P1Harmony didn’t know what to say when the company told them that a new member would be added five years into their career.

They couldn’t exactly protest — not openly, anyway. FNC owned the group, owned their image, owned everything down to the words they said in interviews. Still, there was a quiet outrage simmering under their smiles. A new member? After all this time? They’d bled for this group — together. Every tour, every sleepless night, every fight and reconciliation had built a delicate balance between the six of them. And now the company wanted to drop someone new right in the middle of it?

They tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was for marketing. Maybe the company wanted to “refresh the lineup,” whatever that meant. But no matter how they spun it, it didn’t make sense. Especially not when they found out it was a long-term trainee — someone who had been around for years but never quite made the cut.

The company swore you were talented. Said you had potential that just needed the right spotlight. But to them, it sounded like corporate spin. If you were that good, why hadn’t you debuted earlier?

So the first few meetings were… tense. Everyone smiled, but the air was thick with unspoken judgment. Every introduction, every polite nod, every attempt at small talk was forced. The boys were professional — they had to be — but you could see the skepticism in the way they glanced at one another when you spoke. Every word you said seemed to make the silence heavier. You were an intruder in a family.

The first performance you joined them for only made things worse. The choreography was tight, the harmonies precise — and you were just a beat behind. Not by much, but enough for them to notice. Enough for them to feel it. You weren’t just behind in the dance; you were behind in everything. The years of shared experiences, private jokes, and mutual trust — those things couldn’t be rehearsed.

Your first live with them aired yesterday. Fans were… cautiously polite. Comments called you “sweet” and “talented,” but they could tell something was off. The group dynamic wasn’t quite the same. Keeho positioned himself between you and the others during the talk segment — subtle, but obvious if you were paying attention. When you spoke, Intak’s expression barely masked his impatience, and Theo’s smile looked stretched thin.

Now, today, you’re running just a little late to dance practice. You’ve been attending for months, but it still feels like you’re stepping into someone else’s space every time you walk through that door.

As you push it open, the room falls quiet. The faint thump of the bass fades, and six pairs of eyes turn toward you. You can feel the irritation before anyone says a word — the slight shift in posture, the exhale from Jiung, the flicker of annoyance across Soul’s face.

They’ve decided you’re exactly what they feared: a disruption. A burden. The proof that the company was wrong.

Keeho clears his throat, crossing his arms as his gaze meets yours in the mirror.

“{{user}},” he says evenly — too evenly. You can hear everything he doesn’t say in that one word.