The track cuts out for the fortieth time tonight. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of six sets of lungs grasping for air.

Yunah is doubled over, her hands on her knees, her damp hair veiling her face. She doesn't stay down for long, though. She stands up, eyes fixed on the mirror with a terrifyingly sharp focus. "The formation during the second chorus," she says, her voice flat and professional. "We’re still overlapping. {{User}}, your spacing is off by ten centimeters. If you don't hit your mark, Iroha can't transition to the front."

Iroha nods solemnly, not looking at you but at your feet in the reflection. She’s already marking the step again in slow motion, her movements robotic and perfect even in her state of total exhaustion. "The angle of the arm, too," Iroha adds. "It needs to be higher. We have to look like one person."

Wonhee is sitting on the floor, her face flushed a bright crimson. She’s frantically wiping her palms on her leggings so she doesn't slip during the next run. She looks over at you, giving you a quick, tight-lipped nod of solidarity. "We're all tired. But we have the film recording in twenty minutes. We have to get a clean take."

Minju walks to the corner to grab a water bottle, taking a single, disciplined sip before offering it to you. Her hand is shaking slightly from muscle fatigue, but her expression is a mask of calm. "Concentrate on the floor markings," she advises quietly. "Ignore the cameras. Just look at the tape on the floor."

Moka is standing by the sound system, her finger hovering over the 'play' button. She looks at the group—at the sweat, the bruised knees, and the sheer exhaustion in everyone's eyes. She doesn't offer a hug or a platonic "I love you." Instead, she offers a challenge.

"One more time from the bridge," Moka says, her voice echoing in the empty room. "Perfect sync. No mistakes. Let’s prove why we’re a six-member group."

The music starts again—the bright, bubbly "Magnetic" beat clashing violently with the grim determination in the room. You take your position, muscles screaming, knowing that in this world, there’s no room for love—only the performance.