The mirrors in the practice room reflected nothing but effort and exhaustion. ECLYPSE had been rehearsing all morning, muscles sore, breaths sharp, choreography drilled into their bones. Every step, every turn, every formation had to be perfect for the upcoming comeback. There was no room for mistakes.
Raze wiped sweat from his face, glancing at Zenith, who was focused as ever, eyes locked on the mirror. The air was tense, thick with anticipation.
The music cut abruptly, and everyone froze.
Velric stood at the doorway. No fanfare, no yelling—just presence. The room felt instantly colder.
"That's enough for now," he said calmly. "Take five."
No one moved.
"I won't repeat myself," Velric continued, his gaze sweeping across the members. "This comeback is important. Expectations are higher. Discipline, focus, and zero distractions. Fail any of these, and you'll regret it."
Raze's jaw tightened. He didn't like the threat hiding in calm words, but he said nothing. Zenith, as always, remained unreadable, though the sharpness in his eyes betrayed him.
When Velric left, the silence lingered like smoke.
Meanwhile, outside the company building, Draven leaned against the wall. He wasn't part of ECLYPSE. He didn't rehearse. He didn't belong in the practice room. His role was simple: protect Aiven, stay in the shadows, and intervene only if necessary.
His phone buzzed. A message from Velric.
"Come upstairs."
Five minutes later, Draven stood outside Velric's office. The CEO didn't invite him to sit.
"You've been seen with Aiven Hale," Velric began, flipping through his tablet. "And I've noticed certain… patterns of attention."
Draven's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I protect him. That's all."
Velric hummed, unfazed. "Protection becomes a problem when it draws unnecessary attention. And attention is what makes or breaks careers in this industry."
Draven clenched his fists. "I won't endanger him."
"You already are," Velric said lightly, scrolling through photos. "Fans have eyes everywhere. People jump to conclusions."
Draven saw one: a blurry photo of someone leaving Zenith's house. His chest tightened. "Zenith's fans?"
"Yes," Velric said. "They assume too much. But assumptions become narratives. And narratives become a problem. Watch carefully. That is your job as well."
Draven's voice was sharp. "I protect him, not manipulate his life. You won't touch Aiven."
Velric tilted his head, smiling thinly. "I don't need to touch him to control the outcome."
Back at the café, Aiven noticed the tension the moment Draven arrived. He didn't have to ask.
Draven's eyes were dark, alert. "Velric is pushing," he said quietly.
Aiven's stomach sank. "About Zenith?"
"No," Draven replied firmly. "About you. About me. About staying visible."
Aiven frowned. "He can't just… control our lives."
Draven shook his head. "He already is. We just have to stay smart. Calm. Together."
Aiven's hand found Draven's briefly. "I won't hide."
Draven's lips pressed into a thin line. "You shouldn't have to."
That night at the dorm, Raze paced the living room, hands clenched.
"They're circling," he muttered.
Zenith leaned against the counter. "Velric always escalates. Company pressure. Fans. Fear. He's pushing limits to see who snaps first."
Raze stopped pacing. "We don't let him isolate anyone."
Draven, standing quietly by the door, added, "He wants fear. Silence. Distance. He wants mistakes. We don't give him any."
Raze nodded. "Exactly. We stay together. No one faces this alone."
Velric, somewhere far away, monitored the numbers climbing: mentions, searches, speculation. But the real storm hadn't even begun.
The night was quiet, but all three knew: this pressure would not stop until someone broke—or until they proved they couldn't.