Falling for the Omega Idol-Chapter 134: START OF HANEUL AND HARU’S LITTLE PRACTICE SESSION

KIM Joonhyuk leaned forward, intrigued. "A different concept? Like changing the genre entirely?"

"In a way, yes," Taeyang answered.

Robin grinned, clearly liking the idea. "I’m down."

Park Seongwoo hesitated. "But... wouldn’t that make it harder? The judges might compare us to the standard version."

Haneul tilted his head. "Or it could work in our favor if we make it fresh. It will really all depend on the arrangement."

Especially if Taeyang handled the arrangement. Given his composing skills, Haneul had no doubt he’d elevate the song rather than ruin it.

Lee Minjae pushed back his chair with a scrape. "Since my input’s clearly not needed, I’ll go get food instead." He gave a mock salute. "Don’t wait up."

The table fell silent as he walked away. Taeyang didn’t even glance after him. "Then it’s settled. We’ll workshop ideas tomorrow—if anyone already has an arrangement in mind, think it through and suggest it then."

And that’s how their first group meeting ended. Technically alright, but also a bit of a disaster.

***

As Haneul walked to his cabin, he debated whether to ask Haru about starting their practice session that night. He worried the other might still be meeting with his group. Of course, he could try brainstorming song arrangements like Taeyang had suggested—but he doubted anything he came up with would surpass Taeyang’s ideas. Rather than agonizing over it and giving himself a headache, he decided his time would be better spent on something more practical.

He wasn’t like Lee Minjae, who took offense at others being more skilled. Unlike Minjae, Haneul had no problem letting Taeyang handle the song arrangements—not just because he recognized that Taeyang’s success would benefit the whole team, but because he honestly believed Taeyang would do a better job. Why resent that when it only worked in his favor? It was like having Taeyang carry him through a tough level in a game.

That wasn’t Haneul’s strong point anyway—his voice was. Given a good song, he was certain he could showcase that talent to its fullest.

Anyway, he didn’t have to agonize over practicing with Haru after all—before he’d even reached his cabin, a familiar voice called out from behind.

"Hyung!"

Haneul turned and saw Haru jogging towards him.

"Did your group finish your meeting?" Haru asked.

Haneul nodded. "Just wrapped up. Yours too?"

"Yeah," Haru replied. "Our leader suggested we call it a night and start fresh tomorrow."

Haneul hesitated, considering whether to suggest they practice now—but before he could speak, Haru brightened and cut in:

"Hyung, should we do a quick session tonight? Just to get started?"

Haneul’s lips curved into a smile. "Sure, let’s go."

***

Yeah, turn it up, now feel that vibe

No rules here—we run this life

Hey, hey, just let it go

Come on and ride the beat flow

Haneul listened as Haru began the intro of [Beat Flow]. Haneul chose this song for the other since this was the song Haru’s group would be singing in the next vocal mission.

They’d already settled into a practice room, and Haneul had suggested Haru start first since he probably needed the practice more urgently.

Step in the zone, we ain’t here to play

We make noise, light it up our way

Bass so loud, hearts start to race

We on fire, feel the heat in the place

Mic check, 1-2, let’s break that silence

We go hard, no need for guidance

Heads up, now the mood’s electric

This ain’t calm, it’s chaotic and epic

As Haneul listened, his frown deepened with each bar Haru delivered. [Beat Flow] was supposed to be the perfect track for someone like Haru—a rap-heavy song where vocal ability mattered less than rhythm and attitude. Yet somehow, Haru was making even this sound strained.

His flow kept stuttering, his words tripping over the beat instead of riding it. The verses needed sharp, punchy delivery, but Haru was dragging the syllables, turning what should have been aggressive taunts into awkward mumbles. Even the simplest lines lost their impact when he tensed up before each phrase, his shoulders hunching as if bracing for criticism.

Worst of all was the hesitation—every pause felt uncertain, every entrance half a beat too late. The song demanded swagger, but Haru performed it like he was asking permission.

Haneul finally held up a hand. "You’re rushing the eighth-note rests between phrases," he said. "Breathe here and here"—he tapped the table sharply on beats 2 and 4—"or you’ll keep losing the groove. And articulate the consonants harder—you shouldn’t miss a single ’k’ or ’t’ sound in the chorus."

Haru took a deep breath and tried again, this time consciously pausing at the beats Haneul had indicated. His consonants came out sharper but his delivery still wavered, the aggression in the lyrics undercut by the hesitation in his voice. He glanced at Haneul mid-verse, shoulders tense, as if waiting for approval or correction.

The technical improvements were there, but the performance still lacked conviction—like he was mechanically following instructions rather than owning the song.

Haneul suppressed a quiet sigh. "Better," he said, "but you’re still holding back. Your diaphragm needs to engage before you start the line—not after."

He stood and demonstrated.

"Listen—the ’No rules here’ line needs that punch before the downbeat," he said, hand pressing against his own diaphragm. "Tighten here on ’rules’—" His abdomen flexed as he spat the word with sharp clarity, "—or your airflow staggers. And the ’we run this life’ part? Don’t let your voice drop at the end. It’s not a question—mean the arrogance."

Haru tried again, but the line ’we run this life’ still tilted upward like he was seeking approval.

Haneul shook his head. "You’re hitting the technique but missing the attitude. This song isn’t asking—it’s claiming. Try it like you’re spitting facts, not begging permission."

After a while, Haneul happened to check the clock and was surprised to find two hours had slipped by. Haru

’s voice had grown rough around the edges, his breathing heavier than when they’d started.