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 boy sat in a row, water bottles untouched, make up, Hoff
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.
Qian 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 Shun 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.
Screens 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 midwave. 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 Shun 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've been given all night. 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, Kean's shoes abandoned by the door as
if he'd collapsed straight in the bed.
Shun padded barefoot into the living room, phone in hand.
The file from the manager blinked at 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 track 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. 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 other 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. Shun'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.
SNWB. The hallway outside the meeting
room was quiet when Shun 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 Key. And 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.
Gembarimasu, 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. Jin 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. Kean 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 steps 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, beamed down, wearing the sneakers from the
chute, bold 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. Pian 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 walk 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.