Eclipse had exactly four weeks until their official debut stage.
Twenty-eight days.
That was both everything and nothing.
The schedule was brutal—daily rehearsals, vocal coaching, choreography refinement, media training, group therapy, and script reads for upcoming variety show segments. Their lives now existed in timed blocks: 06:00 wake-up, 07:30 breakfast, 08:00 dance room. The clocks ruled them. The mirrors judged them. The floor never stopped burning beneath their sneakers.
But the worst part?
The pressure wasn't coming from the company anymore.
It was coming from each other.
Their rehearsal studio was hot with tension.
Minhee stumbled during the foot sweep in the second chorus. Again.
"Focus," Seojun snapped, towel hanging off his shoulder like a battle flag. "You're always two counts late in that section."
"I'm not late, you're early," Minhee shot back, breathless. "Stop rushing the turn and maybe—"
"Guys," Haru interrupted, voice firm but low. "We don't have time for this."
Shiro whistled from the side. "Oh wow. Haru just parented."
Riki said nothing but threw Minhee a bottle of water, his quiet way of saying take a second.
Minju floated upside down near the air conditioner, eyebrows raised. "If this is what teamwork looks like, I'm haunting someone else."
That evening, they were called in for a team review meeting with Yoon Haejin.
Her office was ice-cold and spotless. She didn't offer them water. She didn't ask how they were.
She just clicked her tablet and said, "We need to talk about your center."
Five heads lifted in near-synchronized dread.
Yoon Haejin continued, "Your stage presence is unbalanced. The camera doesn't know where to land. Eclipse doesn't have a visual anchor yet."
The air stilled.
"Originally, the position was going to rotate. But after reviewing footage... we're considering assigning it permanently."
Haru's stomach dropped.
He wasn't sure why.
He didn't want center.
But still—some part of him clenched.
"Who?" Seojun asked.
Yoon Haejin looked up. "That's what we're here to decide."
They each had to re-audition the next day.
Not for a new song. Not for lines.
Just for presence.
They performed the debut track "Eclipse" again, each taking the center spotlight one at a time, while the rest blended into the background.
Minhee delivered his usual energetic flair — charming, effortless, a natural crowd magnet.
Riki's style was cool and minimal, his sharp gaze doing half the work before he even moved.
Shiro... surprisingly toned it down. Still confident, but without the usual chaos. He looked directly into the camera, expression clean and powerful.
Seojun was precision itself. Every movement exact. But Haru noticed something — for all his skill, there was something rigid there. Like he was protecting himself.
Then it was Haru's turn.
He didn't think. He didn't try to "perform."
He just stepped into the center and remembered that quiet moment in the dorm mirror, the words he had written weeks ago:
"I'll carry your story to the stage."
The music started. And he moved.
Not like the center.
Just like someone who had something to say.
The results came in that night.
They were gathered in the main training hall, seated cross-legged on the floor like students awaiting test scores.
Yoon Haejin stood before them.
"The permanent center," she announced, "is Haru."
No applause.
Just silence.
Even Haru didn't react at first.
Minhee blinked. "Wait, really?"
Shiro raised both eyebrows. "Not me? I'm offended."
Riki looked over at Haru but said nothing.
Seojun didn't speak. His gaze dropped slightly — not bitter, just unreadable.
Yoon Haejin continued, "This isn't about the most skilled or the most dramatic. It's about gravity. The camera follows the one who doesn't chase it. And in every take — Haru was the one we kept coming back to."
Haru sat still.
He didn't know how to feel.
Minju floated down beside him later, whispering, "How does it feel to be the center of gravity?"
"Terrifying," he muttered.
"Good. That means you care."
That night, he stepped onto the dorm balcony alone, hoodie zipped up, breath curling in the cold air.
Shiro joined him after a minute.
"I thought I had it," Shiro said lightly. "Not mad, though."
Haru glanced at him. "You're really okay?"
"Yeah. I shine wherever I stand. But you? You're not trying to shine. That's why you do."
Then, after a pause:
"Don't waste it."
Haru nodded slowly. "I won't."
Inside, Minju watched from the hallway, arms folded, quiet for once.
She smiled.
Not because Haru had won something.
But because—for the first time—he wasn't running from it.
Outside, the moon was a perfect half-circle.
Not full.
Not gone.
Just becoming.
Like all of them.
Like Eclipse.