Every dream begins in a practice room. Every legend starts with just one song, 4 trainees, one shot at debut, and the world that's waiting to see if they'll shine or break. This is the story of SNWB. Ray the idle pulse. Ryan the warm pulse. Kian the Etch pulse. Sean the pure pulse. Together, they're chasing their first stage against rivals, against pressure, and sometimes against each other. But every beat, every note, every fight brings them closer to saying one thing to the world.
We are SNWB. SNWB. The company's practice studio wasn't designed for dreams. It was a rectangular box lined with mirrors that bore the scars of 100 routines. Fingerprints, scuffs, tape marks that never came off. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a pale glow that flattened everything except sweat. And there was plenty of that. The speakers clicked off, and the cover track they'd been drilling for the last two hours collapsed into silence.
The boy staggered apart, each falling into his own rhythm of exhaustion. Ray stayed in front of the mirror. His silver dyed hair clung to his forehead, damp and messy, but his grin didn't fade. He wiped the sweat from his jaw with his wrist, rolling his shoulders as though the performance wasn't over. Even here, with no one watching, he sparkled. Ray was idle, pulse flirty, magnetic. The one who moved like the stage belonged to him.
Ryan, by contrast, walked calmly to the side and reached for his towel. He folded it neatly before pressing it to his face, posture still straight, chest rising in steady rhythm. His dark hair was plastered to his temples, but his eyes were clear, his presence grounding. He was warm, pulse sincere and steady, the one who made the
chaos feel like it had a centre. Kean threw himself flat on the wooden floor, arms spread wide, sneaker squeaking as he stretched out like he was done for the day, but the restless tapping of his foot against the ground gave him away. His WAVY hair was damp, falling into sharp eyes that burned even through fatigue. He smirked, daring the ceiling to try him. Kian was edge, pulse, bold, emotional, a rebel with fire in his chest, and Shun, the youngest collapsed by the water cooler.
His cheeks were flushed pink and he hugged the bottle with both hands, gulping like he had in drunken days. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed at nothing in particular, just the thrill of moving, of belonging. Shun was pure pulse, radiant, open innocents that refused to be dimmed. The door opened. Their producer stepped inside. No greeting, no nod, no smile.
He didn't even look at them. He simply pulled out his phone, tapped at the screen and linked it to the Bluetooth speaker. The room filled with something new. Not a cover, not another trainee routine. The track exploded, bright and sharp, rookie pop energy spilling from the speakers, the kind of sound that demanded light sticks and screams. The beats hit the mirrors, the floor, their chests. Ray froze, then grinned wider, eyes locked on his reflection as though he was already on stage.
Ryan's had lifted, calm but alert, his gaze shifting to catch the others in the mirror. Kian propped himself up on his elbows, sweat dripping down his neck, smirk fading into something closer to awe, and Shun nearly spilled his water, clapping along off beat, his grin stretching until it hurt. They didn't know it yet, but the song that had just shaken the mirrors would be theirs. The final beat snapped into silence, and for a moment the room held its breath.
The boy stood frozen, sweat dripping, as if afraid that any sound might break the spell the track had cast. Then the producer moved. Without ceremony, he set a small stack of papers on the desk, crisp white sheets, the ink still smelling faintly of toner lyric sheets. It's a demo, he said, his tone flat, clipped. You'll practice with it. I'll decide later who sings what. 4 pairs of eyes locked on the stack, 4 bodies shifted toward it at once. Ray's hand was quickest.
He slid a sheet toward himself like a prize, the corners crumpling beneath his damp fingers. He scanned the lines with hungry eyes, lips twitching into a grin. The words weren't his yet, but he mouthed them anyway, shaping the vowels already imagining his voice echoing across the stage. When he reached the chorus, he leaned back with a satisfied smirk. Perfect for me. He muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear.
Ryan reached next. He lifted the paper carefully, unfolding it as though it might tear if handle too rough. His dark eyes moved line by line, steady and focused. He didn't boast, didn't argue. Instead, he hummed softly under his breath, pitching the notes in his head, testing the fit. The sound was barely audible, but it carried warmth, a quiet promise of what his voice could do. Still, his fingers pressed to tighter against the page, betraying A tension he didn't let show on his face.
Keon grabbed his copy and flipped immediately to the section with rapid fire syllables. His lips curled into a grin the moment he found them. Without waiting, he wrapped the first few lines out loud. The spark, the fire, the dream we claim. Remember this breath. Remember our name. His voice still rough from dancing but full of fire. The words tumbled out fast, uneven but charged. He slapped the lyric sheet against his thigh and laughed, eyes glinting. This part's mine, he declared,
sharp and uncheckable. Shun was lost. He pulled the paper toward himself with both hands, holding it close as though it might disappear. His wide eyes moved across the line slowly, lips forming silent shapes before he dared to let sound escape. His voice cracked on the first try, thin and off key, and he winced. Then he laughed at himself, cheeks pink, whispering that the words were beautiful. His wonder was unguarded, childlike, impossible not to notice. The producer gave no reaction.
He only tapped at his phone again. The demo restarted, the beat pulsing back through the mirrors. This time, the boys didn't stay still. Ray stepped forward, instinctively pulling the chorus out of the speakers and into his own voice. It wasn't polished, too breathy, off tempo, but it rang with a magnetic energy that pulled the room toward him. Peon cut across with the rat break, his rhythm jagged but bold. Every syllable spat like a challenge.
He moved his body with it, throwing sharp gestures, already carving out a stage in the cramped studio. Shun came in late, chasing the beat, clapping along as he tried to follow Ray's melody. He stumbled, tripped on the words, but his laugh never faltered. His joy filled the gaps his voice couldn't reach, and Ryan's voice threaded through it all. He didn't push, didn't fight, just sang, his lines steady and sure, smoothing the chaos around
him. It wasn't loudest, but it carried A warmth that caught the edges of their energy and kept it from flying apart. They circled the room like it was already a stage, Ray pulling forward, chest out every step of performance. Kian throwing himself sideways into sharp, rebellious motions. Shun bouncing behind off beat but radiant. Ryan grounding them all adjusting steps with quiet precision, his towel still looped around his neck like he hadn't even stopped to put it
down. It was messy, off key, too many voices fighting for space. Sweat hit the floor with every turn. The mirrors shook with overlapping echoes, laughter breaking through as often as lyrics. But it was alive. Ray dropped his hand from the air and barked a laugh. If you can't keep up, just let me take the chorus, I'll carry it. PN shot back instantly, smacking his lyric sheet against his leg. Young. Keep dreaming. The rap's mine and I'll make it
the only part fans remember. He called Ray young. Older brother Kian was only a year younger, but in the strict hierarchy of trainees, that year meant respect even when he was teasing. Shun, breathless, shuffled behind Kian like a shadow. His voice was smaller, hesitant. Can I maybe just have the ending line? It's short, but it feels special. His cheeks reddened even as he said it, fingers tugging at the back of Kian's shirt like an anchor.
Ray's grin widened. MC nay wants the big moment, huh? MC nay? The youngest, Shung, was three years younger below Ray and Ryan, the one they teased and shielded in equal measure. Ryan looked up from where he was adjusting his footing. His voice was calm, almost fatherly. Let's not fight parts before they're even given. Producer decides we just make it sound good. Kian glanced back at Shun, still clinging nervously. He ruffled the younger's hair without thinking.
Relax, MC. Nay, you'll get your moment then. With a playful smirk, he gave Shun a light pat on the butt, the kind of gesture that in any other group might just mean get moving. Shun squeaked, stumbling forward with a laugh that cracked mid breath. His blush deepened, spreading all the way to his ears. Ray smirked from the mirror. Told you Mcnay better keep up or Kean Young's going to drag you by force. Ryan shook his head, but even he
smiled. And then, without anyone calling it, they each drifted to their own corners. Ray humming the chorus under his breath, eyes locked on his reflection. Kim, pacing, rapping, lines sharper each time. Shun, trailing after him, still lit up, pink from the touch. Ryan standing tall in the center, voice steady, guiding himself back on the pitch. The speakers still pulsed faintly, but the real music was spilling out of them now. Not just sound, but intent.
For the first time, they weren't practicing someone else's choreography, someone else's words. They were standing at the edge of something that belonged to them, and it was only beginning. SNWB. The week stretched into a blur of music and sweat. The same song played over and over until it stopped feeling like sound from a speaker and began to live in their bones. Most mornings the producer barely looked up from his phone, but then he would call one of them out, his voice low and
deliberate. Again, second verse slower or repeat the rap, sharper this time. He never explained why, never said who the part belong to, only sing it again. Ray noticed he was always pulled to the chorus, Ryan to the bridge, Kean to the rap, and Shun. Shun was the strange one. Some days the producer called him forward to spit the rap, stumbling through syllables that tumbled too fast for his breath. Other days it was the softer Korean lines versus meant to
float above the beat. His voice wavered, but when it caught, it glowed, delicate, unexpected. Shun didn't tell the others, not out loud, but after each session, when they broke for water, he edged close to Qian, whispering quick updates. Hyung, he made me rap again today, or this time it was the verse. He kept stopping me, told me slower, softer. Qian listened, eyes narrowing with every word. He clapped Shun's shoulder, sometimes rough, sometimes
reassuring. Good. Keep telling me, macnae, we'll figure it out. But the fire in his grin betrayed Moore. Shun wasn't just the macnae anymore. He was becoming competition. But as the days wore on, Ray started leaning into the chorus, throwing his voice higher, sharper, testing how the hook could carry. By midweek, his silver hair was sticking to his forehead as he pushed through another run, his pitch wavering with exhaustion
but still radiating charisma. He spun toward the mirror, midline, grinning as if an arena of fans screamed back. Idle pulse. Born for the hook, born for the spotlight. Ryan didn't compete. He waited for the others to fade, then slipped his voice through the cracks, rich, warm, steady. When he sang the bridge, the room stilled even key and paused, caught by the depth in it.
One pulse, the voice that carried weight, the voice that deserved main vocal key and tore into the rap sections, spitting the words like fire. His rhythm was raw, his breath control uneven, but every line came with force. He struck sharp angles with his arms, carving out space in the dance even as he stumbled on footwork. Edge pulse. He wanted to own both rap and center, no matter who stood in his way.
And Shun, cheeks still flushed from dancing, practiced the rap and the softer lines on the softer lines. His voice cracked on the high note the first day. The second, it wavered less. By the third, it rang clear. Pure in a way none of the others could match. Pure pulse, innocence with an unexpected strength. The mirrors reflected more than voices. They revealed the fight for space.
Ray always moved to center first, pulling the choreography toward him with sharp turns and flashy gestures. Kean pushed back, stepping forward when the beat dropped, his sneaker squeaking as he tried to claim the middle. They collided more than once, shoulder to shoulder, sparks in their laughter and frustration. Ryan adjusted them quietly, shifting an arm here, a step there, his steady presence
smoothing what chaos he could. And Shun followed from the back, learning to time his steps, his wide grin softening the edges of the fight. By the end of the week, the outlines of roles were clear, even if the producer hadn't announced them. Ryan's voice anchored the main vocal lines. Kean's rap burned too brightly to be given away. Ray's charisma made him the inevitable center, no matter how Kean pushed. And Shun, gentle, radiant, was sub vocal, the bright lift that
filled the spaces in between. But clarity didn't mean peace. Your foot's late again. Ray said, breathless, pointing toward the mirror as he adjusted his own stance. His grin was sharp, playful, but edged. Kian barked out a laugh. Hyung, you call that sharp? You're half a beat ahead. If anyone's wrong, it's you. He exaggerated the step, snapping his sneaker against the floor with force. Ray mirrored it, bigger, bolder, spinning just enough to make it look like a stage move.
See, that's called flair. You should try it sometime. Kian stepped forward until they were nearly shoulder to shoulder, smirk matching Rays flare. That's called sloppy. Shun, hovering close behind Kian, lifted a hand hesitantly. But I think Ray Humes right before he could finish. Ryan's voice cut through, steady and low. Not now, Mcnay. Shun froze, cheeks heating. He lowered his hand quickly, nodding. The tension broke with a laugh from Ray, though his eyes still glinted.
Kian rolled his shoulders, as if the fight was settled only in his head. Ryan exhaled, adjusting his towel at his neck. Quiet but firm. Focus on the beat. The rest will come. And for a moment, the room fell back into rhythm. Four boys circling the same song, each chasing their own place inside it. It wasn't official yet, but the song was already shaping them. And in the mirrors, for the first time, they didn't look like trainees covering someone else's routine. They looked like a group.
SNWB. The studio felt transformed. Gone were the scratched mirrors and sweat soaked wood. In their place, white backdrops stretched taut, silver lamps humming with heat reflectors angled just so. Racks of clothing lined the wall. Stylists swarmed like bees, tugging sleeves, blotting skin, spraying hair into shape. For the boys, it was the first time they weren't dressed like trainees. It was the first time they looked in the mirror and saw
idols staring back. Ray stepped forward first, His silver hair now teased sharp, cut the light with every angle. Eyeliner darkened his grin into something magnetic. He winked at the camera, tilted his chin, and the shutter clicked in rapid bursts. Idle pulse, confident, flirty. The spark that made staff whisper. That's the one who make fans scream first. Ryan followed his outfit. Darker, sleeker. He didn't force himself into expressions, didn't overplay.
He simply looked into the lens with eyes that felt steady, sincere, trustworthy. Every photo came out grounded, natural, warm pulse, quiet but undeniable, the one whose presence seemed to calm the noise around him. Then came Kian. His jacket hung half off 1 shoulder hair falling wild over sharp eyes. He tilted his head, smirked as though the camera wasn't worth his full attention, then suddenly leaned forward with
fire, arms cutting angles. Every frame radiated defiance, edge, pulse, rebellious, magnetic, the danger that burned against Ray's Polish and Shun. His hair was brushed down, softer, his clothes lighter. At first he froze, shoulder stiff, lips pressed tight, but when the photographer coaxed him relax, smile, he let out a laugh, bright and unguarded. The shutter caught at mid breath, pure and real, pure pulse, radiant innocence, the kind that couldn't be
manufactured. Together they moved in for group shots, closer, shoulder to shoulder. The photographer shouted, Ray in center. Ryan, anchor the side under Ray, peen, tilt forward. Shun smile softer. Flashes popped, catching Ray's playful grin, Keon's cocky lean, Ryan's steady gaze, and Shun's hesitant smile turning warm at the monitor. They hardly recognize themselves. No longer 4 sweaty boys fighting for space in a practice room. 4 rookies, raw but magnetic. Already a group.
When the shoot rapped, the lights cooled, makeup smudged, The boys slumped against the backdrop, catching their breath. That's when the producer appeared. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Parts are assigned. The words pulled them upright. Ryan main vocal, Kian main rap, Ray leader, center sub vocal, Sean sub vocal, visual and sub rap. The silence stretched heavy with meaning. Ray grinned, satisfaction flashing like it had been
obvious all along. Center was his, and he wore it like a crown. Ryan dipped his head, quiet but certain, the weight of main vocal fitting neatly across his shoulders. PN smirked, pleased that main rap but restless. His eyes still flick toward Ray, the fire of competition unquenched, and Shun blinked, cheeks colouring. He laughed softly, almost
disbelieving. Sub vocal and sub rap, not the fire key and spat, but a narrative rhythm spoken more than shouted lines that would surprise with sincerity. Pure pulse, innocent on the surface, but with words that could cut deeper than anyone expected. The producer gave no further praise, no further instruction. He left them with only their titles, their places, their rolls carved into stone. For the first time, they weren't
guessing. For the first time, SNWB had shape, and in the glow of cooling lamps, they stood taller, the weight of their new identities pressing into their shoulders like destiny. SNWB. The dorm was quieter than the studio, but not by much. Shoes kicked into corners, ram and cups stacked on the table, a faint hum from the fridge filling the pauses between their laughter. Shun sat cross legged on the
floor, phone in his lap. His thumbs tapped nervously at the screen, eyes darting between ABS. After a moment, he looked up. Hyungs, Is anyone even searching for us yet? His voice was soft, hesitant, as if the question itself might be too fragile. Ray snorted from the couch, silver hair still perfectly out of place. Of course they will, just wait. Ryan didn't look up from folding his towel. It takes time, Shun. His voice was steady but kind.
Kian leaned over the back of the couch with one hand, casual and unthinking. He brushed Shun's hair back from his forehead. Relax, kid, they don't even know us yet. His tone was teasing, but his touch lingered a moment too long. Shun's breath caught. His cheeks warmed instantly, a flush spreading before he could hide it. He ducked his head, fumbling with his phone, pretending to
focus on the screen. That's when the notification lit up. A teaser, sharp and black, glowing against the small display. Silhouettes of five figures stood still, a single word beneath them in red edged letters. Obsidian. The name looked heavy, unbreakable. Their teaser was stark. No faces, just shadows, the promise of something polished and dangerous. Ray leaned over Shuns shoulder, his grin faltering as he studied the outlines.
Kian scoffed, pulling back with a laugh, muttering that dark filters and dramatic names couldn't make a group real. Ryan frowned, quiet but firm, telling them to focus on themselves. But Shun kept staring at the screen, his cheeks still pink from earlier, caught between awe and nerves. Then another vibration buzzed through all their phones at once, a message from the company chat. Official debut date confirmed three weeks. The dorm erupted.
Ray whooped and threw his arm around Ryan's shoulders. Kian leapt onto the couch, laughing, while Shun clapped his hands together, voice cracking with joy. Their noise filled the small room, spilling out into the night, and in the glow of Shun's forgotten phone, Obsidian silhouettes remained still, sharp, silent, watching. The rivalry had begun. BSNWB. They started the week as trainees, fighting for space in
front of cracked mirrors. Now they stand as SNWB 4 Voices, 4 Pulses, 1 Dream. But with debut on the horizon and rivals already casting shadows, the road ahead won't be easy. Every beat will test them. Every stage will shape them. And this was only the beginning. You've been listening to WE RSNWB Episode 1, the debut track. See New World Breathe is out now. Find the link in the description and hear the song that started it.
All four trainees stood in a practice room, sweating through a song that wasn't theirs until it became theirs. They fought, they laughed, they stumbled, and by the end they weren't just covering someone else's dream, They were becoming SNWB Ray Idle Pulse. Ryan Warm Pulse. Kian Edge Pulse. Shun Pure Pulse, four boys, one name, one song. And now the spotlight is coming. The cameras are ready, the teasers are rolling, and the world is about to see them for the very first time.
But famous and simple, when the light shines on one, it casts shadows on the others. When rivals step forward, competition turns sharper. And for Ray, the stage will give him everything he's wanted, but maybe cost him more than he knows. This is We Are SNWB Episode 2, the spotlight. The studio was no longer just a set. With the lights blazing and the track pulsing, it became their stage. The choreographer clapped sharply, Positions again from the top. The music hit and the boys fell
into line. Their sneakers thudded against the taped markers on the floor, arms slicing the air in perfect sync. At least almost perfect key in more to the left. The voice cut through the beat like a whip. Kean's smirk faltered. His jaw tightened, and he threw himself into the next move, sharper, harder, as though daring the mirrors to catch a mistake. Sweat flew from his hair with every turn. He hated being called out. Rey Center, as always, didn't break.
His grin only widened, feeding off the spotlight as he spun into the chorus. Every move was big, magnetic, demanding to be noticed. Idle pulse flawless even when messy. Ryan kept the line steady, his timing precise. He didn't chase attention, he anchored it. When Ray's step lean too far forward, Ryan shifted a fraction back, grounding the frame so the formation held warm pulse, the quiet balance. Shun, cheeks flushed, stumbled half a beat late.
His eyes flicked nervously toward Kian, then the choreographer, then back to the mirror, but he caught himself clapping softly on the offbeat, laughing as if to shake off the nerves, and when the chorus hit again, he landed his move with surprising clarity, innocence cutting through the tension. Good. Again, the choreographer barked. The track restarted. They moved, reset, moved again, over and over until the sweat on the floor blurred into the lights above. Every gesture was checked,
corrected, sharpened. Ray, bigger arms. Ryan, watch your line. Kian, I said left. The repetition wore on them, but it also bound them. By the 10th take, Their breaths matched. Their sneakers squeaked in rhythm. Their shadows in the mirror looked less like 4 separate boys and more like 1 moving body. But inside the formation, tension simmered. Ray's charisma pulled everything toward him. Kian bristled with every correction, pushing harder, faster, like the dance floor was
a battlefield. Shun tried to follow Kean's lead, clinging to his pace while Ryan's steady gaze kept the group from collapsing into chaos. The cameras rolled, the flashes popped, and even through the sweat, the exhaustion, the barks of the choreographer, the truth was undeniable. They didn't just look like trainees anymore. They looked like idols. The music faded, and the choreographer wiped his brow
with the edge of his sleeve. He leaned toward the producer, voice lowered but not enough to be hidden. They've got it. Formations tighter than last week, even Kean's cleaning his lines. The producer didn't look up from his phone, but his tone was clipped, satisfied. Good. They need to be ready sooner than expected. The film director, adjusting the lens on his shoulder rig, gave a small nod. Ray's pulling center well. Camera loves him. The others balance it out.
Looks like a group now. Ray froze mid sip from his water bottle, ears catching the words, though the rest blurred. His lips curled into a grin, wider than before, the kind that wasn't for the mirror this time, but for himself. Across the room, Kian noticed his eyes narrowed and the beat restarted. SNWB. The practice room was gone. In its place, the company's main conference hall, screens lining the wall. Staff crowded shoulder to shoulder, the buzz of caffeine
and deadlines thick in the air. On the largest screen, their teaser played white flashes, metallic logo, 4 silhouettes and sharp poses. Ray front and center, silver hair catching the strobe. Ryan angled back, steady as a shadow, keying off to the side, smirk cutting through the darkness. Shun softened at the rear, innocent eyes made brighter by the stark contrast. The teaser ended with the single word SNWB. See New world. Breathe. The room erupted. Staff murmured.
Phones buzzed, comments flew already from the live upload. Who's the silver haired 1? Mcnee looks adorable, rap line already iconic. Ray leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his lips. He didn't need to check his phone to know the comments would stick to him. Silver hair center spotlight. Shun sitting at the far end, fumble with his phone anyway. His cheeks lit pink as he whispered. Hyung, they're saying I'm cute. Ray chuckled, ruffling his hair without looking.
Of course they are, Mac May, that's your job. Keon scrolled furiously, jaw tight. His eyes darted at the screen every time Ray's name or face flashed in the chatter center. Doesn't last forever. He muttered under his breath, tapping the phone so hard the stylist rattled against the case. Ryan said nothing. He simply folded his arms and kept his gaze steady on the screen, absorbing, not reacting. The producer clapped once, silencing the room. Teasers live, comments are strong.
We ride this wave hard. Music video shoot next week. The screen replayed, flashing Ray's grin again, the spotlight unmissable, and Kian's fists clenched tighter in his lap. SNWB. The dorm lights were dim, the hum of the fridge carrying faintly down the hall behind 1/2 shut door. Ray and Ryan's room glowed soft from a desk lamp, Ray sprawled across his bed, hair still styled from the shoot, his phone in his hand but his voice chasing Ryan instead. You heard them, right?
His grin was smug, even against the ceiling. Director, producer. They said it was good. That was about me. Ryan sat straighter at his desk, folding clothes 1 by 1, tone even. I heard them say the group looked good. That's what matters. Ray rolled onto his side, lips quirking. Sure, but you know someone has to stand out. That's me. Ryan finally glanced over, eyes steady, not unkind. If you shine good. Just make sure it's a light the
rest of us can stand in too. Ray chuckled under his breath, but the sound softened, less a laugh, more the weight of unspoken things. Across the hall. Shun's voice carried through the thin walls, muffled by fabric. Kian Heung, you look ridiculous. Inside their room, both boys sat cross legged on the lower bunk, glossy facial masks plastered across their faces. Empty packets were scattered
like confetti on the blanket. Shun giggled as he tugged at the corner of his own mask, his wide eyes crinkling with amusement. Kian shot him a look, sharp even under the sheet of serum. Shut up, this is good for the skin. He tapped his cheek with two fingers, smirking. Fans like Flawless. Shun giggled again, muffling the sound in his hands. The playfulness filled the small room until his phone buzzed. He glanced at it casually, then froze. His eyes widened, breath
catching in his throat. Kian hyung, look, look at this. Dark silhouettes lined up across the teaser image, Obsidian. As they stared, a new line of text faded in beneath the name. Debut. 2 weeks. Shun's voice cracked. Two weeks, that's one week before us. His hand shook slightly as he held the phone out, masks slipping at the edges. His voice was smaller now. They, they look strong, don't they? Kian leaned closer, narrowing his eyes at the faceless
figures. For a moment, his jaw tightened, then the smirk returned, cocky and unbothered. He snatched the phone, looked once more than tossed it back onto Shun's lap. Please, they're hiding in shadows for a reason. Dramatic names, dark filters, it's all for show. Doesn't mean they'll win. Shun clutched the phone, shoulders still tense. But everyone's already talking about them. Kian stretched out across the bed, peeling the mask from his face and flicking it toward the trash.
His voice was casual, but the edge lingered. Relax, Macnae, stay on your side of the bed tonight. Shun blinked, caught off guard. The words stung more than he wanted to admit. He forced a laugh, tugging his blanket closer. What? Yeah, of course. But when the lamp clicked off and the room sank into dark, his blush lingered deeper than the masks, warmth heavier than he understood. Under his pillow, the phone screen glowed a moment longer, silver letters burning into the dark.
SNWP. The weeks blurred into noise. Obsidian's debut came first. Dark tones, black leather, silver chains. Their song crashed like Thunder, sleek and polished, the crowd chanting their name as headlines scrolled past. Powerful rookies stormed the scene. The next Global Idols. Ray scrolled on his phone late that night, 1 elbow propped on his pillow. He froze when he saw a familiar face in Obsidians lineup. The hair was different, the stair colder, but Ray knew a friend from high school.
He locked the screen before anyone could notice, but the thought stayed pressing like a drum beat in his chest. SNWB. Now it was here. SNWB's final music video Shooting. Cameras rolled on tracks for months. They drilled choreography and practice rooms. This time, the red tally lights were real. Every mistake could follow them forever. Positions. The director barked. The track hit and they moved. Ray snapped to center, silver hair catching even the dull lights.
He grinned into the nearest lens. Instinctive, magnetic. The cameraman muttered under his breath. Natural. Ryan steadied the frame, adjusting Shun's step with a subtle tug while his own line stayed clear. His voice over the mic check was steady even here. Kean leaned into the crane camera, smirk sharp. Rat break, raw but alive. Shun stumbled on his first entrance, wide eyes locking on the blinking red light. His breath hitched until Ryan's harmony cut through the monitor,
steading him. Shun caught the line, sang clear, and staff watching at the sides smile despite themselves. The first run ended again. Adjust your angle, fix the bridge timing. They reset by the 5th take. Lungs burned, shirts stuck to skin. But with every reset, the angles sharpened, the frames clicked. It wasn't just practice anymore. Their music video was taking shape. Then came the wait for their
official debut stage. Shun curled in his seat, mouthing lyrics, but his eyes darted toward the door every time staff hurried past. At one point, his voice cracked. What if my mic cuts out? Ryan checked the pack quietly for the third time, steady hands calming more than wires. Kien sprawled wide, legs bouncing with pent up fire. His smirk was still there, but his jaw flexed whenever the roar of another fan chant rattled the walls. Ray looked focused, but a flicker of unease traced his
face. His phone lit up every few minutes, scrolling comments, teaser reactions, already imagining tomorrow's headlines. When Shun whispered about nerves, Ray cracked one eye open. They won't bite, Mcnay. Just look into the lens and smile. The camera always loves the honest ones. Ryan sat straighter than the rest, humming the chorus under his breath. When the silence stretched too long, he drummed fingertips on the table, pulling them back into rhythm without a word.
Hours crawled by until finally, SMWB stem by. They stood. Shun tugged his sleeves. Kian cracked his knuckles. Ray rolled his shoulders. Ryan's gaze scanned them all. Once steady, the waiting was over. The lights dropped, the intro thundered, and NWB burst onto their moves. Rey's charisma hit first, silver hair blazing under the spotlights, grin sharp, movements magnetic. Ryan's voice cut through the hall, rich and emotional, filling the air with warmth Polish could never buy.
Kian attacked his rap break, reckless, raw fire spilling past every imperfect beat and shunned, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. When his high sub vocal soared. The crowd screamed so loud he flinched, then grinned through it. It wasn't flawless. Steps lagged, breath wavered, but the rookie energy hit like lightning, raw, unfiltered, unforgettable stop. Behind, the monitors exchanged glances, some even clapping
under their breath. The boys froze in their final pose, lungs burning, vision blurred by sweat and light. Then the sound crashed in. The roar of fans, louder than they'd ever imagined swallowed every flaw and every doubt. Their first stage was over, but their hearts were still racing alive in the echo of that cheer. SNWB. Back in the van, screens glowed blue against their tired faces.
Numbers jumped every time they refresh their music video, climbing faster than their hearts could keep up. Comments poured in. These boys feel real, not just another idol group. SNWB is different. Ray leaned his forehead against the cool window, sweat drying from their first debut stage, grin spreading. The world was finally seeing them. His phone buzzed, a new message from an unknown number. Congrats, I saw the music video. No name, just a black square for
the profile. Ray stared at it, heartbeat thudding faster than the road beneath the tires. Outside, another showcase hall loomed closer, voices already gathering at the gate. The showcase wasn't just another stage. It was the rookie spotlight, where every group was measured, every mistake replayed, every spark of charisma judged by the entire industry. Careers could tilt in one night. In the waiting room, the producers phone buzzed nonstop. Sponsors, executives, press.
His lips curved in the faintest smile, eyes glittering as he glanced at the boys. This is it, Prestige showcase. The industry's watching Obsidian SNWB 2 rookies same night. The world wants a showdown, so give them one. The hallway was chaos. Stylists started between boys spraying hair, blotting sweat, tugging at cuffs. Staff shouted time cues over the noise. For the first time, Obsidian and SNWB shared the same space, two groups in opposite corners, glances sharp, silence louder
than words. The producer leaned close to SNWB, voice low and firm. Don't think debut was the finish line. Think of it as the start, when the stage and the world takes you seriously. Ray's eyes slid past him in the rival lineup, just for a second. The face appeared again, his friend in the rival group. This time their eyes met Obsidian to the stage. The stage manager barked. Send WB, you're up next. The boys gathered tight, four hands stacked in the center,
sweat slick against skin. Raise voice cut through the din, sharp and sure. Who are we? SNWB. Obsidian had already struck the stage 5 silhouettes in black, their lines sharp as blades, their presence heavy as thunderclouds. Black leather caught the strobes, silver chains flashing as they moved in flawless sync. Every angle snapped clean, every turn precise, the kind of Polish that looked unshakable. When the chorus dropped, the hall erupted. Chance of their name thundered like a storm.
The crowd swept up in their dominance. Their voices and rap lines hit with power, their dance cutting arcs larger than the stage itself. By the time the lights dimmed, the air was still crackling. Obsidian didn't just perform. They own the stage. Then the beat dropped for S and WB. Ray exploded into center, silver hair catching every light, every grin, a magnet that pulled the crowd in closer. His movements weren't polished. They were electric, reckless,
alive. Ryan's voice rose above it all, rich and full, weaving warmth into the cracks. Even when the choreography wavered, his tone anchored the moment, giving the performance a center no spotlight could shake. Pian attacked his rap like a weapon, jagged edges cutting straight through the noise. He wasn't flawless, but his raw fire spilled over the beat, drawing eyes even when his timing slipped. And Shun, bright unguarded, lifted the sub vocal higher than he ever had in rehearsal.
For a second, he faltered, but then the fans screamed back, chanting louder than the monitors, their voices crashing like a wave. The sound jolted through his chest, a heartbeat he couldn't ignore. He grinned wide, fed by their energy, his voice suddenly clearer, stronger. It wasn't perfect. Their steps lagged, lungs burned, timing frayed, but the roar of the crowd fused with their rookie fire, making every stumble feel like part of the spark.
The fans didn't want perfection. They wanted the pulse, and SNWB gave it to them, raw and unfiltered. By the final chorus, the hall was shaking. The chants weren't just background, they were fuel, every SNWB making the boys push harder, shine brighter, burn hotter. When the last note rang out, the four froze in formation, sweat dripping, hearts pounding in
rhythm with the crowd. The lights blazed brighter than before, and in that instant their dreams felt real, echoing back in the sound of the fans who believed in them. SNWB. The roar of the crowd still clung to their skin as SNWB filed down the narrow backstage corridor, breaths ragged, sweat cooling too quickly under the harsh fluorescence. The echo of fan chants still pounded in their ears, louder than their own footsteps.
At the far end of the hall, Obsidian appeared, sharp black suits, shoulders squared, their storm still radiating off them as if the stage had followed them back here. Every step they took was measured, polished, a quiet reminder of the precision they had just unleashed. Ray's gaze slid across them, one by one, the sharp lines, the calm confidence, the aura of rivals already marked. And then his eyes caught on a single figure. For a breath, the noise in his chest shifted.
The world seemed to narrow, the hall shrinking until only that figure stood there. Their eyes met, and then a smile. Not mocking, not cold. A smile that said I see you race Stride faltered for half a beat before Ryan's steady shoulder brushed his, pulling him forward. Send. WB passed Obsidian in silence, but the weight of that glance followed like a shadow. The stage had ended, but the battle had just begun. The battle stage was over, but
the noise hadn't faded. Both groups were ushered down the same corridor, cameras already waiting at a press wall. SNWB and Obsidian, please stand by for a short interview. The lights were harsher up close. Mike shoved forward. The first question went to Ray. Predictable center spotlight. He answered, smooth, practiced his grin. Camera ready, but when the host asked about teamwork, Ray glanced sideways. Maybe our rapper should take this one.
He pressed the mic into Kian's hand before anyone could object. For a heartbeat, he and froze. Then the fire snapped back. His smirk curved, sharp words playful but confident. As he leaned toward the mic. The small crowd of reporters laughed, flashes popping for the first time. The cheer wasn't for Ray. It was for him. Moments later, the groups were released. Outside, the night air broke loud with fans waiting behind barricades. Ray stepped out first.
His silver hair caught the spotlights, grin flashing as he raised a sharp salute. The screams doubled instantly, a wall of sound crashing against the vans. Cameras flared, phones lifted, the moment stamped into memory before he'd even lowered his hand. PN climbed out next, smirk half formed. She, I was going to do that. He muttered, but the roar had already moved past him. Inside the van, screens lit up. Within minutes, the salute photo was everywhere, clipped,
captioned with one word. Iconic. Shung giggled, holding up his phone. Young, you're already a meme. Ray only leaned back, satisfied, eyes half closed. Told you center never lies. The van rolled on into the night, their name climbing faster than the wheels could carry them. SNWB. That night, the salute picture went viral. Fans tagged it endlessly raised salute iconic. In the dorm bathroom, long after lights out, Kian stood alone in the mirror.
He tried to move once awkward again, sharper again with a smirk. The sound of his own hand snapping against his temple echoed in the tile across the hall. A faint hum bled through the walls. Ryan sat alone in the company's recording booth, glass door closed, headphones snug, mic light glowing red. His voice was low, steady, weaving through a melody no one else had heard yet in the main practice room. Ray hadn't called it a night. Shun sat cross legged on the floor.
Then Ray's phone buzzed, a single vibration. He frowned, swiping it open without thinking. A new message from an unknown number. Good stage today. You shine brighter up close. The profile picture was nothing but a black square, but the name was there, short, simple. Jim. Ray froze. He looked at the screen again, heartbeat kicking harder than any dance beat. The rival group, Obsidian and one of them had just reached out. Shun blinked up at him, curious.
Young, What is it? Ray locked the screen, slipping the phone into his pocket, smile flashing too quickly. Nothing, He lied, but his eyes stayed on the mirror. Not his reflection this time. Somewhere out there, another reflection was waiting and the game had just changed. SNWB. They stepped into the spotlight. Their name shouted louder than they ever dreamed. But every light cast shadows. Fame can lift you high and pull you apart. For Ray, the stage gave him
everything he wanted. Attention, applause, A fire that burned just for him. Yet in the crowd and across the stage, another gaze followed. A rival, A reflection, a spark he couldn't ignore. The battle for tomorrow had begun, and with it, something more dangerous than rivalry.
Both debut tracks are out now. Obsidians, Storms Coming and SNW BS Spotlight. Listen to the official music through the link in the description you've been listening to. We RSNWB Episode 2 The Spotlight from the practice room to the stage. From cheers to rivalry, this is only the beginning. Last time 2 names entered the stage SNWB raw, unpolished, alive, Obsidian, sleek, sharp, a storm in motion. One song screamed Rookie fire, the other thundered like power
already claimed. And between the cheers and charts, the shadows of rivalry began to grow. But not every battle is on the stage. Some are silent, some happen in the space between voices. For Ryan, the quiet leader, fame shines on others first, but sometimes the warmest fire burns unseen. This is We Are SNWB Episode 3 in our breath. SNWB. The dorm was dim except for the blue glow of a tablet on the low table. 4 boys leaned in, their
reflections faint in the glass. As the digital charts refreshed, the line shifted, Obsidian climbing, SNWB slipping just below. Silence held for a beat, the kind that hummed louder than sound. Shun's breath caught. His fingers curled tighter around his knees. We were ahead yesterday. His voice cracked small, like he wasn't sure if he should say it at all. Kian scoffed, tossing a cushion against the wall with a snap. Figures, chains and Thunder
always sell faster than sweat. His jaw flexed, even as his smirk tried to stay. Ryan didn't answer. He adjusted the tablet slightly so the glare faded, his face steady but unreadable. The manager's voice cut through from the doorway, brisk and sharp. Don't get stuck on numbers. Exposure is what matters. Next week. Variety slot confirmed. Ray, you're up. Shum blinked, surprised. Kean's jaw tightened. Ryan gave a small practice nod.
Ray just leaned back, rolling his shoulders loose as though the weight was nothing. His grin came easy, bright without trying too hard. Guess I'll try not to embarrass us. Shun laughed too quickly, clapping once. Kian muttered something under his breath. Ryan stayed silent, steady, though his hand curled subtly against his knee. Ray's silver hair caught the glow of the screen as he stretched out, grin gleaming. Told you centre, never lies.
The chart ticked again. Obsidian's name inched higher. Kianne leaned back, scoffing under his breath. Well, at least someone gets screen time. Ray arched A brow, playful. You jealous already? Not jealous. Kianne shot back with a half smirk. Just saying, the rest of us aren't mannequins. A small laugh from Shun tried to cut the tension, but it thinned quickly. Ryan finally spoke, voice steady but warm. It's good for all of US1 spotlight makes the whole stage
brighter. He glanced at Kianne, his hands steady on his shoulder. Our time will come, don't rush the fire. Kian smirk softened into something quieter, though he didn't answer. Ray tilted his head, grin easing into something less sharp. Then I'll make sure I don't waste it. The silence after wasn't heavy, just layered, each boy carrying it differently. SNWB. The booth was dim except for the red glow of the mic light.
Ryan's breath fogged the glass as he adjusted the headphones, his reflection faint against the dark alone. He sang softly, not the debut track, but something slower stripped. His voice barely rose above a hum. The kind you keep to yourself. And as the melody wound through him, memory pulled him back. A few days ago. The evaluation room was dim, a single mic stand in the middle and the producer at his desk expression unreadable. Ryan bowed politely, lyrics
sheet folded with neat creases. He expected to sing the debut track. He had trained it until his ribs ached, but the producer slid a tablet across the table. A new file glowed. Not that one. Try this. Ryan hesitated, just for a breath, then nodded, pressing play. Fragile, almost bare, he began. The first attempt broke early, the key too low, his throat catching against the silence. He steady tried to recover, but his breath ran short.
He stopped, bowing his head. The producer said nothing, just scribbled a note, eyes never lifting. Second try. Ryan inhaled deeper, pushing warmth into each note. His voice smoothed, rounded this time, but still tight at the edges, like he was holding too much back. His hand curled against the mic, knuckles pale. The last note lingered, almost trembling still. Silence. The producer shifted, then leaned toward the intercom. Call. One of the engineers in.
The door opened quietly, an engineer slipping inside with headphones in hand. He sat, adjusted a dial. Ryan swallowed, heart hammering as the track reset. Third attempt. He shut his eyes, let the piano carry him instead of forcing control. His voice cracked once, but he leaned into it, let it fracture into something raw. In a breath, I feel the light. By the chorus, his tone expanded, filling the room in a
way even he hadn't expected. When it ended, the engineer looked up, exchanging a glance with the producer. Subtle, quick, not surprise, recognition. Ryan caught it. His chest tightened. Outside, in the hallway, the other boys shifted in their seats. The evaluation had been going longer than usual. Shun chewed his lip, frowning. Key, and tapped his knee, restless. Ray leaned against the wall, brows furrowed, though he didn't
say a word. Inside, Ryan stayed frozen at the Mike. Finally, the producer spoke, calm, deliberate. This one works more than I thought. Ryan blinked. Is it mine? The producer studied him, then shook his head slightly. It's for the group, but you'll carry it. The verses, the center, they belong to you. The words pressed heavy, not triumph, not praise await. Ryan bowed low and steady,
hiding the tremor in his hands. When he rose, the producer and engineer were already making notes, moving on. Back in the present, the booths red light glowed against his skin. Ryan lifted his head, inhaled slowly, and let the melody spill out again. This time there was no piano, no backing track, just his voice. Bare, steady, rising into the quiet like it belonged there. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't perfect, but it was enough to fill the room, to prove what the producer and engineer had
already seen. The line hung in the air, trembling on the edge of silence, and for a moment, Ryan was the only sound in the world. SNWB. The recording studio buzzed like a hive. Staff shouted camera cues. Rookies shuffled into their seats, the air thick with Hairspray and nerves. Ray adjusted the mic clipped to his collar, silver hair catching stray spotlights even before the cameras turned.
Beside him sat rookies from other companies, some already with fans cheering from the stands, others wide eyed like Sean on his first day. When the red light on the main camera blinked, the host burst into frame with a booming voice. Welcome to rookie carnival. The crowd cheered. Ray's grin landed sharp and bright, posture snapping into idle form. The first game began, a speed
quiz with tongue twisters. Ray fumble once, laughed at himself, then leaned in and nailed the second with a sharp roll of his tongue. The audience, how clapping. Even the older idols grinned at his timing. The camera cut close to his smile, lingering a beat too long. Next came a balance challenge on the wobbling boards. Ray nearly slipped, arms flailing, then struck A dramatic pose instead, earning laughter from the audience. The host shouted.
Natural entertainer. As the crowd roared during the break, staff rushed on with water bottles and fresh powder. Ray sat back, catching his breath. Ray. The voice came from just behind. He turned. Gin. The difference was sharp, his styling colder, jaw set, the aura of someone already used to the spotlight, but the eyes were the same. For a moment, neither moved. Then Gin's mouth quirked. Didn't think we'd end up in the same place. Ray's lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost not.
Didn't think I'd see you here, either. They held each other's gaze just long enough for it to sting. A staff member called Jin back, but the moment lingered like static in the air. When the cameras rolled again, the host's grin sharpened. Ah, I saw something. You two were chatting during the break. The crowd leaned forward, curious. Ray froze for 1/2 second, then let his practice grin return. Jin tilted his head, calm. We went to same high school.
Jin said smoothly. The host clapped his hands. Really. High school friends. How nice. A reunion on our stage. The audience cooed. Ray chuckled. Light, careful. We weren't close, but we knew each other. The laughter rose again, eating it up as coincidence, but Ray felt Jin's eyes on him, the weight heavier than applause. The show rolled on, silly props, louder jingles, rookies scrambling for points.
Ray threw himself into it, charming the camera with quick wit, his grin returning every time it wavered. But between the games, every slip of his gaze found Gin again. Finally, the closing credits. Applause thundered, confetti cannons popping. Ray clapped politely, bowing with the others, still catching his breath. A quiet voice slipped in as the lights dimmed. Good work today, Gin. Closer now, low enough the mic didn't catch. Ray's reply came clipped, sharper than he intended.
Yeah, you too. And then managers, both stepping in at once, their smiles thin, their eyes colder than the idols they guarded. One hand on Ray's shoulder, one on Jin's arm. No words exchanged, only a glance. Rivals, not friends. The boys were pulled apart in opposite directions. The cheers of the crowd faded, but the tension in that hallway stayed. SNWB. For three nights in a row, the same clip had played on every music show at break, across fan accounts, stitched into endless
edits online. High school reunion. On stage, the host's voice boomed over and over, spliced with Ray and Jen's half smiles. The words flashed bold on screen, from classmates to rivals. The Dorn's laptop screen replayed it again, the four boys crammed close on the floor. Sean scrolled through his phone at the same time, cheeks puffed as he chewed on dried squid. Listen to this. If Ray and Jin were classmates, imagine the stories they could tell and hear.
Friendship arc incoming. He laughed, scrolling faster. They're shipping it already. Pian sat cross legged, peeling a banana with exaggerated care. He bit into it sharply. Figures. Always easier to hype drama than talent. Ray leaned back against the couch, tossing A cushion at Kian's knee. Jealous much? Not jealous, just saying. Kian muttered, waving the banana like a pointer. I'm on a diet and even I can see they're feeding the fans more
sugar than scents. Shun nearly choked laughing, covering his mouth with squid stained fingers. On the screen. The trailer cut to Ray's laugh during the tongue twister, Jin's steady smirk, then the caption again. Friend or rival? Find out this week on Rookie Carnival. Ryan hadn't touched his bowl of noodles. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen. When he finally spoke, his tone was low.
But sure, it's good for us. Even if it's hyped, it puts SNWB in the same sentence as Obsidian. That matters. Kian rolled his eyes. Yeah, great. As long as people remember which one of us is the actual group, not someone's ex classmate sidekick. Ray chuckled, though the corner of his grin faltered. Shun quickly nudged the mood back, holding up his phone. Look, the hashtags are already trending. People are saying both groups feel fresher because of it. The trailer looped again.
The same captions, the same freeze frames. For the boys, it had already become background noise. For the fans, it was gasoline. The show finally rolled past the trailers into the games themselves. Ray's face filled the laptop screen, his grin wide, posture perfect, the camera cutting close every time he moved. Wow. Kian said flatly, taking another bite of his banana. You look 10 times better on camera than in real life. Sean burst out laughing, nearly
dropping his dried squid. It's true, Hyun, the camera loves you. Ray threw a cushion across the room. I plan none of that natural talent. Oh please. Tian shot back, smirking. That balance pose staged. You practiced that in the mirror? Ryan, who hadn't laughed yet, finally cracked a small smile. He did, I saw him. Ray groaned, shoving his face into his hands as the others howled. Then the infamous clip rolled, the host leaning in, teasing
about the high school reunion. Jin's face, Ray's careful smile, the caption flash in gold. Just familiar. The three boys all turned to look at him at once, grinning like wolves. Just familiar, huh? Kian mimicked, voice high and mocking. He wrinkled his nose dramatically. If I was there, I'd tell the truth. Ray has nasty feet. Smell. It stinks. Stinky Ray. Young Shun laughed so hard he had to cover his face with both hands. Ryan joined in, deadpan.
Don't forget the snorting. He snores like a train. I have to wear headphones every night. Ray groaned louder, throwing another cushion. Traitors, all of you. But Shun lowered his hands, still smiling softly. Not me. I admire Ray Young, he's the coolest. The room quieted for a beat. Ray blinked, the teasing faltering. Then Kian leaned in quick, locking an arm tight around Shun's shoulders. And me? What about me, huh? Say it. Shun laughed nervously,
squirming. Kian squeezed harder, grinning. Say it. Shun finally blurted, half laughing. You're cooler, hyung. Cooler. The words came out rushed, but Key and smirk shifted for just a second. His grin wasn't sharp, it was real. Ray shook his head, tossing another cushion. Unbelievable. You're all against me. But the laughter that filled the dorm wasn't heavy. It was warm, the kind that made even rivalry feel far away.
SNWB. The practice room was dim, the piano lights spilling over sheet music and cables. Ryan sat on the bench with his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. A message glowed at the top. Are you eating well? I listen to your song every hour. Don't overwork, mom. His lips curved faintly, but before he could type a reply, the door creaked open. Ryan, let's start, the vocal coach said, gesturing him toward the mic stand. He slid the phone into his pocket, rose and bowed politely.
For hours, the ballad poured out of him, verse by verse, line by line. The coach adjusted posture, corrected vowels, had him repeat sections until his throat ached again, softer this time. Hold the note longer. Feel it in your chest, not your throat. Yes, like that. Keep it there. Ryan obeyed every cue, sweat dampening his hair, his shirt clinging. The song unfolded fuller, each attempt less like practice, more like confession. At last, the coach closed the music file, satisfied.
Good. You'll sing this in front of the others tomorrow. Keep your voice strong. Drink plenty of water tonight. Rest. Ryan bowed again, deeper this time, his breath unsteady when the coach left, The room felt heavier in its silence. Hours had slipped by. Pulling his phone free, Ryan finally tapped his mother's message. His thumb hesitated before he pressed call instead of reply.
The line rang once, twice, and then her voice filled his ear, soft, familiar, carrying all the warmth he'd been holding back. Ryan. Her voice was gentle, a little surprised. It's late. He swallowed, leaning back against the wall. I'm OK, Mom, just finished practice. Did you eat? A soft laugh escaped him. Tired but real. Yeah, don't worry. There was a pause, then her voice softened even more. I'm proud of you, son, I love you. Ryan closed his eyes, the ache in his throat forgotten.
Thank you, I needed to hear that. Silence lingered, not heavy but warm, like home, reaching across the line. When he finally hung up, his phone screen dimmed to black for a moment, the reflection staring back at him wasn't an idol trainee, just the sun breathing easier. SNWB. The practice room smelled of resin and sweat, mirrors lined with smudges from weeks of drills. All four boys stood side by side, water bottles clutched, towels draped around their necks.
The producer entered with a file in hand, flanked by the vocal coach. He set a tablet on the piano, pressing play. A piano line filled the room, gentle, bare, almost fragile. Not the pounding beats they trained to for debut. The boys glanced at each other, puzzled. This, the producer said, voice flat but certain. Is your next track different from the debut? A ballad? The company wants to show range. Ray raised his brows, curious but unfazed. Shun straightened, eyes wide.
Kian scoffed under his breath, already restless. Then the producer looked up. Ryan stepped forward. Ryan froze, towel still in his hand. The producer gestured again. Slowly, he moved to the mic. The backing track rolled again. Ryan inhaled, eyes fixed on the mirror. The first note slipped out, raw, steady, the kind of sound that didn't need flash. His voice filled the practice room, stretching across the mirrors, wrapping around the others.
Shun's lips parted in awe, forgetting to breathe. Ray's grin faded into something quieter, almost proud. And Kien. His smirk froze, then faltered. His eyes locked on Ryan, a storm flickering underneath. Admiration, resentment. Something else he couldn't name. The song ended. Silence rang, louder than the piano. The producer only nodded. Good. Tomorrow we'll refine. Dismissed, he left with the coach, the door clicking shut. The four boys stayed where they were, the quiet heavier than the
air conditioning. Ryan finally lowered his head, wiping his face with the towel. Shun whispered first, soft, sincere. That was beautiful. Ray clapped him lightly on the back, forcing brightness back into the room. Kian said nothing, His jaw tightened, fists curling at his sides. Ryan didn't meet his eyes. The door swung open again. Their manager stepped in briskly, clapping his hands. Boys, get ready. We've got a performance to do.
SNWB. The van hummed down the highway, blue phone light flickering across tired faces. Shun leaned in close to Kian, their screen glowing live on fans feeds. Look, look, say hi. Shun grinned, waving. Kian smirked, draping an arm across Shun's shoulders for the camera. The comments exploded with heart emojis. Shun laughed, cheeks pink across. Ray nudged Ryan with his knee. So is that why you've been coming to bed late, sneaking off to sing alone?
Ryan blinked, caught, then let out the faintest laugh. Something like that. Ray grinned, reaching over to tickle his side. Ryan twisted, trying to shove him off, laughter breaking through the silence for a moment. The weight lifted. Backstage, the noise roared. Staff shouting cues, makeup artists starting in with brushes and powder. The boys stood in a huddle, breath steading as final touches brushed across their cheeks. Ray tugged his jacket into place. Shun tightened his grip on the
mic. Kian cracked his knuckles, smirk half formed. Ryan stood in the center, eyes steady, forehand stacked, sweat damp against skin. Ryan's voice cut through the chaos, strong, sharp. Who are we? SNWP. Who? SNWP. The chant hit like Thunder. The lights rose. The stage waited. Every stage, every chance, every cheer only hides what they're carrying alone. Ryan sings what no one else hears, his voice carrying more
than the group knows. Ray shines in front of cameras, the world already calling his name. Kian burns with fire, fighting shadows even in laughter and Shun watching, listening quietly, holding every piece together. The stage made them a name, but in the quiet, choices are waiting songs they never asked for, feelings they never planned, and a bond that will be tested again when fire meets silence. This is we, Rs and WB Episode 3 in our breath.
Last time, Ray stepped into the spotlight while Ryan's voice burned quietly, unseen. But in every group, there's one who refuses to stay in the shadows. For Kian, fire is not just a word. It's every beat in his chest, every breath he spits into the mic. It's hunger sharper than sleep, it's ambition heavier than doubt. And when fire meets fame, it can turn into something the world can ignore. This is We Are SNWB episode 4 Run the beat. SNWB.
The conference room smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink, the kind of place where big decisions never matched the bland walls. Four boys sat side by side, sneakers tapping lightly under the long table. The producer slid a folder forward, the company logo stamped sharp on its cover. His tongue was brisk, almost casual, but the words dropped like fire. Congratulations, SNW BS first brand deal sportswear sneakers. They want rookies with energy, hype, edge.
They want you. Shun blinked, his mouth falling open in the silent. Oh. Ryan bowed his head politely, hiding a faint smile. Ray leaned back in his chair, silver hair catching the fluorescent light like it always did. Grin already forming and the request, the producer continued. Tapping the folder is simple, A special track. High energy Ray and Kian on lead. Ryan and Shun, you'll support the harmonies and chorus. For a heartbeat, Kian forgot to breathe.
His name purred with rays not hidden behind, not left out. LED. The word burned through him, hotter than any caffeine. Ray's grin widened, effortless. Guess they know who's got the spark. Kian smirked back, but his jaw was tight. His fire wasn't just spark, it was fuel waiting to explode. The producer closed the folder with a snap. Recording starts tomorrow, don't waste it. The boys rose together, chairs scraping back. Shun nearly skipped the door, whispering excitedly to Ryan
about sneakers. Ray stretched like it was another casual win, but Kian lingered a second longer, staring at the folder still on the table. His reflection glared back from its glossy cover. For once, his name was in front. He wasn't about to let it slip away. SNWB. The loop hit steady through the monitors, bass sharp, sneakers squeaking in the backbeat. The producer leaned forward, voice clipped, wrapped, sections open. Kian, you write it, make it fit the brand.
A notebook slid across the table. Kian picked it up, pen tapping once against the blank page. His jaw flexed. Then he began scribbling. No chains on me. Speed in my pulse, burning my feet. He frowned. Too stiff. A hard slash crossed through the lines. Another try. Speed in my pulse, burning my feet. Every move forward, nothing to hide. Another line dragged across it, ink pressed so deep it nearly tore the page from the sofa. Ray chuckled.
You're going to rap or kill the notebook first. Kian's glare was sharp enough to cut, but he kept his head down. The beat looped again, pushing him forward. Edge in my voice. Rise with the heat. 1 fire burning. Run the beat. Still wrong, still hollow. His chest tightened with every failed attempt. Then the pen slowed, almost on its own. The next words fell out softer. Fire in my chest. Fuego and me peel. He froze. Spanish. The word sat heavier on the page, alive and away.
The others weren't half Korean, half Mexican. It was always there, but never written in this room, never spoken where others could hear. Not for the group, not for the brand. His pulse kicked harder. He pushed anyway. Edge in my stride, Nunca voyakaya. The rhythm snapped into place. English and Spanish wound together like they belonged. For the first time, the rap sounded like him, but doubt rose just as fast. Would they allow it? Would they tell him to cut it out?
He lifted the notebook toward the console, voice low. Is this OK? The producer's eyes flicked across the lines. The only sound was the beat in the speakers, steady and relentless. Then a single nod. Try it. Kian slipped into the booth, headphones sliding over his ears. His throat went dry. The beat dropped, red light glowing on his skin. He leaned into the mic and let it out. Fire in my chest the. Spanish stayed on the couch. Shun whispered without meaning to, awe soft in his voice.
Cool. Ray's grin faltered into something smaller, sharper. Not a joke this time, but interest. Ryan's expression stayed unreadable, but his faint nod carried weight. Kian tugged the headphones off, breath ragged, fire running hotter in his chest. For the first time, it wasn't just heat. It was his. SNWB. The set glowed with neon strips running across the floor, sneaker posters plastered wall
to wall. For the first time, SNWB weren't just rookies chasing stages, they were faces of a brand. Stylists knelt at their feet, tightening laces, smoothing shirts, patting down hair. Under the lights, each boy's roll card was clear. Ray bounced a basketball against the floor, already smiling like the camera loved him. Shun tested his sneakers with a spin, laughter echoing when they squeaked back in rhythm. Ryan checked the rope coiled around his hand, calm and steady as always.
Kian stared at the painted Sprint line, heart beating faster than the loop track pulsing through the speakers. Rolling from the top 32. The beat dropped. Run. The beat light on the. Beat. Run the beat. Ray slammed the ball into a clean dunk. Shun spun through freestyle footwork, sneakers flashing with every turn. Ryan's rope cracked against the floor. Sync perfect with the rhythm. Then Kean tore down the track, sneakers pounding, rap cutting
sharp into the beat. The Spanish snapped, sharper than the lights. Staff at the monitors leaned closer. A brand Rep turned, voice quick. That, that's the pulse we wanted. Young, alive, new. Kean slowed to a stop, chest heaving, sweat clinging under the lights. He caught the words. Not about Ray, not about Ryan. Him, his verse. Ray jogged past, shoulder bumping his lightly. Not bad, partner. Shun's gaze lingered longer than a glance.
Ryan offered a subtle nod. The Director reset them, four shadows moving as one. Sneakers hit the floor in unison, logo snapping into frame. The camera pulled back, neon flooding the floor, sneakers glowing with every step. When the director finally called, cut staff clapped. The brand team huddled with the producer, words spilling quick, fresh, young right vibe for SNWB. It wasn't just another shoot. It was proof. Proof they could be chosen.
Proof they could stand ahead of Obsidian, if only for this moment. Kian tugged at his laces, a smirk ghosting at his lips. For once, the fire in him didn't just burn, it illuminated S. NWB. A few days later, the dorm fell quiet around noon until the sound of sneakers pounding against asphalt filled the television. The commercial hit screens all at once. Neon lights, a backboard slam, Ray spinning the ball with a smirk that belongs only on
camera. Then, Kian's rap cutting sharp over the beat, his sneakers flashing with every step. Shun smiled, Ryan's steady gaze all four moving together in a choreography designed to highlight only one thing. The shoes run the beat. SNWB. The logo slammed across the screen. For a moment, the boys just stared, their own faces bigger, brighter, cleaner than any practice mirror had ever shown. Then the sound of their phones broke in. Notifications stacked faster than they could swipe.
Social feeds lit up with clips of the commercial edits looping Kean's rap in Spanish hashtags, pushing them into trending. Overnight, fans screamed about Ray's dunk, about Shun's shy grin, about Ryan's gaze that felt like it had been aimed directly through the screen. By evening, the chart lines moved. See New World breath climbed one rank, then another. By midnight, the graph showed a truth none of them expected so soon. Their debut single was almost neck and neck with Obsidian.
Shun watched the commercial again from his bunk, volume low, lips curving into a smile he tried to hide. Ryan scrolled through the charts, jaw set but eyes soft with something close to relief. Ray leaned against the counter, smirking at a comment he didn't bother to read out loud, and Keon replayed his rap cut over and over, pretending it was nothing but watching the way fans had clipped his moment into
1000 different edits. Ray pushed off the counter, walked past Kian, and without a word, ruffled his hair with a reluctant shake. Kian looked up, startled, half laughing, half annoyed. Stop it. He muttered, but he didn't mean it. Ray's hand dropped back to his side, his grin returning easy, distant, but not cold. The silence that followed wasn't awkward, it was earned, and with it came the call from the manager. Turn off the lights, go to sleep. Big stage tomorrow.
Lights flicking off. PM could still hear the echo of his verse for the first time. It didn't just sound like a line in a song, it sounded like a rival. SNWB. The Music Hall was empty but humming with energy, stage crew adjusting lights, cameras locking angles, producers muttering notes into headsets. It wasn't the real show yet. It was rundown. SNWB stood center stage, waiting. The sneaker shoot still burned in their heads, Brandstaff clapping, calling them fresh young right vibe.
But here there were no neon sets, just stage marks taped on the floor and cameras judging every move. Race spun his mic once, playful. Shun bounced on his heels, sneakers squeaking. Ryan scanned the rundown sheet again. Kian tapped his foot to the loop. Track fire smoldering just below Send WB camera blocking from top. The stage manager called. The beat blasted through the empty hall. They moved sharp at first, then staggered. Shun landed half a step late.
Ray's mark was off center. Kian turned too early. Guys, look at the camera. A staff voice barked from the monitors. Hit your marks, not each other. The music cut. SNWB froze mid formation. Ryan exhaled through his nose, adjusting position without a word. Ray muttered. Got it. Shun bit his lip, cheeks flushing. Kian's fist curled against his side. The tension hung heavy until the stage manager waved them off. Reset, Obsidian, your turn.
Obsidian walked in from stage left, sleek in black rehearsal gear. Their leader smirked across the empty hall as they passed. Not bad. Guess the brand one acute. Let's show them sharp send, will you be Held their ground, but the jab stung. The track switched. Obsidian moved clean, polished, every angle hitting like it had been rehearsed 100 times. Staff nodded, some even clapped. That's tight.
Perfect angles from the wings. SNWB watched, frustration tightening their shoulders behind his leader. Jin glanced back once, his lips shaped a quick, silent word toward Ray. Sorry. Ray caught it. His grin softened just for a heartbeat, before sliding back on. SNWB. The hallway hummed with the tail end of rehearsal chatter. Obsidian's laughter still echoed faintly from down the corridor, the kind that stung more because
it wasn't cruel, just confident. Key and sat on a low flight case, sneakers planted on the cold floor. The same pair they'd mocked on stage. He retired one, lace fingers tugging harder than they needed to. The logo flashed briefly under the fluorescent light, a quiet, defiant glow. He unlocked his phone. The commercial clip filled the screen, neon lights rhythm pulsing, his verse catching flame again. Comments flew past in a blur. Kian's verse in Spanish, half Korean, half Mexican.
King. Finally, someone different. He exhaled through a grin that almost looked proud. Almost. Shun leaned over his shoulder. Hyung, you really like that shoe, huh? Kian smirked. It fits. Ryan's voice drifted from across the room. Let's focus, we're up again in a few. Ray's reflection appeared briefly in the dressing room mirror, voice cutting through with a sharp ease. You should save that confidence for the stage. He half smiled. If it shows up there, maybe
we'll finally win one. The words hit harder than he expected, not cruel, but edged with something familiar. Frustration. Pien's head lifted. The silence after the line was thick enough to hum. He stood slowly, sneakers squeaking against the floor. Then stop hiding behind mine. Ray froze, his jaw locked, ham curling around the water bottle until it creaked. Peon's fists tightened at his sides, shoulder squared. Ryan moved first, calm but firm enough.
Shun stepped between them, hands up, nervous smile gone. Hyun, don't. The air stayed electric for a beat longer, sharp, unspoken. Then Ray broke first, turning toward the door. He muttered under his breath. Right, focus. The door swung shut behind him. Kean exhaled, breath catching. His gaze dropped to the sneakers, the light hitting the logo again, his voice quiet this time. The hall still buzzed with movement, but Ray barely heard it. Every step from the waiting room felt too loud.
His jaw ached from clenching. His pulse hadn't slowed since Kean's last line. He twisted the cap on his water bottle until it squeaked, the plastic biting into his palm. Anything to bleed. The leftover heat gear shifted. Obsidian was prepping for their second pass. Ray slipped through the side wings, looking for air, a place where his heartbeat didn't have to match the same rhythm as theirs. Gin was there, half in shadow, leaning against a stack of flight cases, phone loose in his
grip, calm and away. Ray wasn't. Congrats. Gin said quietly, eyes flicking toward him. First brand deal. That's huge. Ray tilted the bottle in 1/2 salute. Exhale rough. Thanks. Feels good being chosen. Heavy, though. Jin's smile curved faintly. It always feels heavy at first. You'll carry it. The words landed softer than expected. Something in Ray's shoulders eased, the tension bleeding out slow. For a breath, there were no cameras, no rivals, just two boys caught between noise and
silence. Ray's voice dropped low. When our first promos wrap, let's meet up. Just us, No teams, no cameras. Jin's gaze didn't flinch. Yeah, just us. The stage manager's voice cracked the air. Obsidian stand by. Jin straightened, slipping his phone away. See you around, He murmured. Ray didn't answer. He just nodded, watching Jin walk toward the lights spilling from stage left. The hallway fell quiet again, only the faint hum of bass bleeding through the wall.
Ray turned back toward the direction he'd come, toward the waiting room. The voices inside were low, familiar. Kian, Ryan, Shun. He lingered there a moment longer, hand tightening once more around the bottle. Then he exhaled, jaw set. The anger had dulled, but not disappeared. It burned quieter now, something steadier, smaller, and entirely his. On stage, Obsidian reset into
formation, sharp and ready. SNWB stood off stage, waiting their turn, the earlier bark still ringing in their ears. Guys, look at the camera. For all their wins, they still had ground to prove. The arena thundered alive, light sticks swaying like tides, voices chanting names backstage. SNWB stood in formation, Mike's clipped outfits crisp. It wasn't rehearsal anymore. This was live broadcast.
This was their debut song, their first chance at #1 The lights dropped, then cracked open in silver beans. Obsidian hit the floor like they owned it. Sharp formation, no wasted motion. Their debut song tore through the arena, dark bass heavy, a ruthless anthem. Their leaders rap snapped hard, Jin's vocal soaring clean above it. The crowd roared their name in tight chants, fans shaking black silver light sticks like weapons at the wings. SNWB watched. Ray's smile tightened but didn't
break. Shun leaned forward, eyes wide with pressure. Kian's fists curled, jawed tight. Ryan's gaze stayed steady, unreadable. Obsidian closed on a perfect slam, lights flaring behind them. The crowd erupted, staff nodding at the monitors. Flawless. SNWB. Send WB Standby. The boys jogged out under the glare, sneakers squeaking against the stage floor. The track hit bright, explosive, their sound raise, voice cut bold at center, grin electric. Ryan steady the verse with warm
grounding tone. Kian's rap snapped fire through the beat, eyes lit with hunger, shunts clear, vocal sword high, young and unshaken. The arena shifted, fresher, brighter, less sharp than Obsidian, but alive in counter chance, light sticks glowing in waves. The final chorus swelled, all four snapping into formation, arms lifted high. The stage burst in gold light as they froze in their debut pose. The hall erupted, both groups lined up side by side, sweat shining under the lights.
The host lifted the card, smile wide, stretching the silence. Tonight's #1 rookie song is. The camera zoomed. Ray's grin pulled tight with fire. Kian's eyes burned steady. Shun's fists clenched at his sides, Ryan's expression calm, chest rising slow. Obsidian's leader smirked like victory was already his. Jin's gaze flickered once more toward Ray. The host drew a breath. Tonight's #1 Rookie song is Obsidian's name is the one called.
Confetti burst in silver and gold, their champ Thunder through the hall, shaking the floor. The scoreboard confirmed it in bold, glowing numbers. SMWB stood only steps away, close enough to feel the heat of the spotlight but not its warmth. Pian's hands clapped on instinct, each hit sharp and stinging. Ryan's smile stayed steady, practiced, too soft to be real. Ray's grin faltered for a half second before snapping back in place.
Come already Again. And Shun's applause lagged the beat, eyes lowered, caught between admiration and ache. Across the stage, Obsidian bowed. Their leaders smirk cut like glass behind him. Jin's glance flickered toward Ray, brief, unreadable, before joining the shout of victory. The roar swelled louder for Obsidian tonight. Yet scattered through the waves of silver light sticks, pockets of red still burned, small, stubborn embers refusing to go dark.
Ray inhaled through his nose, slow and steady. Then he glanced sideways toward Kean. Kean met his eyes, surprised at first. Ray gave the smallest nod. Not pride, not surrender. Something closer to apology. Kian exhaled and reached out, resting a hand on Ray's shoulder. No words, just a quiet, mutual understanding. I'm sorry, too. They turned together, bowing as one. The cameras flashed, the stage lights dimmed, and in the shadow of someone else's triumph, their
story pressed forward. But in the echo of fading cheers, the beat didn't stop. Somewhere beneath the applause, a new rhythm was already forming. Their loss wasn't the end. It was the sound of something beginning to burn. SNWB. Fire. It can burn, or it can light the way. For Kian, it burned first against the page, against the pressure, against his own doubt. But tonight, it lit the stage. His voice broke through, raw and alive, half hidden and half revealed.
For S and WB, the glow of their first brand deal wasn't enough to steady their footing. Rivalry pressed sharper, Obsidian flawless in their stride. Yet still, when the lights hit, they rose. Not perfect, not polished, but there's the fire had only just begun to spread, and the crown still hung in the balance. This is We are S and WB Episode 4. Run the beat. The lights returned to where it all began. Not the stage, but the sound.
A single mic, a voice learning how to carry more than itself. Time had passed, but the rhythm never stopped. Each breath they took was a promise to keep singing even when no one was listening. For Ray, the silence had grown heavier than applause. For Ryan, every song still began with someone else's voice. For Kian, fire kept burning for something he couldn't yet name. And for Shun, this time
Spotlight found him first. A call came from across the sea, a stage waiting in another language, a chance for the quietest member to lead. This is We Are SNWB Episode 5 in our breath. SNWB. Backstage was smaller than it looked on broadcast. The roar of the crowd still bled through the walls, but here it felt like silence had taken over. The boys sat in a row, water bottles untouched, makeup half smudged under the harsh fluorescence. No one said much. No one had to.
The weight of 2nd place spoke louder than words. The door burst open, their manager breathless, phone still in hand. Japan called. He said, voice cutting straight through the room. ATV show wants SNWB to perform your first overseas schedule. For a beat, they just stared. Ray blinked first, his polished grin slipping back into place. Kian leaned forward, fire in his eyes that refused to dim. Ryan exhaled, the quiet leader pulling his shoulders straighter, and Shun froze.
Japan, his home, his language, his stage. The others would call it their debut abroad. For him, it was something else. Ryan's voice broke the silence, low but firm. Our Mac Nay will be our guide. He looked straight at Shun, no teasing in his tone only. Wait, you'll show us how it's done. Shun's throat tightened. He managed a nod, small at first, then firmer when Ray clapped his shoulder in support.
Kian leaned back with a half smile, half fire, half challenge, while Ryan's steady gaze held just long enough to make Sean believe it. The ride out was chaos. Security pushed them through the narrow hallways, then the side doors where the air split open with screams. Fans surged against barriers, voices shouting their names, red light sticks glowing like flares in the dark. The van door slid open and they climbed inside, but the sound didn't fade. It grew.
Phones flashed lenses, greedy for every glimpse, proof of their survival after a loss key, and sat closest to the window. The chant outside pounded against the glass until it felt like it was shaking. He rolled the window down halfway, arm lifting in a quick wave. The reaction was instant. Screams doubled. Fans pressed forward, the guards struggling to hold the line. Close it. The manager snapped from the front seat. Do you want someone to get hurt?
Kian's hand froze mid wave. The glass slid back up, his grin faltering into something softer, caught between apology and defiance. But they waited for us. He muttered, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. I know. The manager shot back, tone firm. But it could be dangerous for them, not just us. It's a rule. The words lingered, heavier than the shouts outside. Inside, Ray scrolled his phone, Jaw said. Ryan leaned back, eyes closed.
Shun pressed his palms together in his lap, gaze slipping sideways toward the phone clutched in his pocket, toward the words still echoing in his chest. The dorm never felt the same after a stage. Even when the lights were off and the cameras far behind, the echo of noise lingered in the walls. Tonight was no different. They had bowed, they had lost, they had smiled for everyone else. But here, inside their own four Corners, the silence pressed heavier than applause ever could.
In the shared room, Kim was already halfway through the closet. Jackets flew onto the bed, shirts tangled on the chair, sneakers lined up with obsessive care. His energy hadn't dimmed from the van ride. It only shifted, spilling into the mess like sparks without direction. Airport look is survival. He muttered, slipping into a bomber jacket, checking the mirror, then tossing it off with a shake of his head. They'll photograph every angle, every mistake. One bad shot and it follows you.
For months, Shun sat cross legged on the bed, a cap tugged low over his eyes, watching the storm unfold. He hadn't touched a single hanger. Instead, his hands twisted the brim of the cap until the fabric bent, as if the pressure could be folded into something smaller. He lifted it slightly. Do I wear this? The question was soft, almost swallowed by the sound of Kian's jacket hitting the floor. Kian turned, grinning wide. Mcnay, you're the one they'll
stare at first. You don't just wear it, you own it. The words hit harder than Shun expected. His laugh slipped out, quiet and nervous, but it loosened something in his chest. The cap came back down, hiding the color that rose to his face, but the smile stayed even when he tried to smother it. Kian watched him for a second longer than needed, then turned back to the mirror. His reflection stared back, restless, unsatisfied, already searching for another answer.
In the closet across the hall, the mood was different, dimmer, quieter. Ryan sat at the edge of his bed, phone balanced in his hand, scrolling through the endless stream of fan comments. Ray leaned back against the headboard, towel draped around his neck, hair damp from the shower. His own phone buzzed now and then, but he wasn't looking at it. His gaze lingered on Ryan instead. They're still voting for the fan club name. Ryan said finally, voice steady but low.
His thumb paused, then flicked again, drawing more comments into view. Ray leaned closer, eyes narrowing at the screen. What's on top? Ryan scrolled slowly, the silence heavy between each flick. Names appeared in waves, Aurora, nebula, echoes, wings, beautiful words, but none of them seemed to stick. Then his thumb stilled, holding the glow of one name that refused to disappear, repeated again and again until it drowned the others. 5th pulse. Ryan said, almost under his breath.
Ray frowned, tilting his head. 5th pulse. Ryan nodded, reading the comments aloud. 4 pulses on stage. We're the 5th, always with you. His voice grew softer with each word, but steadier too, as if the fans themselves were speaking through him. Ray let out a quiet laugh, low and surprised. They really name themselves. Ryan's smile curved small. But sure, maybe that's how it should be. The glow of the phone screen lit both their faces, the name 5th pulse burning brighter than the rest.
For a long moment, neither moved. The word hung there, heavier than any Company Announcement, louder than any official title. It wasn't theirs to invent. It was already alive, chosen by the ones who filled the seats, who shouted their names, who waited outside in the dark even when they lost. The dorm carried both sounds that night, the muffled laughter of Kian and Sean wrestling with jackets and caps, and the quiet certainty of Ray and Ryan
staring at a single name glowing through thousands of voices. 5th Pulse. The boys hadn't spoken it aloud together yet, but the fans already had, and in that silence, it felt like the truest thing they'd been given all night. SNWB. The dorm sounded different in the morning, less like a home, more like a hallway of closed doors, each member waking at his own pace, each carrying the night before in silence.
Shun was the first to rise. The others were still shut away, Ray's room quiet except for the faint buzz of his phone, Ryan's desk lamp still burning from notes left unfinished, Kian's shoes abandoned by the door as if he'd collapsed straight into bed. Shun padded barefoot into the living room, phone in hand. The file from the manager blinked to him, still unopened. He hesitated, thumb hovering,
then pressed play. Music spilled out, soft at first, a steady pulse that felt almost like a heartbeat. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he was already there, on a stage across the sea, under lights, not yet his singing, words that felt both foreign and inevitable. The tracks swelled, his breath shook, and then, almost without thinking, he sent along. The last line slipped out of him, soft but steady. The word barely left his lips before the sound of clapping broke through.
Shun's eyes flew open. All three boys were out. Ray leaned against the frame, grin sharp but real. Ryan stood with his arms crossed, nodding slow, a quiet pride written in his eyes. Kian was the loudest, clapping hard enough to sting his palms, a grin stretching wide across his face. They crossed the room together, pulling Shun into a hug that knocked the phone right out of his hand. The laughter that followed was messy, sudden, alive, the kind of sound that didn't care about
charts or crowns. It does feel real, doesn't it? Ryan said, voice rough but warm, hands still steady on Shun's back. Shun's throat tightened. He pulled away just enough to shout, voice breaking but fearless. Who are we? And without hesitation, all three answered in one voice, louder than any loss, stronger than any silence. SNWB. The conference room buzzed with screens and numbers, every chart and feed pulled up at once. The producer sat at the head of the table, the others spread
around. Engineer, choreographer, a pair of executives with brows furrowed on the monitor, a clip looped again and again. Shun on stage during seeing New World Breath, eyes lit beneath the harsh lights, voice breaking clear through the chorus. Another clip, him laughing shyly during a fan interview segment, bowing a little too deep, the crowd screaming louder than expected. Then a fancom, shaky but electric, already past half a million views overseas. The engineer pointed at the
numbers, scrolling alongside. Japan picked this up faster than we thought. His clips are trending in Tokyo. Osaka's trending buzz is climbing every day. The choreographer leaned forward. They're calling him the pure Pulse. Innocent, honest. It's sticking. If we wait, the wave moves on. If we move now, we anchor him there. One of the executives frowned. But he's the youngest. First overseas promotion. Different press, different scale.
Can he handle the pressure of being centered in a market this big? The room stilled. The producer glanced at the door. Bring him in. A moment later, Shun stepped inside, cap low, posture hesitant, eyes flicking to the clip still playing on the monitor. His face flushed at the sound of his own laugh echoing through the room. Shun, the producer said evenly. Japan is responding to you, not just the group. You. But there are concerns. You're young. This is more pressure than
you've carried before. Tell us, do you think you're ready? Shun's hands tightened at his sides. For a second, he seemed to fold inward. Then he lifted his head. I know I'm young, he said softly. But that doesn't mean I'll break. If fans in Japan are cheering for us, for me, then I want to give them more. I don't want to waste what they're giving. The words weren't loud, but they landed sharp. The executive who had spoken against him leaned back, lips pressed but silent now.
The choreographer nodded once, half smile tugging. The engineer scribbled a note. Already convinced, The producer studied Shun a moment longer before speaking. Ryan's ballad stays as planned in Korea. But Japan, we double down. We drop a special track with you in focus. Not later. Soon. We move while the markets open. Sean's eyes widened, breath catching, but he nodded, steady. No one argued, and for once, everyone in the room agreed the center had a name. SNWP.
The hallway outside the meeting room was quiet when Sean stepped out. The echo of voices, the producer, the executives, The faint hum of charts on a screen still rang in his ears. They wanted him to lead. They wanted his voice, his language, and suddenly what had always felt like a small part of himself now carried the weight of a stage. He walked back to the dorm with his earbuds in, replaying the demo file sent to his phone.
His voice filled his ears clearer than he remembered, almost foreign in its confidence. By the time he stepped inside, the afternoon light had turned warm, softening the edges of everything it touched. The dorm was empty, or quiet enough to feel that way. Suitcases leaned open near the couch, and someone had left an empty cup by the sink. Shun dropped his bag by the door, then sat on the edge of the rug, the phone still playing in his hand. The chorus swelled again, the
part he had recorded yesterday. He hummed along under his breath, then sang the line once, just to hear how it felt in the air. The sound hung there, fragile but steady. It felt smaller without the studio walls, but more real somehow, like he was finally hearing himself. He didn't notice the door open until laughter carried in. Kian's voice was first, bright and easy. Sensei, you're back.
Ray and Ryan followed close behind, still in their company hoodies, the air of training and sunlight clinging to them. Ray grinned as he dropped his bag on the couch. We just had a crash course in Japanese at the company lounge. Ryan smiled beside him, setting his phone down on the table. Basic greetings, performance cues, interview phrases. We thought we should at least try. Kian leaned against the doorway, folding his arms with a smirk. But we need a pronunciation check.
You're the expert now. Shun blinked, caught between surprise and disbelief. You really took a lesson. Ryan nodded. You're leading us there. We should meet the audience halfway. The warmth of his words reached deeper than applause ever could. Shun smiled, the kind that came slowly, like dawn breaking. He put his phone down and motioned for them to sit. OK, he said softly. Show me what you learned. They gathered around the low table.
The sunlight fell across the floor in long golden stripes. Ryan opened a small notebook filled with neat writing. Ray leaned in close, reading from the page. Kian looked impatient but focused, repeating each phrase quietly. Ryan spoke first, his tone careful and deliberate. Otsukarsama Desu Shun smiled, nodding. Perfect. It means thank you for your hard work. Next came Ray, voice steady and low as he read from the notebook. Gem Barimasu. We'll do our best. That's right.
Shun said softly, the warmth in his voice unguarded now. Then. Kian looked up from his notes, hesitating for a breath before repeating the next phrase. Yoroshiku 1 negation, Miss, please take care of us. He said it slowly, each syllable pronounced with care. The room went still for a moment after that, as if the meaning itself had settled over them. Not just a line to memorize, but a promise shared. Just four boys speaking the same words with the same intention. The phrases weren't just
language anymore. They were a bridge. Shun felt something tighten in his throat. He looked at them. Ray's patient grin, Ryan's steady focus. Kian's quiet pride, and the meaning hit deeper than translation could hold. Shun lowered his gaze, hiding the small smile that escaped anyway. He took a breath, and his voice steadied again. Then one more. He said, lifting his eyes. Ishoni Ikol. They repeated it after him, their tones uneven but sincere.
Ishoni Aiku, let's go together. The words hung between them, warm and alive. Outside, the city was still loud, the world still spinning. But here, in this small, sunlit room, 4 voices found the same rhythm again. And when they finally fell silent, the quiet didn't feel empty. It felt full of meaning, of promise, of something just beginning. The dorm had finally gone still. From the room at the end of the
hall came a faint mix of sounds. Shun's playlist whispering through a phone speaker, PN's laptop humming softly on the desk beside it. One was already asleep, the other halfway there, screen dimming as the last video froze on pause. Their shared space glowed in short pulses of light, then went quiet, two different rhythms slowly finding the same rest. Only one room stayed awake. Ray sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pulled up, the blue glow of his phone painting his face.
Across from him, Ryan's bed was empty, sheets still neat, headphones looped around the mic. Stand by the window. From somewhere down the corridor came the faint sound of a voice, Ryan still rehearsing, chasing a note only he could hear. Ray scrolled without direction, eyes tired but restless. Then his thumb stopped on one name. Jin. He hadn't opened that thread in weeks, but tonight, after
everything, Shuns quiet triumph. The laughter around the table, the way Ryan had looked at him across the light, The silence suddenly felt too sharp. He stared at the empty chat, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for him to breathe. First he typed, erased, typed again. And then, without thinking too hard, he let the truth come out.
He told Jin he'd been thinking about him, that the days were long, the stages brighter but somehow lonelier, and finally, almost to himself, he admitted it, that he missed their time together. He hit send before he could change his mind. The screen stayed still for a moment, then lit again. Incoming call. Jim Ray froze, the sound was too loud in the small room. His hand hovered over the screen, the glow trembling across his face. Then the door opened. Ryan stepped in. You're still up.
Ray looked up, startled. The phone buzzed again in his hand. He slipped it under the blanket before the sound could give him away. Yeah, he said quietly. Couldn't sleep. Ryan smiled, tired but kind. Big day tomorrow. Try to rest. He hung his towel by the chair and turned off the main light. The room sank in the blue shadow under the covers. The phone still glowed faintly, Jin's name flashing once, twice, then fading.
The last vibration lingered against Ray's palm, like a heartbeat that didn't want to stop. SNWB. Morning came faster than anyone wanted. The dorm was a storm of zippers and jackets, hair still damp from rushed showers, sneakers squeaking against the floor as each boy made his own final choice. Kean checked the mirror twice before stepping out. Survival look. He muttered, half to himself, half to Shun, trailing behind with a jacket he hadn't even unfolded yet.
Shun tugged it on awkwardly, fingers fumbling at the sleeves. Kian reached over without a word, straightening the collar, then smirked. Mac, nay, center, don't forget it. Ray emerged last, sunglasses in place, stride easy, as if he had rehearsed this walk. Ryan was already waiting by the door, steady as ever, his quiet presence grounding the whirlwind around them. The van pulled up the moment the doors slid open.
The sound hit them, Deafening screams, fans pressed against barriers, chance that carried their names and waves. Phones lifted like 1000 stars, every flash burning their faces into memory. Security pushed them forward. They bowed, smiled, raised careful hands and greeting. Sean clutched his bag tighter, his step small at 1st until Kia nudged him with an elbow. Own it, he whispered, and Sean did, lifting his head, waving with a shy grin that only made
the crowd louder. Inside the terminal, the noise didn't fade. It echoed. Signs were raised, hand painted banners declaring love in Korean, English, Japanese. The energy was chaos, but not hostile. It was heartbeat, collective and alive. Then, at the top of the escalator, they froze. A billboard stretched across the concourse wall, their faces larger than life, being down, wearing the sneakers from the shoot, old letter stamped beneath. Run the beat.
Send WB. The crowd screamed even louder, fans pointing, crying, chanting their name. The boys stood together, heads tilted back, the site holding them for longer than it should. For a moment, loss and rivalry didn't matter. For a moment, they looked like they belonged here. Ryan moved first, pulling them forward. Check in security boarding gates. The rituals blurred, each step louder inside their heads than outside, and the doors closed
behind them. On the night Obsidian claimed the stage, SNWB walked into silence, 2nd place heavy in their hands. But silence was never the end. Ray carried his burden with a smile that never cracked, even when the weight pulled deeper. Ryan gave more than anyone asked, his sacrifice hidden beneath steadiness. Peon burned restless, fire spilling out faster than he could contain and Shun. Innocent, uncertain, stepped forward into a spotlight that had already chosen him.
The world outside shouted louder than their loss. Fans filled the night with light, banners and belief. Even when the scoreboard slipped away, their pulse remained. And then came the call. Japan. A stage across the sea. A chance none of them expected, and one that would begin to change everything. Together, they walked through gates they had never crossed before. Success was theirs, but so were the secrets they carried, the sparks they tried to hide, the
fractures no one had yet seen. Season 1 had ended, but for SNWB, the story was only beginning. Thanks for listening to season 1 of We Are SNWB. It's been incredible bringing their world to life, from the practice rooms to the stage and every heartbeat in between. Their stories will continue next year as I work on their next story arc, so stay tuned. In the meantime, if you have any ideas or want the story to go in a certain direction, let me know
in the comments below. Your thoughts always shape how their world grows. Don't forget to subscribe, like, and follow so you don't miss the next chapter. And while you wait, SNWB's new song, Reaching Your Heart is out now. Find the link in the description and I hope you enjoy the music.