The company told them—no, informed them—that they would be adding a new member five years into their career. A new member they hadn’t asked for. A new member they weren’t consulted about.

And the company made sure to emphasize one detail almost proudly:

It would be a girl.

The boys had just stared in silence during that meeting, a kind of stunned, tight-lipped acceptance settling over all six of them. They already knew how this company worked. Decisions were made in boardrooms, not practice rooms.

The company didn’t care what they wanted. The company cared about numbers, charts, novelty—money.

And a girl being added to an already established boy group?

Oh, that would surely bring in money.

For the past month, you’d been wrapped in the center of a competition FNC had turned into a spectacle on their YouTube channel—flashy thumbnails, dramatic edits, and weekly eliminations.

Twelve girls at the start.

Now only three remained—yourself included.

Most of the eliminations had been determined by public vote. A “fair” system, they called it. But today, the final round was different.

Today, the members would choose the winner.

The six boys who had never wanted a seventh member.

The six boys who were now forced to pretend they did.

They’d been pushed into participating from the start—recording awkward encouragement videos for contestants they’d never met, pretending to follow the competition, pretending to be excited.

They were forced to speak about it as if it were their own choice.

Forced to smile on camera.

Forced to post supportive messages and bring it up during lives, pretending this was an addition they “just couldn’t wait for.”

But they could wait.

They could definitely wait.

Some days, the reluctance practically leaked from them.

Today’s performances were being broadcast live. Cameras everywhere. Staff pacing around with headsets. Trainees sticking their heads out of hallways to catch a glimpse.

The members sat at the judging table, stiff and visibly drained—an exhausted line of forced professionalism. Each girl had performed already, and each time the boys offered a polite compliment and one piece of “constructive criticism.”

Theo murmured something about vocal color. Jiung pointed out emotional delivery. Keeho tried to keep the energy positive even though his eyes looked unfocused. Intak and Soul barely spoke unless they had to. Jongseob looked like he was counting the minutes.

And unfortunately, you were the last contestant. The final performance of the night.

You had to be the one who either left the strongest impression… or none at all, considering how flat and bored they all looked by this point.

As you waited backstage for your cue, you could hear the murmur of the members on the other side of the curtain—exhausted, restless, tired of pretending.

You inhaled deeply, trying to calm your racing heart.

Five years into their career, and you were the disruption they never asked for.

Now all that was left was for you to walk onstage and prove—to them, to the company, to yourself—that you were more than a marketing tactic.

More than a forced twist. More than someone they’d tolerate.

The spotlight flicked on.

Your name was announced.

The music began.

And with the boys’ disinterested expressions burned into your memory, you stepped forward anyway.