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.