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 Shun's 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.
Follow the story, subscribe, and don't miss what happens next as
Ray, Ryan, PM, and Shun chase their first stage.
This is just the start. Stay tuned and join us on the
journey.