon is always yours.”

Seungwoo turned off the phone, pulled the blanket up, and let the tears come quietly.

Everything had changed. Everything was beginning.

In the bunk below, Hyeongjun scrolled through old training photos. One of him laughing with Jungmo. Another with Woojin during vocal practice.

He saved them all to a hidden album.

Then, like a ritual, he whispered into the dark.

“We made it.”

And somewhere across Seoul, eleven stars blinked into existence, charting a course not yet written.

Chapter Text

The cameras had stopped rolling, but the world hadn’t.

The cheers of the final stage still rang in their ears, echoed now by silence—one far more deafening.

The eleven of them had been chosen. Voted in by millions. Named the future of K-pop’s next great phenomenon. And yet, as they stood facing one another in the training studio, the smiles on their faces were fragile, worn, and rehearsed.

Because for the first time in months, there were no stage lights to distract them.

Now they had to become a group.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Seungwoo stood at the front of the mirrored practice room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as the choreographer laid out the basics for their showcase prep. Lines, markers, center points, camera blocking. The words blurred together as he watched the others slowly filter in—some quiet, some laughing too loudly, some keeping their heads down.

He had been here before.

Not this room, not this group—but this moment. The beginning. The impossible task of pulling people together, shaping a team from loose threads. But back then, with VICTON, they had trained for years. Bled together. Knew each other.

These boys? He barely knew what made them laugh.

And yet they’re looking at me like I’m supposed to lead them.

After the briefing, the boys started stretching. Seungwoo remained standing, motionless. He was waiting for the weight to settle. For the moment leadership would stop feeling like a performance and start feeling like instinct again.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

The music slammed in—a slick, sharp beat fresh from CJ ENM in-house studio. Seungwoo, at the center, held the count steady. Hyeongjun sliced the air with fierce precision, Seungyoun flowed like smoke through the transitions, and the rest pushed hard to match the energy.

They struck the ending pose. But instead of applause, the choreographer frowned.

The first practice was a mess.

Their formation was technically correct—but lifeless. Timing slipped. Eye contact was avoided. No one spoke up unless spoken to.

“You’re eleven soloists right now,” the choreographer barked. “Not a group.”

Seungwoo bit his tongue. His instinct was to correct, to offer encouragement, to fix it. But every suggestion he’d given so far had been met with polite nods and uncertain glances.

They don’t trust me yet.

During a break, Seungwoo slipped into the hallway, and leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back against the cool surface. The ache in his shoulders wasn’t from dancing—it was from the invisible weight that had been placed on him the moment his name was called third. He checked his phone. The VICTON group chat was buzzing.

Seungsik: Show them what happens when hyung leads.

Chan: We watched every episode. Proud doesn’t even cover it.

A quiet smile tugged at Seungwoo’s lips. Their faith was his compass. Even now, as he stood at the head of a different team, their presence steadied him.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know if he was doing great. All he knew was that he missed their voices—how they could laugh through failure, how they knew when to fall back or push forward. How they made space for him to lead without ever asking him to prove he was worthy of it.

And now, in this sterile hallway of a new company building, he felt like he had left that part of himself behind with his name tag.

They call me leader, but I’m still looking for the person who knew how to be one.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You still look like eleven solo acts,” the choreographer said. “Find your rhythm, not just your counts.”

The silence hit heavier than the beat drop.

“We’ll fix it,” Hyeongjun said softly from across the room. “We have to.”

Behind the mirror, Hyeongjun flexed his fingers, the ghost of Pretty Girl pulsing in his muscles. He had once performed to dominate, to survive, to win. Now, he had to do something harder—blend and learn to win by becoming part of something.

He tied his laces in silence. His hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the noise inside his head. The steps came to him automatically—he had always been a fast learner—but today they felt heavier.

Every mirrored step reminded him of who wasn’t here.

Jungmo, who used to correct his posture mid-dance. Woojin, who’d clap off-beat just to make him laugh.

They had celebrated his name being called with bittersweet smiles and silent eyes. They hadn’t made the final cut. And Hyeongjun didn’t know how to be proud when his heart still hurt for them.

He glanced at Minhee beside him, the only other Starship trainee who made it. They exchanged a look—not pity, not even sadness. Just shared understanding.

As they sat side by side during the break, phone clutched in sweaty hands, they listened quietly. A voice memo from Woojin lit up the screen:

“You got this, Junie, Minhee. I didn’t make it, but you did—and that means something. Don’t be afraid to lead out there, even if it feels wrong at first.”

Hyeongjun hit play again. And again. Until the ache in his chest began to burn clean, like resolve. Minhee put his hand around his smaller friend’s shoulder, a silent support.

“I’ll make you proud, hyung. You and Jungmo-hyung both.”

He’ll succeed, not just for himself. For Woojin. For Jungmo. For the friends left behind.

We’ll dance for the ones who can’t be here.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Three days later, they were summoned to the agency to hear their debut track.

It was sleek. Synth-heavy. Engineered to win.

But Seungyoun’s face darkened as the chorus swelled.

It was loud—but hollow.

Sharp—but faceless.

A producer clicked to the next slide. “We’re recommending a synth-heavy dance track. Minimal lyrics. Think BTS meets Blackpink, Global appeal.”

“What do you think?” the producer asked casually.

No one spoke.

“It’s catchy,” Junho offered.

“Safe,” Minhee added.

“So... we’re not telling a story? And be echoes of what’s already working?” Seungyoun asked, eyebrows raised.

The lead director offered a tight smile. “You’re here to debut, not debate. This is how you win. People don’t stream lyrics—they stream vibes.”

It was meant as a joke. But no one laughed.

Seungwoo leaned forward, tone respectful but firm. “We understand commercial strategy. But this group didn’t come together in a lab. We earned this with scars. If our music doesn’t reflect that—what are we?”

There was a pause. A challenge. The fight for identity had begun.

Another exec added flatly, “You have three days to rewrite it better, if you think you can. But it must chart.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, Seungwoo, Seungyoun, and Dohyon gathered around a laptop in their dorm’s makeshift studio, the other members hovering nearby. No cameras. No stylists. Just rhythm, memory, and pain.

Seungyoun laid down a sample beat to add. “Not safe. But it feels... us.”

Dohyon scribbled the lyrics furiously. “What if the chorus is the fight itself? Not resolution. Just… fire.”

Seungwoo added vocals—raw, emotional. It wasn’t pretty. It was honest.

“This… sounds like something we’d sing,” Yohan said softly.

“Then let’s try,” Seungyoun said.

And just like that, the quiet rebellion began.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Two days later, in the same sleek office full executives, they played their version for the A&R team: a darker version, more cinematic with layered harmonies, a rap interlude bleeding frustration, and a falsetto hook that cracked under emotion.

When the music faded, no one spoke at first.

Then, finally, a low murmur.

“It’s rough,” said one exec, “but it’s real.”

“You sound like a group,” another admitted. “An identity. Not just a product.”

“We’ll keep this version for the Title track. But its better work”

The members leave the office satisfied but grave. They still had work to do.

It wasn’t a win. But it was a step. One more to help them become a true group.

They left and the countdown began.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

It happened during a 1 a.m. practice, after a week of silence turned to friction turned to near-burnout.

Seungwoo called for one more run-through. No one objected, but exhaustion clung to their limbs.

Still, they danced.

And something shifted.

Their eyes started finding each other. Breath synced. Movements aligned—not in robotic unity, but in collective purpose.

Dongpyo adjusted his angle just as Seungyoun moved forward. Minhee anticipated Junho’s line shift. Hyeongjun’s solo spin hit the beat with perfect timing and raw emotion.

When they hit the final pose, no one said anything.

Then—applause.

From the choreographer watching.

And slowly, from each other.

This was the true birth of X1, not under the light of a TV show but in a small practice room when the moves and souls of its members harmonized for the first time.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

They sat in a loose circle on the studio floor, the heat of the dance still radiating off their skin, their chests rising and falling with the weight of shared breath. Their water bottles lay scattered like dropped armor, towels draped over shoulders, forgotten.

A silence settled between them—not heavy but earned. A quiet that came after effort, after something real.

“That felt different,” Hyeongjun whispered, pulling his knees to his chest. His voice was raw from both singing and holding back too much.

“That felt like us,” Seungyoun said, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

Seungwoo looked at each of them—at the sweat drying on Minhee’s jaw, at the way Dongpyo clutched his towel like a safety net, at how Junho leaned back but kept his eyes on the center of the circle. All of them were still afraid. But they were showing up.

“Let’s promise something,” Seungwoo said. His voice was low, steady, not commanding but inviting. “Not to be perfect. Not to impress them. But to be honest. To show up for each other. Even when it’s hard.”

Dohyon, always the first to process, nodded slowly.

“I keep worrying I don’t deserve to be here,” he murmured, eyes downcast. “Like I’m too young to keep up. You’re all so… polished”

“Same,” Junho added. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just...filler. The quiet one people forget.”

Seungwoo reached out, voice steady. “You belong because you’re here. And because you fight to be here.”

“People notice you,” Minhee said gently.

“But do they know me?” Junho asked.

Seungwoo leaned forward then, elbows resting on his knees.

“You don’t need to prove anything to them right now. Just to each other. We’re here because we’ve all carried something—loss, fear, pressure. But now we get to carry something together.”

“I’m scared too,” Eunsang admitted. “Of messing up. Of not being good enough on camera. Of fading into the background.”

“Then we don’t let you,” Seungyoun said immediately. His tone was soft, but there was steel in it. “None of us fades. Not in this group.”

Dohyon, the youngest, chimed in: “I used to think Maknae meant ‘quiet.’ But I want to speak up. Someday… lead, maybe.”

Hyeongjun beamed. “Then speak, Dohyon-ah. We’ll listen.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was understanding.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just the older ones leading or the younger ones following.

They were listening to each other.

Learning how to belong.

Seungyoun spoke in turn, opening about his worries: “The industry is loud. If we don’t know who we are, they’ll tell us who to be.”

Minhee answered softly, unsure: “Do we even know what kind of group we want to be?”

Seungwoo didn’t hesitate. “We’re the kind who won’t be told who to be.”

Eunsang, one of the maknaes, spoke up. “Even if it’s harder that way?”

Seungyoun laughed. “Especially because it’s harder.”

Wooseok: “We’re not just X1. We’re every friend who didn’t make it, every trainee who gave up, every fan who voted with their heart. That’s our sound.”

Everyone nodded. No one laughed.

Because they knew—this was the real work.

Not just singing. Not just dancing.

“I think,” Hyeongjun said slowly, “we’re not just surviving anymore.”

“We’re beginning,” Yohan finished.

One by one, they reached their hands into the middle of the circle. No shout. No slogan. Just skin brushing skin, just the press of fingers and warmth.

A quiet pact.

To be brave.

To be seen.

To believe in each other, even on the days they couldn’t believe in themselves.

That night, under the soft glow of their dorm hallway light, Seungwoo finally let out a deep breath. The first spark had been struck. But they’d need more than fire. They’d need faith. And one another.

Chapter Text

The camera lens blinked alive like an uninvited guest.

They arrived not with warning, but with movement—the flicker of red lights in corners, the murmur of crew behind curtains, the production team filing in like a returning tide.

This time, there was no competition.

No voting.

No rankings.

But for the eleven boys of X1, the camera still carried the weight of judgment—and now, it was everywhere.

X1 Flash, the documentary was meant to introduce the “real selves” of the eleven new idols, had begun.

But it wasn’t the truth they were being asked to share.

It was a narrative.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The documentary crew arrived before sunrise. Booms, slates, wires. It felt like Produce X 101 had returned but smaller.

“Good morning,” the director smiled. “Today, we start filming X1 Flash. Think of it as your origin story—for the fans.”

The first day of filming started with light interviews. Simple prompts: introductions, favourites, goals. A fanservice warm-up, nothing too serious.

But it all started on the wrong foot when the director asked them “Please avoid direct references to eliminated contestants,” a producer warned. “Also limit talk about past groups. The focus is now—on X1.”

It seems that origin stories came with rules and scripts, they quickly learned.

Seungwoo’s smile faltered. No mention of VICTON. Not even Seungsik’s encouragement? Wooseok’s mouth opened, then closed. What did UP10TION mean if it couldn’t even be said aloud?

Hyeongjun rubbed the edge of his mic pack. No Woojin. No Jungmo. No laughter in the dorms past midnight, no joking about the old trainee jokes only they would understand.

They had been told X1 Flash was a chance to show who they truly were. But this wasn’t true—it was a tailored story already written by the producer and the agency. Memories and recollections with edits.

Reality TV was back.

Not long after, Seungwoo looked up, and met Wooseok eyes across the room. A silent understanding shared.

This isn’t honesty, he thought. It’s a request to forget, a tentative to erase parts of their reality to fit a pre packaged tale.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Filming progressed quickly. Interviews, reaction segments, behind-the-scenes clips.

And yet—every word was measured. Every smile watched.

Seungwoo answered every question calmly, carefully. His tone was measured, his posture precise.

He talked about teamwork. Leadership. Responsibility.

Not once did he say the word “VICTON.”

But inside, it buzzed under his skin.

Seungsik’s voice when harmonizing. Chan’s lazy jokes before practice. The rhythm of six other footsteps beside him, now silenced.
During a break, the interviewer leaned in.

“You’re doing great. Very composed.”

“Thanks,” Seungwoo replied. “I’ve had practice being edited.”

It wasn’t a joke.

Later that day, the camera followed Hyeongjun to the dorm kitchen for a “candid” moment. He was asked to cook something that reminded him of home. He reached for ramen, remembering how Woojin always added too much cheese.

He almost said it aloud.

“Woojin-hyung used to—”

A throat cleared behind the camera. The silence that followed was thick, artificial.

Later, as he sat on his bed scrolling through his gallery of old training photos, Hyeongjun felt a tightness in his chest he didn’t know how to name.

“Do I have to pretend I was born from nothing?”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

While the cameras trailed them, so did exhaustion. Each day was a gauntlet of choreography rehearsals, vocal training, and group interviews.

The debut showcase loomed—an arena filled with 20,000 fans. No room for mistakes.

“Again,” the vocal director snapped. “Again. Until it lands.”

Seungwoo’s throat ached, but he pushed. Not only the leader of VICTON, but also X1’s. Even if he couldn’t say their names, he’d carry their strength.

Meanwhile, Hyeongjun stumbled during formation practice, crashing into Dohyon.

“Sorry—”

“You good?” Dohyon asked, helping him up.

“Yeah,” Hyeongjun muttered, but his voice wavered.

Late that night, as cameras packed away, he pulled out his phone. A blank screen. He couldn’t text Woojin again—not when they weren’t even allowed to say his name on air.

Seungyoun appeared beside him with two banana milks. “One for the sadness,” he said. “One for the fire.”

Hyeongjun laughed despite himself.

“What if I’m not ready?” he asked.

Seungyoun took a sip. “Then we fight until we are. Together.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was Seungyoun who broke the spell.

During his solo interview, he was asked about his past.

“You’ve been in other groups. You’ve done solo work. What makes X1 different?”

He shrugged. Calm. Careful.

“This time, I get to build it from the ground up. I get to make space—for myself, and for people who couldn’t stay.”

The interviewer shifted. “Can you say who?”

“Does it matter?” he smiled. “They know.”

The crew didn’t stop him.

It wasn’t direct.

But it was honest.

And they didn’t cut it out.

And so, it began.

In later episodes, fans noticed a bracelet on Yohan’s wrist—one his sister had tied on. Minhee placed a photo of the Starship trainees on his desk in plain sight. Hyeongjun hummed Woojin’s song during breaks.

Dongpyo wore the bracelet a trainee friend gave him—never explaining it on camera, but never taking it off. Seungwoo slipped a photo of VICTON into his rehearsal notebook that was caught during an explanation of the new song. Hyeongjun’s choreography for his intro solo mirrored the footwork he and Jungmo once practiced—subtle, but real.

When they weren’t being filmed, the boys grew louder. Funnier. They teased each other more, carried food from room to room, argued over ramen flavours like brothers.

And when the crew left at night, they turned the dorm TV off and just... talked.

“Feels like we’re only allowed to be half of ourselves on camera,” Dongpyo whispered once.

“Then the other half belongs to us,” Hangyul said. “And no one can take that.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

With every step forward, the pressure mounted.

The debut showcase was nearing.

Every practice ran longer. The choreography was complex—multi-tiered formations, emotional transitions, centre changes. The performance director drilled them hard.

“This can’t just be clean,” he snapped. “It must own the stage. You’re not just rookies. You’re a brand.”

Seungwoo took it all without flinching. He stayed late to run formations. He monitored line distribution to avoid conflict. He made sure the quieter members—Junho, Dongpyo, Eunsang—were heard when they hesitated.

But the cracks were forming.

One night, when he thought no one would see, he stayed back after everyone else had gone and danced the routine alone. His body was fluid, sharp, but his face was pale, his jaw clenched.

In the mirror, he didn't see a leader.

He saw a boy trying too hard to prove he belonged.

That night, after hours of filming and a late-night dance session, Seungwoo lingered in the bathroom alone.

He stared at his reflection—eyes darker than usual, shoulders taut.

“You look like a leader,” Seungyoun said from the doorway, leaning on the frame.

“Do I?” Seungwoo asked quietly.

“Yeah. Tired, quiet, and too damn noble.”

Seungwoo let out a half-laugh.

“I’m trying to be what they need. But sometimes I just want to call Seungsik-hyung and ask how he does it.”

“Then call him,” Seungyoun said. “And if they don’t let you say it on camera—say it in the way you stand. Say it in the way you carry them.”

“You think they’ll notice?”

“The right people always do.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The night before the showcase, they stood in a dark, empty arena. The seats stretched endlessly.

“This is it,” the stage director said. “Do it like it's real.”

The lights dimmed. The intro VCR rolled. Their logo exploded on screen.

Cue music: FLASH.

They danced—not as eleven competitors, not as censored idols, but as boys who had bled together to be here. As friends who shared hardship, sweats and blood.

When the final chorus hit, Seungyoun and Hyeongjun made eye contact mid-move. Not planned. Just real.

The ending pose held. Breathless. Electric.

This was real, this was going to be huge for the first time they were starting to feel it.

From the control booth, the producer whispered, “That’s what we need on film.”

Few minutes later, they rush backstage, sweaty and high on adrenaline but in silence.

They didn’t speak, just grinned. Laughed. Cried, quietly.

Seungwoo looked at the group, at these boys who were once strangers, and felt it—the ache of what they’d lost, and the wonder of what they’d become.

That night, the cameras went to sleep.

But X1 was awake.

Burning.

Together.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

This was it, the day of the showcase, the one they were waiting for, that they were dreading almost. The day of truth, the beginning of everything.

The venue buzzed with staff, press, and stylists. The makeup room was chaos—curling irons, mic packs, stage outfits being passed around like trading cards.

They were minutes from going live.

Hyeongjun sat on the edge of a stool, fingers twitching against his thighs.

“I feel like I’m going to forget everything the moment the music starts.”

“You won’t,” Minhee said from beside him.

“But what if I—”

A soft ping interrupted him.

His phone lit up.

It was from Woojin: “You’ve already made us proud. Now just enjoy it. We’re all watching.”

His chest clenched.

He looked up and caught Seungwoo’s gaze across the room.

As if on cue, Seungwoo’s phone vibrated too. He read the name on screen and almost dropped it.

Seungsik. “Hyung, you’ve already led one group with love. Now do it again. We’re behind you.”

He didn’t cry.

But something inside him steadied.

Beside him, Wooseok stood silently, unreadable. His phone pinged a second later. A photo. A selfie of his UP10TION hyungs—Jinhoo, Bitto, Kogyeol, even Wei—thumbs up at the company lounge.

“You’re our maknae forever. But go show them the man you’ve become.”

No words. Just the picture.

Wooseok exhaled slowly.

They can do it.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The eleven gathered in the hallway outside the stage.

They were dressed, mic’d, glowing under the soft white light of the backstage corridor. Their hands twitched with adrenaline. No one wanted to speak first.

Seungwoo looked around the circle.

He saw boys who had once been strangers. Contestants. Competitors.

And now, brothers in something bigger.

“When the lights go on,” he said, “don’t think about cameras. Don’t think about critics. Just think about why we’re here.”

“For each other,” Seungyoun said.

“For the ones who couldn’t be,” Wooseok added.

“And for the fans who believed in us from the start” Yohan finished.

They nodded.

And then, quietly, like a heartbeat shared between eleven souls, their hands reached in. And the doors opened.

Chapter Text

The lights dimmed. The intro VCR flickered across the massive screen. Fans screamed before the boys even stepped onto the stage.

Backstage, Seungwoo took a breath so deep it felt like it might crack his ribs. This was it. Not a test. Not a survival mission.

This was their beginning.

And as one they stepped behind the massive doors.

________________________________________________

The screams were deafening. Over the chaos, the voice of staff gave them the countdown: elven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

The massive screens opened revealing an ocean of light and fans briefly illuminated by a wave of fireworks.

Everything was huge, beyond their wildest dreams.

The light, sound, colour, crowd—everything hit all at once. Fans screamed names. Phones rose like stars. The massive LED screen behind them flashed and with it, the moment they stopped being trainees and became something else entirely.

Hyeongjun didn’t remember the first few steps of the choreography. His body moved, but his mind floated—until Minhee’s elbow brushed his, anchoring him.

You’re here. Right now.

His body snapped back. Every beat hit harder. Every move drilled deeper.

Seungwoo’s voice cut into the chorus like a blade—clear, sure, unwavering. The weight of leadership pressed on every line, every breath, but he didn’t falter. Not now.

Seungyoun’s verse came like lightning. Controlled chaos, breathless energy, but his eyes didn’t search the crowd—they searched the faces beside him. Making sure they were with him.

And they were.

They had never danced like this. Not even in practice. Because this time, it wasn’t about getting the steps right.

It was about belonging.

And, as the MV ended and the first note of Flash resonated in the arena, X1 burst onto the stage once more in perfect sync. The relentless beat of “FLASH” roared through the arena, matched by 20,000 thunderous voices.

The crowd erupted.

Cameras flashed.

Hearts cracked wide open.

________________________________________________

Within twenty-four hours, the showcase performance had gone viral.

Flash shot to #1 on every real-time chart.

Social media exploded.

“X1’s stage presence is terrifying—in the best way.” “I haven’t felt this excited since the early 3rd gen days.” “They’re not just another survival group. They’re a movement.”

Clips from the showcase flooded timelines: Dongpyo’s tearful smile, Yohan’s flying kick into the second chorus, Seungyoun’s electrifying ad-libs. Fan cams hit a million views in a matter of hours.

And through it all, a single phrase kept recurring across comments, posts, headlines:

“They feel like a real group.”

What followed was a storm.

Five days later, they got their first music show win. A record that not even Wanna One achieved.

They stood stunted, dazed, never having dreams of such quick recognition.

The trophy was light in Seungwoo’s hand but heavy in meaning. When the MC called their name, he stood frozen, blinking as the rest of the members surged forward, hugging, gasping.

Only when Hyeongjun grabbed his hand did he move.

“Hyung!” he yelled, voice shaking. “We did it!”

Onstage, they bowed.

Eleven heads down. One voice speaking.

“Thank you to everyone who believed in us. And to those we carry with us—this is yours, too.”

Other music show wins followed—not one, not two, but ten in their first two weeks. Every encore stage blurred into the next, their shocked laughter sounding just a little more dazed each time.

“We really won again?” Dohyon whispered once, clutching his trophy like it might dissolve.

Album sales broke records. Half a million in just a few days. The company began printing more lightsticks. Fan sites bloomed overnight. Their fandom, ONE IT, swelled with every heartbeat.

Schedules stacked. Music shows. Radio appearances. Variety. More filming for X1 Flash. Interviews that circled back to how fast their rise was, how clean, how unlikely.

But what none of them said—what they couldn’t say—was how surreal it all felt.

Wooseok, once lost in the shadows of an underrated group, now had lines fans screamed back to him. He smiled brightly on camera, but in the quiet corners, he still fingered a keychain given to him by an UP10TION member during a harder time.

Seungwoo was proud—of course he was. But one night, between schedules, he opened VICTON’s debut stage on YouTube and watched it silently with earbuds in. He didn’t cry. He just... missed them.

“They should’ve had this too,” he said quietly to the empty dorm kitchen.

________________________________________________

On the eleventh win night, the dorm was loud with celebration. Fried chicken. Cola. A cake with a shaky X1 piped in blue icing. Even the managers were smiling.

But later, as the others dozed off one by one, Hyeongjun stepped out into the hallway, phone in hand. He opened a private album titled "My Hyungs."

Photos of Jungmo. Woojin. Old practice rooms. Silly selfies. Training day chaos.

He stared at them for a long time.

Then he whispered, “We won,” like a prayer.

Meanwhile, Seungwoo stood on the balcony, a thin hoodie wrapped around his shoulders. The city glowed beneath him. His phone buzzed again.

Chan this time.

You’re burning so bright. Don’t dim yourself for guilt. We’re behind you, hyung.

He didn't realize he was crying until the breeze hit the wetness on his cheeks.

When the rest had collapsed into sleep, the other eldest—Seungyoun, and Wooseok—joined him on the balcony, paper cups of warm tea in hand.

“Hyung,” Seungyoun said, “do you ever think about how unfair this is? That we had to start over while others disappeared?”

Seungwoo nodded. “Every day.”

“But if we stop to mourn too long...” Wooseok said, “we’ll lose what we’ve been given now.”

A silence passed. Not bitter. Just honest.

And then Seungwoo said it:

“We carry them forward. That’s all we can do.”

Inside, Dongpyo and Hyeongjun were still awake, listening from the hallway.

“They really fought so much harder than we realized, huh?” Hyeongjun murmured.

Dongpyo smiled faintly. “Yeah. That’s why we’ve got to be worthy of it.”

Chapter Text

It came after their eleventh music show win—unexpected, overwhelming, and somehow lonelier than they imagined.

“You’ll have three days off,” the manager told them. “No schedules. Just rest.”

Rest.

It sounded foreign. It sounded like permission to exist.

The dorm buzzed as plans were whispered, group chats filled with suggestions. No cameras. No stylists. No stage clothes or mic packs. Just time. Just the eleven of them, left to figure out what it meant to be human again.

No one said it aloud, but they were afraid.

Because the silence meant they might have to hear each other—really, for the first time.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

They rented a small guesthouse by the sea, tucked between grey cliffs and quiet waves. There were two shared rooms, a narrow kitchen, and a front porch that creaked in the morning breeze.

They arrived late in the afternoon, the van rumbling to a stop.

The moment they arrived, Dongpyo kicked off his shoes and ran barefoot into the sand, arms wide.

“We’re free!” he shouted. “No staff! No lights!”, acting like the child he was for once.

“No script,” Yohan added with a grin.

“It smells like freedom,” Seungyoun declared, eyes closed, stretching his arms toward the sky.

“It smells like fish,” Minhee muttered beside him, wrinkling his nose.

“It smells like the sea” Hyeongjun laughed, bumping their shoulders together as Minhee replied “Same thing” grumpily.

Seungwoo stood a little behind them, watching.

He watched from the porch as the younger members darted toward the beach like released arrows. He smiled softly. It had been too long since they’d moved this freely—without choreography, without mirrors watching.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, they built a fire from driftwood and unpacked bags of snacks and sodas. They wrapped themselves in blankets, leaned into the crackle of flames, and for the first time, no one was an idol.

Just eleven boys trying to figure out how they’d ended up here together.

“Alright,” Dongpyo said dramatically, holding up a stick of roasted marshmallow. “Let’s get talk and be vulnerable.”

“We’re already sharing snacks. Isn’t that vulnerable enough?” Junho teased.

But slowly, the jokes gave way to silences. The kind where truth can settle.

Wooseok went first.

“When UP10TION started, I thought that was my shot. But… I was a shadow in a group no one really looked at. I came here to start again. And I am terrified I’d just be invisible again.”

He didn’t look for comfort. He just spoke, and that was enough.

“Same,” Seungwoo added quietly. “VICTON was my home, but… I was watching it fade. I didn’t come here just for a second chance. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hyeongjun leaned closer to the fire.

“I didn’t think I’d make it. I was always the ‘cute one’ who danced hard. But when Woojin and Jungmo didn’t debut… I didn’t know how to be happy without them.”

No one answered right away.

Then Dohyon passed him a marshmallow. “They’re proud of you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I just hope we’re making this worth it.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A little later, after everything had calm down, Seungwoo wandered down the beach alone. He liked the solitude—liked the way the salt air cleared his head.

He didn’t notice Dongpyo until soft footsteps trailed beside him.

“Hyung,” Dongpyo said, a little breathless. “You always go off by yourself.”

Seungwoo blinked. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I do.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“You always look like you’re carrying something,” Dongpyo added. “Like you’re protecting us from it.”

Seungwoo paused.

“I’m the oldest, the leader. That’s my job.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Dongpyo looked up at him—not with defiance, but with understanding deeper than his age suggested.

“You’re allowed to let someone else carry you too, sometimes.”

Seungwoo didn’t reply, but when Dongpyo reached out and gently linked their pinkies for just a few seconds, he didn’t pull away.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Inside, Seungyoun and Wooseok sat near the porch, drinks in hand, watching the stars come out one by one.

Neither said much.

They didn’t need to.

Both knowing what it meant to debut, to crash and now to begin again. There was a kind of gravity in that—two boys who had once flown too early, now standing in the same sky again.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m too used to surviving,” Wooseok murmured.

Seungyoun looked over.

“You mean you don’t know how to just… be?”

A small laugh.

“Yeah. That.”

“Same.”

A beat.

“But maybe this time,” Seungyoun said, “we don’t have to claw our way through it. Maybe we build it from something gentler.”

Wooseok took a slow breath.

“I’d like that.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The younger boys had claimed one of the guesthouse rooms and turned it into a chaos den.

Junho was curled up with a sketchpad. Dohyon was gaming on his phone. Eunsang played guitar in the corner, softly humming a melody that Minhee was trying to harmonize with. Hyeongjun was narrating a drama scene using plushies as characters, and it was so ridiculous they all ended up laughing until they couldn’t breathe.

Later that night, the five of them lay on the same mattress, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the ceiling.

“Do you ever feel like the hyungs are carrying everything?” Junho asked.

“Yeah,” Eunsang said. “But I don’t think they’d let us carry it, even if we offered.”

“We should start, though,” Minhee said. “Not all of it. Just… enough so they know we can.”

Hyeongjun nodded.

“We’re not kids anymore. We’re part of this too.”

“Then let’s promise each other,” Dohyon whispered. “That we show up. Even when no one asks us to.”

And in that quiet room, they made a vow.

Soft.

Unspoken.

Unbreakable.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Seungwoo awoke before the others.

He stepped outside to find Seungyoun already sitting on the porch, a notebook in his lap.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Seungyoun shrugged. “Too many songs in my head.”

Seungwoo sat beside him. “I used to think being a leader meant always being strong.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“Now I think it means being seen. And seeing others. Even the things they try to hide.”

Seungyoun nodded.

“Then you’re a good one.”

They sat in silence.

The waves rolled in. The sun rose, slow and gold.

Behind them, the house was beginning to stir.

Laughter. Sleepy footsteps. A faint guitar chord.

They had miles to go. Comebacks to plan. Pressures waiting just out of frame.

But for one day more, they were just boys in borrowed time. Learning about each other.

Becoming family.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

As the sun was starting to shine brighter, Hangyul and Dongpyo took a walk along the shore, barefoot, waves brushing against their ankles.

“Do you think we’ll last?” Dongpyo asked, eyes fixed on the water.

“As a group?”

“As us.”

Hangyul didn’t answer right away. He picked up a piece of driftwood, turned it in his hand like something fragile.

“Only if we keep being honest like this. And keep choosing each other.”

Back at the house, Seungyoun taught Dohyon how to play chords on a travel guitar. Minhee and Hyeongjun made instant ramen for everyone and called it gourmet. Junho and Hangyul choreographed an impromptu beach dance no one would ever see.

Laughter came easier. So did listening.

They weren’t eleven perfect puzzle pieces. But slowly, painfully, they were starting to become something better: a mosaic made of flaws and choice.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That final night, as the sky folded into stars, they sat outside again, huddled in a line on the wooden porch. No cameras. No staff. Just the ocean murmuring in the distance.

“What if we never get this again?” Dohyon asked.

“Then we remember it like we do,” Seungwoo said. “And we carry it into everything that comes next.”

“Even if it’s harder?”

“Especially then.”

One by one, they made small promises.

To speak up when something felt wrong.

To hold each other accountable—with kindness.

To protect what they were building, even when the outside world tried to shake it.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of their return, the van was quieter. Not from fatigue—but from understanding.

They didn’t just survive the same show. They were surviving after it—together.

The stage would come once more. The pressure, too.

But so this bond they forged will endure—a new strength.

And that, more than any trophy or chart, was how X1 would begin to last.

Chapter Text

The sea was barely a memory when the van pulled back into Seoul.

By the time they passed through the city’s neon veins and pulled up to the company building, the air already felt heavier. The quiet they'd found on their short vacation had evaporated, replaced with flashing cameras, reporters waiting by the gate. Fans and headlines already speculating :

“X1 Begins Work on First Comeback—Can They Top Flash?” “Debut Kings Face Real Test: Second Album Underway” “Is Their Success Manufactured or Earned?”

Even before they stepped inside, the pressure was waiting for them.

You did it once. Now do it again. Better.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The creative team gathered around the long table in the recording studio—producers, stylists, concept developers, choreographers, and eleven boys trying not to drown in the expectations written into every silence.

The boys from X1 had appointed 3 of them to speak, to be sure they spoke from the same voice and that no confusion could be born from too many different ideas. Seungyoun, Dohyon, and Yohan were chosen. They had been the creative centre of X1. They were the one to transform Flash. Seungyoun with his polished producer instincts, Dohyon with his raw, experimental energy, and Yohan with that instinctive musical intuition that cut through indecision like a blade.

They were the ones who lingered behind in the studio after everyone else left. The ones who dared to ask the tough questions to the agency.

The first demo was played.

It was fine.

Well-produced. Radio-friendly. Loud in all the right places.

“It’s a hit,” the head producer said confidently. “It’ll chart. Big chorus. Easy hook.”

Yohan tapped his pen once. Twice. Then looked at Seungyoun.

The older boy said nothing at first.

Then:

“It sounds like it was made for just any group.”

The room went quiet.

“What do you mean?” a producer asked, tight-lipped.

“It’s catchy,” Dohyon said gently, “but it doesn’t feel like us. Not the us we’re becoming. It could work for any group in activity today.”

“Then what is your sound?” the concept manager asked. “You debuted with Flash. This is a natural follow-up.”

“We need something safe,” the A&R rep said. “Something guaranteed.”

“Art doesn’t work that way,” Seungyoun replied, trying not to grit his teeth.

“Neither does business.”

“Flash was survival,” Seungyoun said. “This comeback should be identity.”

The staff didn’t argue, but their eyes said enough.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in the mirrored practice room, everything felt sharper. The glass reflected not just their bodies, but their worries: Shoulders tensed. Eyes distracted. Movements clean, but cautious.

“Flash worked because it hit hard,” one stylist commented during a wardrobe fitting. “Let’s hope they have something bigger this time.”

It was said casually. Carelessly.

But it landed with weight.

Minhee stopped smiling after that. Junho asked to re-record a demo take, even though his first was fine. Dongpyo became quieter in rehearsals, almost fragile.

And all of them started asking the same silent question:

What if we don’t live up to it?

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, the media buzzed like a live wire.

Every outside photo was dissected.

Every sidelong glance became a narrative. Even the simplest act became subject of debate, fans were tearing each other apart over nothing.

“Yohan doesn’t look happy — trouble in X1?”

“Seungyoun ignoring Minhee at a café sparks feud rumour.”

“Dohyon seen leaving studio alone. Creative tension?”

“Wooseok was seen wearing X fashion mark, a brand deal coming? Why him and not Hangyul?”

The articles were flimsy. Baseless.

But they hurt.

And worse, they made the members hesitant with each other — afraid that closeness might look like favouritism, or distance like division.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Late one night, after their third creative meeting ended with yet another agency demo labelled “potential title,” Yohan leaned against the wall outside the studio, exhausted.

“They don’t want us to sound like us,” he muttered.

“They want another Flash,” Seungyoun replied. “Louder. Brighter. Safer.”

Dohyon opened his laptop. Clicked.

A file labelled “Eclipse_v0.2”.

“We started this months ago,” he said. “While we were still prepping Flash. Remember?”

Yohan nodded. “But we were told to shelve it.”

“Too ‘moody.’ Too ‘introspective,’” Seungyoun said, echoing the words that had buried it.

The beat filled the room again—haunting strings, percussive heartbeat, and a vocal line that cracked in just the right way. It was raw. Imperfect. Honest.

“It sounds like us,” Yohan whispered.

“Then it’s time we finish it,” Seungyoun said. “For real this time.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

As they began rewriting Eclipse—refining verses, shaping the bridge, layering harmonies—the pressure outside the studio only intensified.

An anonymous article was posted online questioning X1’s songwriting contributions.

“Sources say the group’s musical direction is still decided by higher-ups.” “Are idols truly ‘artists,’ or just faces for the machine?”

Fans fought back. But the wound landed where it always did in the studio.

Dohyon rewrote his rap three times.

Yohan re-recorded his vocals until his voice went hoarse.

Seungyoun stayed up for 40 hours straight fine-tuning the mix.

One night, Seungwoo walked into the practice room and found Seungyoun alone, looping a chorus he couldn't finish.

“Still here?” Seungwoo asked gently.

“I can’t figure out what this is supposed to be anymore,” Seungyoun muttered. “It’s like I’m writing with a ghost over my shoulder — and he only cares about the charts.”

“So, stop writing for him,” Seungwoo said. “Write for them. For us.”

“I don’t know if they’ll let us.”

“Then we make it so good they can’t say no.”

It wasn’t a solution. But it was enough to keep going.

And in their frustration, something else emerged: a stubborn fire.

“If they don’t believe us,” Yohan said, “then we’ll make something they can’t deny.”

The next week, Yohan came in with a reworked vocal map — something more fluid, something personal. Dohyon offered a new bridge, short and cutting, built on a memory he hadn’t planned to share.

Seungyoun didn’t say much. He just smiled and hit record.

Slowly, undeniably, the songs started to breathe. They weren’t chasing Flash anymore. They were crafting a second chapter.

Not an echo — an evolution.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

While the music took shape upstairs, Hangyul and Hyeongjun were building its body.

They listened to Eclipse on loop in the dance studio—working until their feet blistered, and then a little more.

“No flashy transitions,” Hangyul said. “This track isn’t about impressing them.”

“It’s about telling them,” Hyeongjun finished.

“Then we more strip it back,” Hangyul said, cheeks flushed with exertion. “Use negative space. Let the emotion breathe.”

Their choreography was sparse where it needed space, tense where it needed power. There was a solo kneel from Hyeongjun during the second chorus. A mirrored reach from Hangyul and Wooseok in the final pre-chorus, choreographed to resemble climbing—but never quite arriving.

Each movement carried intent.

Each pause meant something.

By the end of the week, their bodies ached, but the story was beginning to speak for itself.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The day they presented Eclipse, the agency boardroom felt colder than usual.

The boys filed in quietly, wearing black masks and determined eyes. No one joked. No one whispered.

Seungyoun stood at the front, laptop plugged in. Yohan and Dohyon flanked him. Hangyul and Hyeongjun sat behind them, with the rest of the members—silent, strong—watching like anchors.

The track played. The choreography was shown.

Not one person in the room looked at their phones.

When it ended, no one spoke right away.

Then came the usual resistance:

“It’s too introspective.” “You don’t want to alienate casual listeners.” “Is this marketable enough?”

But this time, they pushed back.

“This is our sound,” Seungyoun said. “And we’re not asking anymore. We’re telling you.”

You’re rookies,” one executive snapped. “This is not the time for experimentation.”

“Then when is it?” Yohan said, calm but direct. “If we don’t take control now, we’ll always be chasing someone else’s sound.”

Yohan stepped forward. Calm. Steady.

“We don’t want another song that charts high and says nothing.”

Dohyon’s voice didn’t waver:

“We want something that stays.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

They weren’t given a full yes. But they weren’t given a no.

“You get one shot,” the creative director said. “If this flops, it’s on you.”

“That’s all we need,” Seungyoun replied.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, they returned to the studio not as boys trying to fit a mould, but as artists building one.

They recorded final vocals. Yohan nailed the chorus on the first try. Dohyon’s second verse came out raw and perfect. Seungwoo—invited in at the last minute—added a harmony that changed everything.

“I’m proud of you,” he said to Seungyoun as they wrapped.

“No,” Seungyoun said, grinning. “You should be proud of us.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the next room, the choreo team ran it again.

Hangyul collapsed after the second take, laughing breathlessly.

“It’s going to hurt,” he said, wiping sweat from his eyes.

“Yeah,” Hyeongjun replied. “But it’s going to mean something.”

Around them, the others watched.

Junho filming angles on his phone.

Minhee jotting timing notes.

Eunsang softly humming the outro melody, perfectly in pitch.

Wooseok pressing his palm to the mirror, sweat running down his spine like an exorcism.

They weren’t perfect.

They weren’t polished.

But they were themselves.

And that—finally—was enough.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, they returned to the dorm late. Tired, sore, but somehow more alive than they’d been since debut.

In the living room, Seungwoo sat down next to Seungyoun with two cans of soda and passed one over.

“You were loud.”

“You were proud.”

They clinked cans.

“We’re not perfect,” Seungwoo said. “But this time, we’re us.”

“Exactly,” Seungyoun replied. “And now the world’s going to hear what that sounds like.”

And somewhere, in that dim dorm room lit by city light and quiet dreams, a new version of X1 was born—not given, not assigned.

Claimed.

Chapter Text

Comebacks were supposed to be thrilling — a sign you survived the debut and earned the right to dream bigger.

But in the weeks leading up to X1’s first comeback, it didn’t feel like dreaming.

It felt like suffocating.

They had fought for Eclipse. And they had won.

But the real battle began the moment the agency said yes.

Because now, everything had to be perfect.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The second the greenlight was given, the pace tripled.

Deadlines blurred into each other. Rehearsals bled past midnight. The label’s tone had changed too — no longer excited, but expectant. No longer building but guarding.

“We can’t afford a misstep,” one manager said.

“You’re the biggest rookies in years,” another warned. “The industry is watching.”

Every hair colour switch became a meeting. Every dance break, every note assignment, a debate.

Even silence became suspicious, exhausting.

Production meetings stretched into the early hours. Choreography revisions came daily. Styling concepts changed by the minute. The pressure to deliver an artistic, “self-made” comeback became a monster they had to outrun.
“You want to prove you’re real artists?” the creative director said. “Then be ready to bleed for it.”

Everyone nodded.

And then everyone bled.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The pressure was starting to take its toll on the younger members.

Minhee wasn’t eating right.

Not because of a diet— out of stress.
Every time he opened social media, there were new accusations: favouritism, inexperience, claims he didn’t deserve to be debuting.

He never said anything. But Seungwoo noticed his silences getting longer. His eyes getting duller.

Hyeongjun, always the mood-maker, had started forcing smiles. He had sprained his wrist during a formation run-through. He wrapped it and kept dancing.

Junho was quieter in group meetings, more deferential — the weight of attention starting to fold in on him.

Dongpyo threw up backstage from anxiety after recording the bridge vocals. He apologized before the staff could even ask what happened.

Dohyon stopped speaking between rehearsals—his usual quick wit replaced by silence, his notebook filled with torn-out pages of scratched-out lyrics.

They weren’t breaking.

But they were bending.

And Seungwoo and Seungyoun knew what happened when you ignored a bend for too long. But how could they fix it when themselves were bent almost to the limit ?

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Seungyoun barely slept.

He spent every spare second in the studio — tweaking the new title track, writing the B-sides, balancing feedback from staff, trying to keep the sound from losing the heart they’d all worked so hard to build.

But the team kept interfering.

“This drop needs more punch.”

“Cut the bridge — too emotional.”

“Simplify the lyrics.”

He started snapping at the sound engineers. At the choreographers. At himself.

“What’s the point of being the creative lead,” he muttered, “if they won’t let me create?”

It wasn’t just about the song anymore. It was about control — over their art, over their narrative, over their identity.

And he could feel it slipping.

They were not just building a comeback.

They were holding up their own reputation like a glass sculpture balanced on shaking hands.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Seungwoo felt it all.

Not just as leader, but as hyung.

Every missed meal from Minhee. Every extra hour in the studio from Seungyoun. Every moment Yohan spent alone on the rooftop with his earbuds in and eyes closed.

They were pushing themselves too far. Because they feared not being good enough.

He wanted to protect them — but he couldn’t stop time.

So, trying to help his members, Seungwoo spent more and more time at the centre of the storm—organizing team check-ins, leading vocal practice, smoothing tension when someone snapped, adjusting to every shift in schedule. His phone buzzed nonstop. Staff, managers, stylists, choreographers. Questions. Requests. Demands.

And then, one night, while standing alone in the kitchen reheating instant rice, his screen lit up with a notification that made his heart still.

VICTON Confirmed for Comeback in November

Just weeks before Eclipse was scheduled to drop.

The article had photos—Byungchan, Seungsik, Subin, Chan, Hanse and Subin. Smiling. Holding light sticks. Talking about growth. About strength.

It should have made him happy. But all he could feel was distance.

They’re moving forward. Without me.

Not out of cruelty. But because the industry didn’t wait. And it hit him, sharp and unkind — X1 was no longer just a detour. It was a separation. And for the first time he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He stared at the screen long after the rice beeped in the microwave.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

He didn’t tell anyone that night.

But the next day, his instructions came slower. His voice cracked during vocal runs. He snapped at a stylist over something trivial, then apologized immediately, but the damage lingered in his eyes.

During break, Seungyoun found him sitting in the stairwell, head leaned back against the concrete.

“They are having a comeback,” Seungwoo said quietly.

“VICTON?”

A nod.

“A month before us.”

Seungyoun sat beside him.

“Does it feel like they’re leaving you behind?”

“No,” Seungwoo said. “It feels like I already left them. And they kept going.”

There was no self-pity in his voice.

Only sorrow.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That evening, they ran the choreo again.

The mirrors reflected exhaustion. Fractures.

Minhee slipped during a turn and didn’t get up right away. Junho missed his cue three times in a row. Eunsang blanked halfway through the final chorus and walked off mid-practice without speaking.

“What are we doing wrong?” Hyeongjun asked softly, ice wrapped around his wrist. “We’re trying so hard.”

No one had an answer.

Until Dongpyo finally said what everyone was thinking.

“We’re trying to be invincible.”

And they weren’t.

They were just eleven boys trying to hold the sky up with shaking arms.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in the dorm, the silence after dinner was unusually thick.

Seungwoo sat on the floor in the corner of the common room, scrolling through photos of VICTON’s last fan sign. He hadn’t liked any of them. He hadn’t commented.

He couldn’t.

Not because he wasn’t proud.

But because it hurt.

“You know they’re cheering for you, right?”

He looked up. It was Wooseok, holding a mug of hot water. No tea bag. Just warmth.

“Even when they don’t say it. They’re still your home.”

Seungwoo didn’t answer.

But he put the phone down.

And for the first time in days, he let his head fall back against someone else’s shoulder.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, they gathered again.

Eyes red. Voices hoarse. Bodies tired.

But something had changed.

When Minhee faltered during the bridge move, Hangyul stepped forward and showed him the move once more.

When Dohyon fumbled a lyric, Yohan stayed behind after practice to rework it with him.

When Dongpyo cried quietly into his hands during vocal monitoring, Seungwoo—still aching, still lost—sat beside him and didn’t try to fix it.

He just stayed.

Because leadership didn’t mean never breaking.

It meant breaking with them.

Chapter Text

They were idols. They were used to being watched.

But this was different.

This was being accused.

And worst of all — being doubted by the very people they had tried so hard to win over.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The news broke quietly at first—like a leak in the ceiling no one noticed until the water soaked through.

It wasn’t about X1.

Not directly.

It started with a single article. A short, clinical press release buried beneath entertainment fluff:

“Investigations into Under Nineteen following lawsuit reveal possible vote manipulation,” the headline read.

“Officials say similar discrepancies may be found in other idol survival programs. Investigations may expand to other programs”

At first, no one in the dorm said anything.

But then the word manipulation began trending.

And then someone mentioned Produce X 101.

By noon, “rigged lineup,” “contract re-evaluation,” and “X1 controversy” were plastered across every major entertainment outlet in Korea.

“Public begins questioning the integrity of Produce X 101 results.”

In the dorm living room, the members huddled in a tight circle, phones lighting up with alerts faster than they could read them.

Yohan’s hand hovered over his screen. “They’re… they're listing names.”

Dongpyo scrolled in silence, his face pale. “Someone posted a breakdown of ‘who should’ve debuted.’ It’s going viral.”

Junho muttered, “Why are we the target?”

Eunsang didn’t say anything. Just stared at the carpet.

Seungwoo stood in the corner, arms crossed. He wasn’t shaking. He looked calm.

But his silence was loud.

An emergency group chat pinged. Agency staff.

“No press interviews. No independent statements. Please wait for formal company notice.”

At 3:17 p.m., the agency released their official statement:

“We acknowledge the growing concern regarding the integrity of past survival programs. Currently, there is no conclusive evidence suggesting irregularities with X1’s formation. We are cooperating with any ongoing investigations.”

That was it.

No strong denial. No emotional defence. No promise of protection.

Just words on a screen that felt more like a shrug than a shield.

Seungyoun threw his phone on the couch.

“That’s it? That’s their response?”

Dohyon, staring out the window, whispered, “Do they think that’s enough?”

No one answered.

But in their silence, the damage deepened.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Overnight, schedules changed.

Brand deals paused. A web series pulled their teaser trailer. Their social media manager stopped updating official accounts.

In the practice room, where once they had laughed and cheered each other on, now only silence echoed.

The dorm felt different. The air was brittle, every sound too loud, every silence too sharp.

Dohyon, Minhee, and Eunsang bore it the hardest.

They were quieter in practice, more hesitant when cameras turned on.

“They think we don’t deserve this,” Dohyon whispered one night.

“Maybe they’re right,” Minhee said, staring at the dark ceiling.

“I’m the least followed, the least talked about. What if I’m just...filler?”

Eunsang didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The silence said he’d thought it too.

Hyeongjun stopped opening Twitter.

Junho deleted every app from his phone and sat in the dark with his headphones on, volume high enough to block out the world.

Dongpyo curled into himself and whispered, “What if people stop coming to the shows?”

“They won’t,” Hangyul said, but his voice cracked.

Because he wasn’t sure.

Seungyoun paced the hallway in his socks, too angry to sleep.

“They worked us to the bone for this,” he said, mostly to himself. “And now we have to defend it alone?”

Yohan stood in the kitchen, unmoving, staring at the blinking light of the fridge like it could answer anything.

“We did nothing wrong,” he said. “So why does it feel like we did?”

The world was watching.

But not cheering.

Waiting.

This time for them to fail.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, they returned to the dorm late.

Hair damp. Shoulders sore. Eyes clouded from too much.

Seungwoo was exhausted, he had kept his head high through it all. After all, he was the leader, the eldest. the shield of his members.

He went straight to his room and collapsed into his desk chair.

He didn’t open the group chat at first.

But when he finally did, the message lit up like a flame in the dark.

VICTON Wins First Ever Music Show Trophy – “Five Years. Thank You, Alice.”

The photo attached was blurry: Subin grinning, Seungsik wiping tears, Byungchan holding the trophy like it weighed nothing and everything all at once.

There was a video.

He watched it. Every second.

Subin crying.

Chan with a mic in hand.

Byungchan holding the trophy with shaking hands.

“This is for our fans. For everyone who waited. And for the ones who are always with us, even if they’re not on this stage tonight.”

Seungwoo sat there on his room floor, phone still in hand, and let the sob choke up from the part of him he had buried since the moment X1 formed.

That should’ve been me.

Not instead of.

But alongside.

He typed three words into the VICTON chat: “I’m so proud.”

He meant it.

He did.

But after hitting send, he placed the phone face down and sat frozen.

They had fought so hard together. And now... they were celebrating the dream without him.

He missed them.

He missed being just Han Seungwoo from VICTON.

The next morning, he reposted the win on his story. Captioned it with “Long overdue 🖤”

The other X1 members saw it.

“They finally did it,” Yohan said, smiling faintly.

“Seungwoo-hyung must be so happy,” Minhee added.

Seungwoo smiled with them. Clapped. Gave a quiet “They deserve the world.”

But that night, when the lights were off and the others had gone to bed, he sat on the floor of the living room, knees to his chest, phone still glowing with congratulations he wasn’t part of.

And he broke.

He didn’t hear Hyeongjun’s footsteps.

Just felt the sudden presence beside him. The way his small hand pressed gently to his arm.

“Hyung…”

Behind Hyeongjun, Dongpyo peered out of the dorm room, brows furrowed.

They hadn’t meant to find him. But now that they had, they weren’t going to leave. They both sat quietly on either side of their leader.

There was nothing performative about the tears running down Seungwoo’s cheeks. They came from a place too deep, too old.

“I wanted to be there,” he whispered. “I wanted to hold that trophy with them.”

Hyeongjun’s voice cracked.

“I wanted Wonjin-hyung to be here when we won, too.”

A long pause.

“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve this. Not when they didn’t get it.”

Seungwoo looked at him then, eyes rimmed red.

“Then we keep going. For them.”

“And for each other,” Dongpyo added, voice barely audible.

Hyeongjun shifted a little bit, arms unsure before wrapping around Seungwoo’s shoulders.

Dongpyo followed, tucking himself against his hyung’s side like a heartbeat in human form.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” Dongpyo whispered.

“It’s okay to miss them,” Hyeongjun added. “They’re your family too.”

And in the hush of that moment, Seungwoo let himself be held.

He didn’t have the right words to thank them.

But the warmth of their embrace said it didn’t matter.

And they stayed there. Side by side.

And in that moment, despite age and rank and responsibility, they were just three boys sitting with the ache of things they couldn’t fix.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The fans began fighting before the sun rose.

Hashtags. Threads. Fan cams. Personal letters.

What the agency lacked; they made up for tenfold.

#ProtectX1 trended globally.

“They didn’t choose this system. They just gave it their all.”

“We chose them. We watched them bleed for this.” “They are not frauds. They are ours.” “X1 is real. And we’re not letting them fall.”

The fans fought back.

Not with violence. Not with hate.

But with proof. With love. With numbers, messages, memories.

Clips of Seungwoo wiping sweat from Dongpyo’s brow during Flash. Fan cams of Yohan helping Minhee tie his shoelaces before going onstage. Lyrics Dohyon wrote. Freestyles Seungyoun composed. Moments of care. Moments of joy.

For once, the fandom united. And their voice was loud enough to be heard by more than hashtags.

Subway ads were bought out.

The press still circled.

But now, they had company.

A shield.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, the dorm was still.

Seungwoo sat on the balcony with a blanket around his shoulders, looking at the skyline.

Seungyoun came out quietly and handed him a cup of tea.

“We’re still standing,” he said.

“Barely.”

“That’s enough for now.”

Seungwoo took a breath.

With a new strength thanks to his member, Seungwoo returned to the VICTON group chat.

Typed slowly.

“You looked strong. You looked happy. I’m proud of you.”

A reply came minutes later.

Seungsik:

“We’re proud of you, too, hyung.”

Chan:

“We’re just on different stages. But still the same team. We are here for you, just ask.”

And this time, the tears Seungwoo shed didn’t hurt.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The dorm had become a quiet kind of battlefield — not of anger, but of silence. A place where smiles were practiced, and shoulders were held a little too straight. Where the older members carried the group like it was stitched into their bones.

No one said it out loud, but they all saw it.

Seungwoo hadn’t had a day off in weeks — not really. His body rested, sure, but his mind never did. He was always leading, checking, guiding. He had become more than their leader. He was their compass.

And sometimes... even a compass need to be realigned.

They all carried it differently.

Junho stared at his reflection longer in the mirror now.

Minhee kept writing lyrics he never showed anyone.

Eunsang practiced the same note until his throat went raw.

And yet... none of them walked away.

Because despite everything — the rumours, the doubts, the exhaustion — they knew why they were here.

Because they’d been chosen.

Maybe by fans. Maybe by fate. Maybe by something no one could name.

But they were here.

Together.

Chapter Text

The truth didn’t come like a headline.

Like the original scandal, it came quietly. Slowly. One sentence buried in a press release, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

“Following the conclusion of our investigation, we find no evidence of vote manipulation regarding Produce X 101’s final results.”

But someone was looking.

And once that sentence was found, it moved like lightning through fan communities, then into trending hashtags.

#X1Innocent #TrustEarnedTrustKept #WeAlwaysBelieved

And then — something more unexpected.

Support.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

But even in the hard times they weren't alone.

It had started with a voice message from Minhyun-hyung.

“You’re doing well. Better than you know. There will always be noise, but only you can define your voice.”

Kang Daniel send them a message on Bubble:

“I know the weight of debuting with doubt on your shoulders. I also know how hard you’re working to stand tall. Keep going.”

Then a short visit from MONSTA X sunbaenims during a variety schedule — Hyungwon brought coffee, Kihyun brought a sharp tongue and warmer eyes than he let on.

I.O.I’s Chaeyeon reposted a fan video with the caption:
“We walk different paths, but I know how hard yours has been. We’re cheering for you.”

“Don’t let them make you smaller,” Kihyun said. “Big groups survive by being loud. In music, and in heart.”

And finally — IZ*ONE Sakura. had been waiting for the right time. Eunbi came with her.

They brought snacks, hugs, and stories of surviving similar storms.

“Trust each other,” Eunbi said. “It’s the only way we made it through.”

The messages rolled in — quiet, but clear. Alumni of the same survival machine, voices who had once stood under the same lights and carried the same scars.

They didn’t need to say much.

That day, they weren’t trainees. Or rookies. Or contestants.

They were artists. Peers. A new generation growing together.

And that was enough to keep X1 breathing.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

After the terrible storm, a moment of calm, of joy and comfort was needed.

It started with a whisper between Hangyul and Yohan.

Late that night, while the dorm settled into uneasy quiet, Hangyul nudged open Yohan’s door.

“You up?”

“You’re whispering, so yeah.”

Hangyul stepped inside, phone already in hand.

“I want to do something. For the hyungs. Something real.”

Yohan sat up.

“You’re smiling like it’s illegal.”

“Because the agency won’t approve.”

He showed him the screen — a group chat titled Operation Reunion, with Chan, Seungsik, Jinhoo, Jinhyuk and Bitto already in it.

“They’re in.”

“The company—?”

“Doesn’t need to know.”

“I’m listening.”

They asked some members for help. First Hyeongjun got involved. Then Dongpyo, who nearly ruined the whole thing with his inability to keep secrets. But somehow, it worked.

It was delicate.

But not impossible.

Because it mattered.

“They need to remember we’re not alone,” Hangyul said.

“And hyung,” Yohan added, “needs to know he’s still theirs too.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was raining the morning it happened.

Gray skies. Cancelled schedules. A rare, unexpected day off.

The dorm was unusually quiet — most of the members were still in their rooms, sleeping or quietly scrolling through music playlists.

They were still half-asleep when someone knocked at the dorm door.

Seungwoo, bleary-eyed, opened it.

And froze.

Seungsik, Chan, Subin, Byungchan, Hanse and Sejun.

All of them grinning.

All of them holding snacks, takeout, and arms wide open.

“Long time no see, hyung,” Chan said.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Seungsik added.

Seungwoo stared, then cracked a sound — part laugh, part sob.

“Hyung,” Byungchan said, voice soft. “Are you going to let us in or cry first?”

He cried first.

Then let them in.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A second knock.

This time, Wooseok’s members entered, Jinhoo, Bitto, Jinhyuk and Sunyoul — arms full of food and tightly packed containers.

“Surprise part two,” Jinhoo announced.

“Your manager would kill us,” Bitto added cheerfully.

Wooseok didn’t cry.

But when his Jinhyuk hyung hugged him — hard — his eyes turned glassy, and his hands didn’t unclench from his shoulders until someone pulled them gently apart.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The dorm exploded with laughter, shouting, and disbelief.

Dongpyo screamed when he saw Byungchan.

Hyeongjun hugged Jinhyuk and wouldn’t let go.

Dohyon stared at Hanse like he’d seen a myth walk into his kitchen.

They ate on the floor, like they had back then — cross-legged, stealing bites from each other’s plates. The younger X1 members hovered at first, unsure where to place themselves in this reunion of past lives. But Victon and UP10TION welcomed them in with ease.

“You’re his members too,” Seungsik said, pulling Dongpyo into a side hug.

Jinhyuk teased Dohyon like an older brother might. Jinhoo offered vocal tips to Eunsang and Minhee. It wasn’t just a visit — it was a passing of the torch. A reminder that they weren’t alone, and that their struggles weren’t new.

Yohan leaned against the wall, watching Seungwoo with a small, satisfied smile.

“Are you okay?” Hangyul asked him quietly.

“Better,” he said. “Finally.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The afternoon light turned golden.

Byungchan dragged Seungyoun into an old dance cover from VICTON’s rookie days. Minhee joined halfway through, tripping over the beat. Everyone laughed.

Hyeongjun taught Jinhoo part of the Eclipse choreo, grinning like a puppy again.

Eunsang sang backup while Chan beatboxed. Junho recorded it like gospel.

Dongpyo sat between Sunyoul and Seungsik, telling them how much Seungwoo had changed them.

“He leads like a hyung and a teammate,” Dongpyo said. “Not a boss.”

“He always did,” Seungsik said, with a quiet smile.

Junho let Bitto hear his demo vocals. He nodded slowly.

“You sound like you know who you are now.”

“I think we’re getting there,” Junho replied.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

That evening, long after the laughter had faded and the sky turned lavender with dusk, Seungwoo stepped onto the balcony alone.

He looked at the city lights and felt something ease — like tension uncoiling from inside his ribs.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being seen.

Not as X1’s leader.

But as just Seungwoo.

A familiar voice broke the silence.

“Don’t look too far out,” Seungsik said. “You might miss what’s right here.”

They stood in silence.

Then Seungsik added:

“They’re doing well,” Seungsik said. “You’re doing so well.”

Seungwoo stared at his hands.

“It’s just... sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. Leaving VICTON. Missing all of this.”

Seungsik didn’t interrupt. He waited.

“You won without me,” Seungwoo said, his voice a breath. “That win... I wasn’t there.”

“We won because of you too,” Seungsik said. “You carried us back when no one looked. Now you’re carrying on. That’s who you are.”

A long silence.

“Do you regret it?” Seungsik asked softly.

Seungwoo shook his head.

“But I mourn it.”

“Then mourn it. And then go make something new.”

“You were never meant to choose between us. We were always going to be proud of you — no matter where you stood.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Before leaving, Seungsik gathered the members in the kitchen.

“You’ve got a big moment ahead. A real one. Something you fought for.”

He looked at each of them.

“No matter what happens — you’ve already done what matters.”

UP10tion’s members hugged every member goodbye.

Chan snuck extra seaweed snacks into their pantry.

Byungchan kissed Seungwoo’s cheek just to make him yell.

And then they were gone.

But the warmth remained.

Like a new kind of armour.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

When the others went to sleep, Seungwoo stayed up just a little longer.

He walked past each room, peeking in.

Junho curled up under three blankets.

Hyeongjun and Minhee sharing a bunk and dreams.

Seungyoun asleep with his headphones still on, a demo track looping faintly.

He smiled.

The world outside was loud.

But in here — they still believed.

Chapter Text

The success of their debut had been like a lightning strike—electrifying, overwhelming, and blinding. It set a precedent, one too high for comfort.

They said lightning never strike twice in the same spot, but they had to make it happen.

And as winter approached, the pressure thickened like frost in the air.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

December.

A month that should have been about holidays, warmth, and family. But for idols, it was the most cutthroat season of the year.

The comeback was scheduled for mid-December. Right in the middle of the award show circuit. MMA, MAMA, GDA—each stage more glamorous, more high-stakes, more judgmental.

“You’re the monster rookies,” one staff member reminded them. “Now you have to prove you’re not a fluke.”

They’d heard the whispers. Can they top Flash? Are they just a product of hype? Do they even have a real sound yet?

Seungyoun felt the weight every time he opened his laptop of demos.

“We’re not going to win anyone over by being louder,” he told Seungwoo one night. “We need to be real. We need to show who X1 is without the lights and the edits.”

And so, the fight began.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Time was no longer moving forward.

It was crashing to an alarming speed.

One moment, they were signing off on final choreography. The next, they were walking onto the Eclipse MV set, past cables and stage fog, into something that looked like the inside of a dying star.

Everything they had fought for—every tear, every lyric, every rehearsal where someone bit their lip so they wouldn’t cry—was finally being turned into permanence.

They had earned this.

But now they had to make it shine.

The MV set was dark, visceral, mythic.

Cracked glass walls reflected the choreography back at them, fractured and full of movement. Blood-red lights pulsed in time with the beat. The mirrors were smeared with symbolic fingerprints, fragments of self.

They weren’t just dancing for the camera.

They were escaping a prison.

“This is your rebirth,” the director told them. “I don’t want pretty. I want rage. I want grace turned desperate.”

Seungyoun bled his voice raw into the chorus.

Hyeongjun’s final solo spin landed like a heartbeat hitting silence.

Seungwoo stepped through a frame of broken glass to deliver his final line, backlit in crimson.

“Even if the world forgets us, we won’t forget who we are.”

As the final shot wrapped—fireworks echoing behind them as Seungyoun stood centre frame, eyes meeting the camera like a challenge—the director called it:

“That’s a wrap.”

They collapsed backstage. Not from failure. But from pride.

For the first time, every second of what they made was theirs.

No edits to hide the truth.

No manipulation behind the curtain.

Just eleven boys, telling their story in a language only those who’d lived it could truly speak.

“This time,” Seungyoun said again, his voice quiet, “we sound like us.”

That night, when the staff played back the final take, no one breathed.

The director clapped once. Then whispered:

“This isn’t a comeback. This is a statement.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

When the final outfit concepts came in, the message was unmistakable.

Blood moon. Eclipse at full shadow.

Their wardrobe was a symphony of black and red—deep wine-coloured silks, matte obsidian jackets, accessories styled like ceremonial armour.

“You’re not wearing these,” the stylist told them. “You’re becoming them.”

Dohyon’s layered chains glinted under low lighting like eclipse rings. Minhee’s tailored silhouette cut sharp against the crimson drapes. Seungwoo’s outfit had a subtle cut across the heart, revealing scarlet fabric beneath.

“It’s not just about hiding in darkness,” Seungyoun said, adjusting his collar. “It’s about choosing to be seen when the light returns.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

They ran the full routine eight times that night.

Not because they needed to—but because they had to.

Junho’s legs trembled by the sixth run. Hangyul poured water down his back and said, “One more.”

Dongpyo cried after the seventh—but stood up again.

On the eighth, they didn’t count. Didn’t look in mirrors.

They danced with their eyes closed.

And when they finished, no one clapped.

Because there was nothing left to say.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Three days before the Eclipse MV dropped, the nominations came in :

- Mnet Asian Music Awards: Best New Artist
- Melon Music Awards: Best New Artist
- Golden Disc: Rookie of the Year.
- AAA: Rookie of the Year
- The Fact Music Awards: Next Leader
- Seoul Music Awards New Artist Award

Their names were finally listed not under controversy—but under potential.

But instead of celebration, the dorm went quiet.

“What if we don’t win?” Dongpyo asked.

“What if we do, and people say we didn’t deserve it, that it’s rigged?” Eunsang added.

Seungwoo stared at the list, then said softly:

“It’s not about trophies. It’s about what we mean.”

“But the trophies tell the world what we meant,” Yohan whispered.

And so, they trained harder.

Because recognition was no longer a dream.

It was a test.

And they were determined to prove their worth.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Then, the next day came the second wave of invitations for the Year-End Festival.

They were invited to every one of them. And even better they were asked to participate in Special Stages: collaborative with the teams thought to lead their generation.

First a joint stage with Stray Kids and Ateez as the “Rising Sons of Kpop”.

Next one with ITZY as the two monster rookies of the year, expected to fight in every award show for the rookie/new artist of the year award.

And finally, an unexpected one. A special stage with Taemin. A remix of Move performed by the dancers of the groups.

The last one stunned even Seungyoun.

“With Taemin-hyung?” he repeated.

“They said Dongpyo, Hyeongjun and Hangyul will open it with him.”

Pressure exploded again—this time, laced with honour.

“No missteps,” Hangyul said. “Not with him watching.”

“We’re not just representing X1,” Yohan said. “We’re representing our era.”

They practiced in silence, music echoing through halls long after midnight.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

On the eve of the MV drop, the dorm was quiet.

No lights. Just the soft buzz of chargers, the hum of tired hearts.

Seungwoo stood by the window, watching the city breathe.

“They could hate it,” Seungyoun said beside him.

“They could love it,” Seungwoo replied.

“Either way…”

“It’s ours.”

Behind them, eleven beds were filled with restless bodies.

But not one of them regretted.

Because the morning sun was already rising.

And they were ready to walk into the eclipse they had chosen.

Chapter Text

The silence before the storm was never louder.

In the hours before their comeback, the X1 dorm buzzed with a tension that felt alive. No one said it, but everyone felt it: this was the moment that would define everything. Eclipse was not just a title track. It was their soul, bared in beats and lyrics.

“If this doesn’t work…” Dohyon began.

“What if they don’t get it?” Junho asked quietly, scrolling through scheduled posts with trembling fingers.

“Then we explain it again, with every stage,” Seungwoo replied. “They’ll feel it.”

“It will,” Seungyoun cut in gently. “We didn’t fake this. We made this.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

At exactly midnight, Eclipse dropped.

They watched the MV release on their shared television—ten boys’ shoulder to shoulder, Dongpyo curled under a blanket with wide eyes, Hyeongjun gripping Minhee's sleeve, Seungwoo standing behind them all like a protective shadow.

The room was dead silent as the last note echoed out.

The final scene faded to black.

And then chaos.

Twitter exploded. Fan café servers crashed. In the next hours, Eclipse hit No. 1 on every major Korean chart. Streaming counts surged. By sunrise, they had broken their own debut record for album pre-orders. The physical release sold over 800,000 copies in pre-orders, almost double the numbers of Flash.

“These numbers—these are unheard of,” a staff member whispered, showing them the sales graph with shaking hands. “You’ve just rewritten rookie history… again.”

But the most powerful reaction didn’t come from charts or numbers.

It came from fans.

Thousands posted video reactions, many in tears. International fans translated lyrics into a dozen languages. Edits of the MV went viral, not for flashy tricks, but for the rawness in every movement.

“This isn’t just a comeback,” one tweet read. “This is a statement.”

“I didn’t know how badly I needed this until I heard the bridge. It felt like someone finally said what I’ve been trying to say for years.”

“To every person who doubted you—look at them now. Look at what truth sounds like.”

“Blood moon or not, you shine in every sky.”

Dongpyo cried reading through the fan café.

Dohyon had to leave the room at one point, overwhelmed by how many people quoted his lyrics.

Seungwoo scrolled through messages late into the night, unreadable—but his hands never stopped shaking.

And Seungyoun sat on the floor with his laptop, silent.

Not shocked.

Just finally seen.

“They heard it,” he whispered. “They heard us.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Their first comeback stage wasn’t a rehearsal—it was a rite of passage.

When they performed Eclipse live for the first time on Music Core, the stage was nothing short of theatrical. Crimson fog. A looming circular eclipse projection. Every outfit laced with blood-red seams—like their bodies had been stitched back together after breaking.

Junho’s voice opened the track with clarity that stunned even the sound crew. Dohyon’s verses were sharper than ever. Dongpyo’s dance conveyed heartbreak and healing in equal measure. Eunsang’s high notes soared. Minhee, often quiet, stunned with new confidence. Yohan led the centre not as the “face,” but as the heartbeat.

Hyeongjun’s mid-chorus solo spin earned the loudest cheer of the night.

By the second chorus, Seungwoo looked around at his members mid-dance and felt something tighten in his chest.

We are not the boys from the audition anymore.

And when Seungyoun delivered the final ad-lib—eyes fierce, body trembling from the exertion—every member behind him moved like the gravity of the moment was holding them together.

When the performance ended, there was no silence—just a storm of sound.

And when the MC called their name for the first music show win, Seungwoo didn’t smile right away.

He bowed first.

Then whispered, “We made it.”

And for the first time in weeks, the applause felt like a roar of belonging.

The fever brought by the song didn’t end and each new performance drew new fans. Every interview praised their artistry, their vision.

The message they wanted to convey was heard loud and clear by their fans but also by the critics and the idols.

It wasn’t noise. It was impact like few before.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The festival rehearsals began just days after their first win, and with them came new faces.

They met TXT during soundcheck. Soobin bowed first. Beomgyu joked instantly. The awkwardness faded in minutes.

Dongpyo and TXT’s Taehyun filmed a goofy challenge that trended for days.

They met ATEEZ in the hallway before their joint dance practice. Wooyoung complimented Hyeongjun’s footwork, then roped Seungwoo into an impromptu high note battle with Jongho.

“We’re going to tear the stage up,” San grinned. “And smile while we do it.”

And then there was Stray Kids.

The practice between the three groups began with quiet nods and ended with mutual chaos.

“Who gave Dohyon and Changbin microphones at the same time?” Han Jisung muttered, dodging an improvised freestyle.

Felix, Wooyoung and Eunsang shared snacks. Hyunjin gave Dongpyo eyeliner tips.

New friendships bloomed like sparks caught in motion.

By the second day, it felt like a family reunion—just with louder bass.

The days around the shows blurred into rehearsals, stages, greenroom chats, and shared moments.

Mingi shared an energy drink with Dohyon and said, “Next time, let’s write something together.”

Wooyoung taught Junho the ending pose for their joint stage, smiling and excited. Yunho, Felix and Minhee started talking about gaming and even plan a few sessions with suggesting to invite Soobin.

Seungyoun ended up in a freestyle battle with Han Jisung after soundcheck. Wanting to show Dohyon and Changbin what a rap battle should be.

Seungwoo, Chan and Hongjoong commiserating about their members and the chaos around with small soft smiles on their faces.

“You’re dangerous,” Han said with a laugh.

“You haven’t seen me sleep-deprived,” Seungyoun replied.

Back in the dorms, the members talked more about others—not as competition, but as companions.

“We’re not just X1 anymore,” Eunsang said. “We’re part of this generation.”

“And we’re going to make it unforgettable,” Dongpyo added.

Their final comeback week was a blur: six wins, sold-out fan signs, and invitations to perform at every award show.

But something else lingered longer than the numbers.

A sense of place.

Where once they were idols built in competition, now they were peers.

Members of a generation that chose to lift each other.

In dressing rooms, they laughed with ATEEZ. Shared meals with TXT. Swapped training stories with Stray Kids.

No longer strangers.

No longer outliers.

They were part of a community now—one that welcomed them.

And yet, amid it all, their favourite moments remained the quietest: resting heads on each other's shoulders in vans, sharing late-night snacks in practice rooms, humming Eclipse in messy harmony while waiting backstage.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

With Eclipse topping charts, the next challenge arrived: year-end award shows.

Both a sign of their success but also the pressure to perform even better on some of the biggest and most prestigious stage in the industry.

The rehearsals were brutal. Day-long filming followed by night practice. Outfit fittings. Interview prep. Fan calls. But adrenaline became its own fuel.

First came the Asia Artist Awards where there nominated for Best New Artist.

When they were called for Best Rookie Group, and as their name echoed in the hall, the eleven of them froze.

Seungwoo’s hands trembled.

Seungyoun nudged him forward.

“This one’s yours.”

Standing on stage, trophy in hand, Seungwoo tried to speak. The tears came faster than the words.

“We were so afraid,” he finally said. “But you—our fans—stood between us and that fear.”. He paused for a moment and whipped his tears. “To the members… thank you for believing even when I doubted. And to my brothers watching—I haven’t forgotten where I started. I carry it with me.”

Dongpyo’s hands shook as he held the mic. “We don’t take any of this for granted.”

Then came Melon Music Awards: They were announced as one of the Top 10 Artists of the Year but lost the New Artist to Itzy.

They weren’t just rookies anymore.

They were the voice of the year.

Eunsang wept quietly as the group accepted the trophy. Minhee kept blinking like he couldn’t believe it.

“All the pain wasn’t for nothing,” Dohyon said backstage. “It meant something.”

Then it was the MAMA.

After all the tension had build with every win and the remark “You won the other but the MAMA one is the really important one”.

“The 2019 Mnet Asian Music Awards: Best New Artist goes to… X1!”

The roar was deafening.

Seungwoo held the trophy first.

“This is for everyone who stayed. For those who left. And for the boy I was when I didn’t think I’d be enough.”

Yohan’s hands went to his mouth. Junho nearly tripped stepping forward.

“I was always the one who doubted if I belonged here,” Junho said. “But now I know—I do. Because we all do.”

Seungyoun, standing just behind him, smiled through tears.

“We were always enough.”

The performance was a war cry.

The intro used live strings and thunder effects. Mid-performance, the lights cut out for a beat—total blackout—before a single crimson beam lit the stage as they resumed in perfect sync. It was an extended version of Eclipse and Flash, backed by a 50-person dance crew.

The crowd stood for the final note.

A standing ovation.

Backstage, Dongpyo broke down first. Then Eunsang. Then even Seungyoun, who had sworn to keep it together.

“This… this is real,” Minhee murmured.

The final award show of the year—Seoul Music Awards—where they won the Dance Performance for Eclipse as well as New Artist Award.

Seungwoo didn’t cry this time.

He smiled.

“To our fans—thank you for believing in our voice, even when it trembled. And to the boys I walk beside: we may have started from a show… but we’ve built something far beyond a survival story.”

The lights shone down.

And in that moment, under the weight of applause and love, X1 didn’t feel like a group trying to prove themselves.

They felt exactly what they were meant to be.

The world had seen Eclipse.

And the world had stayed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The collaboration where the crowing moment of the year.

First came the “Sons of Kpop” collaboration during the KBS Song festival.

The lights at KBS Song Festival dimmed.

A single VCR rolled on the massive screen: flashing clips of old boy group stages—TVXQ’s “Rising Sun,” EXO’s “Growl,” SHINee’s “Lucifer”, 2PM "Heartbeat". Then: the screen went black.

A voiceover echoed through the venue.

“They inherited the flame. Tonight, they rise.”

Then came the roar.

The stage cracked open like a pulse—X1, Stray Kids, and ATEEZ emerging in perfect sync, dressed in shades of silver, red, and black. Not eleven. Not eight. 

Twenty-seven idols. One purpose.

The medley began with a joint dance cover of SHINee’s “Sherlock”—precision slicing the air like lightning. Then came EXO’s “Call Me Baby,” with Seungwoo and Jongho taking centre vocals, while Wooyoung, Hyunjin, and Hangyul burned the floor in a shared dance break.

Finally, the beat dropped.

“Eclipse.” “Miroh.” “Wonderland.”

The mashup was seamless, the transitions sharp but smooth. When the chorus of Eclipse hit, the lights turned deep crimson. Stray Kids’ Lee Know spun into the Miroh hook, and ATEEZ’s San slammed the “Wonderland” verse like thunder.

As they formed the final triangle formation, Seungyoun stood at the front, surrounded by his peers—arms wide, eyes blazing.

“We are the sons of fire. And we are not done yet.”

The stage faded into fireworks.

If KBS had been fire, SBS Gayo Daejeon was glow.

This time, it was X1 and ITZY together—eleven boys and five girls against a stage made of LED roses and mirror panels.

They opened with a remix of BLACKPINK’s “Kill This Love”—but slower, laced with orchestral strings and trap snares. Hyeongjun and Chaeryeong took the bridge in tandem, their movements a mirrored story of love and grief.

Then came BTS’s “Boy With Luv”, turned into a duet number—Minhee and Lia sharing the chorus while Ryujin and Seungyoun dropped into a fierce rap-break remixed with Taemin-esque footwork.

The finale brought all sixteen idols together in elegant white and black, bathed in pink lights.

They weren’t just covering legends.

They were rewriting legacy—with respect and fire.

And then came MBC.

The final night. The most stripped-backstage. And the most electric.

The lights dropped low. The crowd stilled.

Then—one spotlight.

Taemin.

A silhouette. A legend.

The intro to “Move” started—not in full, but a slowed-down remix laced with subtle 808 beats and ambient synth.

And from the shadows stepped three figures: Hyeongjun. Dongpyo. Hangyul.

Clad in black mesh and satin, minimal makeup, barefoot. They didn’t mimic the choreography. They translated it. Every move was breath—fluid, delicate, sharp in its restraint.

At the final chorus, Taemin joined them, not in the front, but beside them. As equals.

They circled around one another, like celestial bodies caught in the same gravitational pull.

When the song ended, there was no bow.

Just silence.

And then once more a standing ovation.

Backstage, the energy was different.

Minhee fist-bumped Soobin from TXT. Dongpyo got pulled into a group selfie with Ryujin and Hyunjin. Hangyul and San traded stage notes and planned a future joint choreography session.

Hyeongjun sat quietly next to I.N and Huening Kai, sharing a juice box and laughing about mic mishaps.

Seungwoo leaned against the wall beside Seungyoun and said softly:

“We’re not outsiders anymore.”

Seungyoun smiled, tired and whole.

“We never were. We just had to burn bright enough for them to see us.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

After the final show of the season, Seungwoo stayed back alone in the dressing room.

He looked at his reflection—face flushed; eyes soft.

Then turned off the light.

“This was never just about redemption,” he said aloud. “It was about becoming.”

The door opened behind him.

Seungyoun leaned in.

“We became something real, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Seungwoo said, smiling faintly. “And we’re just getting started.”