The day of the first broadcast came faster than anyone expected.
Posters had gone up in the trainee dorms. Camera equipment became a daily part of their lives, trailing behind them during rehearsals, meals, and interviews. Haru could hardly walk ten steps without a lens turning toward him. The reality of it all hadn't truly sunk in until he saw his own nervous face on a promotional teaser clip airing in the trainee lounge.
"This is insane," Daiki muttered through a mouthful of rice as they watched the screen. "That's me. I'm on a screen. I look amazing."
Jin rolled his eyes. "It's not even the full episode."
"But look at that lighting!" Daiki gestured at his own image, glowing under the studio spotlight. "I look like a god."
Ren grinned and leaned toward Haru. "You're in that shot too. When you hit that spin in 'Start Line'—boom. Instant bias material."
Haru's smile twitched. "I tripped right after that spin."
"Exactly. Relatable and cute. You even did a little hop to save it, they call you bunny boy now."
Haru groaned, pressing his hands over his face. "Don't call me that."
"Too late," Daiki said, already typing something on his phone. "Hashtag #Bunnyboy is about to trend."
Rehearsals for the show's performance segment had intensified. Their group—Haru, Ren, Daiki, Jin, and two other trainees from another dorm—had been assigned to perform "Start Line" in the first broadcast. It was a chance to be seen. A chance to be remembered.
And Haru could feel the weight of it in every breath.
They practiced for hours, tightening formations, tweaking vocals, adjusting spacing for the stage cameras. Mizuki had gone from strict to ruthless, and Aoki… Aoki had been present at nearly every session.
He didn't say much at first—just observed, always watching from the sidelines with his clipboard and unreadable expression. But slowly, his role shifted. He gave more notes. More guidance. And every time Haru stumbled or faltered, Aoki was there.
"Breathe into it, not over it," Aoki told him during one late-night vocal rehearsal, gesturing with his hand like he could shape the air. "Let the note carry. Don't force it."
Haru tried again, closing his eyes. This time, the note rang clearer, steadier.
When he opened his eyes, Aoki was looking at him. And there was something in his gaze—soft but sharp, like moonlight against water.
Haru smiled. "Like that?"
Aoki didn't answer right away. Then he looked away and gave a small nod. "Yeah. Just like that."
What Aoki didn't say—what he couldn't say—was that Haru was starting to haunt him.
It wasn't just the way Haru sang, or how he threw himself into every rehearsal like he had something to prove. It was how he looked up with wide, trusting eyes whenever Aoki corrected him. How he thanked him every time, even when he was tired to the point of collapse. How he smiled like the world hadn't already bruised him.
Aoki had told himself he was just watching over the trainees. That was his job. Nothing more.
But the line had blurred somewhere along the way.
And now, when Haru laughed, it hit Aoki like a chord in a forgotten song.
On the morning of the broadcast, Haru woke up early.
Shiro was already up, sitting on the edge of his bed, lacing his shoes with his usual precision. But he didn't ignore Haru this time.
"You're on the first team today," Shiro said without looking over.
"Yeah," Haru replied, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Shiro stood, adjusting his collar. "You'll do fine. Just don't get ahead of yourself."
Haru blinked. "Was that… encouragement?"
Shiro scowled faintly. "No. It's a warning."
But his tone lacked its usual edge.
Haru smiled sleepily. "Thanks, Shiro."
Shiro made a noncommittal sound and left the room, but the door didn't slam this time.
***
The recording studio was bigger than Haru imagined.
Blinding lights. Tall cameras. Rows of staff and producers whispering into headsets. Everything buzzed with energy. The other trainees looked just as awed, and just as nervous.
Daiki nudged Haru with his elbow. "Hey. Bunny boy. Don't freeze on camera."
"I swear, I'll throw a carrot at you," Haru muttered.
"See, that's exactly the kind of content your fans want."
Ren joined them, adjusting his mic. "I peeked at the cue sheet. You've got a center part in the second chorus, Haru."
Haru's eyes widened. "What?!"
"It's short. But it's center. Mizuki probably bumped you up after rehearsals."
Panic clawed at Haru's chest, but beneath it was something steadier: pride.
He'd worked for this.
And now, the lights were calling.