[EMY]
I shook my head violently. No. This wasn't the time for self-pity. This wasn't the time to cry into my bangs like a tragic heroine.
There was still a chance.
I straightened my back, wiped my face, and forced a grin. "Who cares if no one's here? We don't really need a live audience anyway."
The boys looked at me, confused.
"All we need . . ." I grabbed the armful of tripods and cameras like a paranoid squirrel, ". . . are these."
Kai cocked his head, suspicion written all over his face. "Wait . . . are you seriously—"
"Telling us to go out there and perform?" Lance cut in flatly, like he couldn't decide if I was insane or just criminally optimistic.
I nodded so hard my neck nearly snapped. "Exactly! We've got the stage, the lights, the instruments. Rain or shine, it's still a debut if we make it one!"
Silence dropped heavy across the tent. The rain hammered harder on the canvas roof, thunder punctuating my insanity like a cosmic laugh track.
The boys exchanged looks.
Kai raised his eyebrows at Eric, who pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ren folded his arms, his stoic face screaming I want to disappear into the rain.
Lance's jaw tightened like he was about to scold me for the hundredth time.
And then Eric, the responsible one, the guy who usually vetoed anything remotely stupid—stood up. His face was grim at first, but then he cracked a smile so strained it could've been glued on.
"Well . . . what the heck," he said, exhaling like a man signing his own death warrant. "We're here now anyway. Let's just do it."
The tent went still, as if even the rain paused to eavesdrop.
"Wait—seriously?" Kai blinked.
"Seriously," Eric said, rolling his shoulders back. "If we bomb, at least we'll bomb together."
Lance muttered under his breath, "This is insane," but he was already reaching for his mic.
Ren sighed the sigh of someone spiritually eighty years old. "If I catch pneumonia from this, I'm haunting all of you."
And just like that, my boys—my ridiculous, stubborn, brave boys—followed their leader out into the storm.
The moment they stepped out from under the tent, the rain came down like a curtain on opening night. Water slicked their hair, clung to their clothes, made every movement twice as dramatic.
My heart thudded in my chest as I scrambled with the cameras. This wasn't just a performance. This was madness turned into magic.
And I knew—whether the world was ready or not—AUREA was about to debut.
The first strum cut through the storm like lightning splitting the night.
Eric stepped forward, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered against his forehead, shirt clinging to him in a way that made him look less like a novice and more like a rock god birthed from the rain.
He lifted the mic, and when his voice broke out—low, raw, trembling but strong—it was like the thunder itself paused to listen.
People froze. Commuters running for cover stopped mid-step, umbrellas sagging. A vendor dropped his plastic bag of roasted chestnuts.
Even the rain seemed to hesitate, softening just enough for his voice to carry.
Eric's voice didn't just sing—it reached. It stretched invisible hands and curled them around hearts, dragging strangers into his orbit.
It was pain, hope, defiance—all tangled together—and everyone who heard it suddenly realized they had been waiting for this sound without ever knowing it.
Then the beat dropped.
Ren, steady behind his drenched drum set, struck hard, water spraying from every hit. His rhythm was a war drum, each beat pounding like a call to arms.
He wasn't just playing; he was carving out the storm's heart and bending it to their will. His stoic face was unreadable, but his arms were fire, every strike echoing with barely leashed power. His deep voice added enough transition and beat.
Kai's guitar entered next, his fingers flying, every chord sharp as lightning. His voice followed, a little high, a little reckless, weaving perfectly with Eric's—two currents colliding, making sparks.
Lance's turn came, and when his smooth, gravelly tone cut into the harmony, I felt my chest cave in. His voice was rough, unpolished, raw emotion that didn't ask permission. It commanded.
He played like the guitar was an extension of himself, every note a confession he could never say aloud.
Three guitars, three voices, each one distinct, weaving around Eric's anchor until it became a storm-born symphony.
And I—I was the storm's cameraman.
My hands were flying, juggling feeds, switching angles, pushing the livestream out into the world. Every raindrop became a spotlight. Every soaked hair strand a halo. Every muscles was completely shot to perfection.
Every tremble of their voices magnified by the rain until it felt like the sky itself was their stage.
But I didn't stop there.
Billboards across the city flickered and then bloomed with their faces. Times Square, Shibuya Crossing, EDSA traffic jams—they were everywhere.
I hijacked radio stations; their song interrupted commercials and newscasts, flooding homes and taxis. Movie theaters paused mid-film, screens glitching to black before flaring with AUREA live. The whole world was forced to stop—and watch.
And oh, they did.
Crowds formed under bus stops and building awnings, necks craned, eyes wide. Social media exploded. Comments flew so fast I could barely keep up with the streams of "WHO ARE THEY??" and "I've never heard something like this".
The rain amplified everything—their beauty, their grit, their desperation. It washed them raw, stripped them down to the purest versions of themselves. No makeup. No glittering stage lights. Just four boys and their dream,
shouting against the storm.
When the chorus hit, Eric tilted his head back and sang like he was begging heaven itself to listen.
Lance leaned into his mic, hair dripping, veins in his neck standing out as his voice tore through the air.
Kai's laughter broke between lines, wild and alive.
Ren's drumsticks blurred, striking so hard his cymbals rang like church bells in the downpour.
It wasn't perfect. It was better. It was real.
And standing there, soaked and trembling with my cameras in both hands, I realized—I wasn't just recording a performance.
I was watching history being born.