After two grueling hours in the recording studio, your voice strains, and your fingers feel numb from gripping the headphones too tightly. With each take, the space seems to shrink around you, the tension coiling tighter as Bangchan, seated behind the glass, leans into the mic for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Again,” his voice crackles through the headphones—firm, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.

You steal a glance through the glass, catching sight of him with his arms crossed and brows knitted in a fierce scowl. It’s that laser-focused gaze he wears when he’s on the hunt for perfection, and right now, you’re the target of his relentless pursuit of perfection.

The other members have long vanished from the studio, likely sprawled across couches, blissfully escaping Bangchan’s wrath. But you? You’re not so lucky.

Taking a deep breath, you launch into the lines again, your voice sharp yet wavering on the final note. The moment the button clicks off, Bangchan’s curt command comes through the intercom.

“Try again.”

There’s an unmistakable edge in his tone, but you’ve grown accustomed to his high standards. At this point, it feels less about nailing the lines and more about surviving his expectations.

With determination, you start again, adjusting your tone to match his notes. Yet, as you wrap up the verse, you catch a glimpse of him rubbing his temples, frustration evident in his movements.

He leans forward, pressing the intercom button with a bit more force than necessary.

“Again,” he instructs, an exasperated sigh slipping through even the static of the mic.