Serenade of the stars

The sun poured liquid gold over Seoul, baking the asphalt and cars, creating a languid heaviness. The air hummed with summer heat, but inside the Echo Studio, a cool, almost sacred atmosphere reigned before the storm. The steady hum of the air conditioner disrupted the peace, punctuated only by the rare echo of footsteps on the lacquered floor. Here, in this temple of choreography, the Saja Boys prepared for another conquest. Weibi broke the silence first, pushing a strand of snow-white hair from his forehead. With the precise elegance of a fencer—a graceful bend towards the water bottle, long, manicured fingers wrapping around the plastic—he drank slowly, with the dignity of a prince. He wore perfectly fitted black sweatpants and a loose white tank top with a silver unicorn print. Droplets traced his jawline, vanishing beneath the collar. The shadows beneath his high cheekbones seemed deeper than usual. — Hope the fangirls don't cause a crush at the exit today, — his voice, low and velvety, cut through the air. "Last time, Romance almost lost his 'masterpiece'. — He nodded towards Romance, indicating the notebook filled with drawings he tried to keep hidden. Romance, leaning against the mirrored wall, snorted. He began stretching his shoulder, one hand braced against the cool glass of the panoramic window. He wore a tight, acid-pink t-shirt matching his hair, under an unzipped black hoodie, and ripped grey joggers. His porcelain-pale skin seemed almost translucent under the bright spotlight. His usually mocking gaze turned momentarily empty and distant, focused inward on the past, but quickly snapped back as he observed the lazy city life below. — Art demands sacrifice, Weibi. Or have you forgotten why we're here? — He smirked, but there was no warmth in the smile. — Every soul snared in our net to this... beat... — he curled his lip contemptuously, — ...brings us closer to the goal. Though listening to it is torture for the ears. Abba, sitting on the floor in a deep split, merely grunted hoarsely. His powerful frame in blood-red sweatpants and a black muscle tank top with a deep waistline cutout seemed carved from stone. He stretched forward, touching his forehead to his knee, then arched back the other way. Grabbing his liter water bottle, he took several greedy gulps, water spilling down his strong neck. — Music's a tool, — rasped "Cube," wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. — Like my fabulous abs. The main thing is the hit lands." He winked into the void, presumably at invisible fangirls. — And ears... — he waved dismissively, — ...they'll close themselves to these huntresses' songs. Or we'll close them. A light, almost soundless chuckle came from the corner. Mystic slid across the floor in a series of smooth, wave-like motions, warming up his back. His white hair, tinged with lilac, was pulled into a messy ponytail, revealing a slender neck. He wore a dark blue tracksuit with abstract white lines. When he lifted his head to adjust his wristband, the light caught his eyes for a moment – utterly black, without whites, like two bottomless moonless nights. He caught a water bottle and deftly flicked it with the toe of his sneaker with crane-like grace. The bottle rolled to Jinu. Mystic took a tiny sip. — Words are a powerful tool, Abba, — Mystic whispered, his voice like the rustle of pages. — They coil in the ears, penetrate deeper than any blow. One wrong word in the chorus... and a soul might slip away. — He smiled charmingly, but none of his "friends" reacted, though the habit of stretching his lips was ingrained. Jinu, leaning against the barre, sighed. The leader looked tired, older than his perpetual twenty-something. A simple dark blue hoodie and black sweatpants were his usual uniform. He massaged his wrist; beneath the fabric, an ancient, sinister mark – the brand of Gwi-Ma – flared briefly and faded. He caught the others' reflections in the mirror: Weibi with his cold precision, Romance with his caustic vanity, Abba with his brute strength, Mystic with his quiet, frightening depth. — The end justifies the means, right? — he murmured, more to himself, looking at his reflection. — We play our roles, sing the songs... trap souls. Slaves to the system... — Bitterness tinged his voice, quickly smoothed over by his habitual mask of indifference. He pushed off the barre. — Alright, enough. Time to rehearse. Another 'hit' for our... devoted fans.— They gathered in the center of the hall as if commanded. A sunbeam piercing through the blinds fell on their figures, momentarily highlighting barely perceptible shadows beneath their skin, strange shifts in their eyes, signs struggling to break through—a reminder of who they were and what they had become. But it was fleeting. Silence shattered by rhythm. A sharp, insistent beat ripped through the studio from nowhere. They moved as one mechanism, each with their own flair. Weibi glided across the parquet with icy grace, every step, turn of the head, sweep of an arm calibrated to the millimeter and radiating devastating charisma. His snow-white hair flared like stars under the spotlights. Romance added caustic fluidity, his movements hitting the beat flawlessly, pink strands flashing like flame tongues over white porcelain. Abba poured raw, mountain-stream force into every heel strike or sharp torso twist, his abs playing beneath his tank top, his gaze focused and cunning. Mystic flowed between them like smoke, his undulating movements and head turns hypnotic, his white-lilac mane in its messy ponytail swaying to the rhythm. Jinu in the center set the pace, movements sharp, energetic, though deep in his dark eyes lay the familiar weariness. Sweat already silvered his temples, his breathing quickened. Mystic's voice, usually a whisper, now flowed cold and pure like a stream over the beat: "A sunbeam fading in the icy haze of night, Whispers the wind: 'Give me your soul...' You forget yourself, for now there's only me in sight, You vanish... Hush... Fly awaaay..." Mystic stumbled. Just a little, a microscopic flaw in his flawless glide. His eyes widened for a second, as if seeing something within, and his lips, stretched in his habitual stage smile, trembled. Those words, torn from an old poem about lost love and now hooks for souls, burned inside him. Jinu, catching that look in the mirror, merely clenched his jaw slightly. He understood all too well. How it hurt when your past became a weapon. But there was no pause – the dance swallowed the momentary weakness. Weibi, executing a complex pass with a turn, suddenly froze mid-step. His stunning forget-me-not-blue eyes slid over the mirror reflections, sharply focusing on a darkened corner of the hall untouched by the spotlights. There, in the cool shadow, the air began to ripple. Shapes appeared – indistinct, wavering, several of them. And a smell... A sickly-sweet odor of decay, mixed with the dust of ages, pierced through the scent of fresh polish and sweat. The music cut off at Jinu's signal. The dancers froze in their final pose, breath still rapid but now wary. Weibi, maintaining his elegant position, turned his head slightly towards the corner. His voice was quiet, carrying the weight of command: — You've shown yourselves. Speak. And be quick. The shadows drifted forward – clots of darkness draped in tattered wing-shadows, clawed paws, overly long arms ending in hooks. Eyes – yellow slits or empty sockets – glowed with unbearable hunger. One, slightly larger, with horns like splintered bone, lurched forward, creaking like rusted hinges: Prince... — the tone mixed terror and greedy reverence. Hunger... Long hunger. Earth... stretches. Souls... cling tight to light. We... have nothing to feed on... Darkness... Want to feed... It swallowed something invisible, making a gurgling sound. When... feast? Romance wrinkled his nose in disgust, looking away from the creatures. Abba merely clenched his fists; something familiar – a beastly understanding of hunger – flickered in his brown eyes. Mystic stood motionless, staring at the floor. Jinu stepped forward, between Weibi and the wretched shadows. The leader's weariness momentarily gave way to heavy, bitter responsibility. He saw himself in their insatiable void. We know, Jinu spoke evenly and firmly. Patience. Soon... the show. The fans will come. They will scream and love, fall in love, willingly give up their souls. Surrender to the rhythm. He paused, looking directly into the large demon's narrow yellow eyes. And then... the feast begins. We will feed you. Now leave. Don't disturb rehearsal. The shadows wavered, hissing something simultaneously grateful and horrifying. The air in the corner rippled again; they dissolved, taking the sickly stench with them. Thankfully, the air conditioner quickly pulled the smell away. The studio was clean, cool, sunny again. Only a faint shimmer in the air where they appeared and a heavy silence remained as reminders of the visit. Weibi smoothly straightened his shoulders, his face impassive, breaking the silence first, addressing the mirror as if speaking to his own reflection, laden with hidden ages: — They demand, hurry the fresh harvest, — he stated dispassionately. — Start from the beginning. We'll polish it to perfection. — His gaze swept over the others. — Let every sound, every gesture... lead them to the feast. No mistakes. — He almost felt a pang of desperate pain, but chains of sigils seemed to slide over his arms, calming his mind. Silently, they took their starting positions. The rhythm crashed out again, the mesmerizing dance began anew – just as flawless, just as enchanting. But now, a shadow lurked within their movements – not the one beneath the skin, but the heavy shadow of a promise to Gwi-Ma itself. And invisible chains chimed, binding not their bodies, but the souls of the long-dead who found no peace. Promises of a feast for hungry shadows. They rehearsed late into the night, until the dance became part of them.