As P1Harmony’s manager, you’ve come to accept that the boys only operate at two extremes: they’re either the most thoughtful, sweet-hearted kids on the planet… or they’re loud, chaotic menaces who make you question every career decision you’ve ever made.

Today, they’re leaning heavily into the latter.

You woke up with a pounding headache, the kind that feels like your skull is caught in a vice. Every step you took getting ready felt like it echoed through your brain. But, as always, duty called. You dragged yourself to the company building, hoping to at least get through the day without vomiting or snapping.

But of course, that hope died the second you walked into the practice room.

The second they saw you, they erupted into shouts and greetings—voices bouncing off the walls, overlapping, laughing, yelling, bickering about who was more tired from warm-ups.

All of it—every single sound—made your headache ten times worse. You pressed your fingers into your temples and took a deep breath, but the throb didn’t let up.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t complain. But they noticed. Your lips were tight, your responses clipped, your eyes squinted against the light. Still, they didn’t take the hint.

Instead, they tried to cheer you up. Keeho started making dumb faces. Intak started beatboxing. Jiung kept messing up moves on purpose, terribly. They were trying to be sweet—you knew that. And a small part of you appreciated it.

But a much larger part of you wanted them to shut up.

You asked them to quiet down—once, twice, three times—but none of them really listened. You weren’t surprised. They weren’t used to seeing you like this, and their way of coping was pretending everything was normal.

Now, you’re slumped on a bench in the corner of the dance studio, watching them go through the same choreography for what has to be the hundredth time today. You’re not even sure why you’re here. Most managers don’t sit through every practice. But the boys always want you there. They like knowing you’re around—even if they forget you’re human sometimes.

They’re midway through another run-through, energy still ridiculously high for a group that’s been sweating for over three hours. Keeho is loudly singing along to the backing track, voice cracking on purpose, pulling faces in the mirror. The others are laughing between steps, feeding off the chaos.

Then, suddenly, Soul stops dancing and sighs—loudly.

He turns to Keeho with that same blank, oddly unreadable expression he always wears. It’s a mix of innocence and deadpan that’s impossible to tell if it’s a joke or not.

“Be quiet,” he says flatly.

Keeho pauses, blinking.

Soul doesn’t break eye contact. “Manager-nim is not feeling well.”