Skz oneshotes (Requests Open)

Have You Earned Your Stripes?

Have You Earned Your Stripes?

The fluorescent lights of the training room buzzed overhead, harsh and unrelenting. Sweat clung to every inch of their bodies, mixing with the dust and the faint metallic smell of the studio floor. Eight young men, each carrying dreams bigger than their shoulders, moved in perfect synchronization, yet the tension between them was palpable.

"Again!" the producer barked from the observation deck. His shadow fell across the floor like a warning, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Perfection isn't optional. You'll get it right this time, or you're out!"

Minho groaned, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "Out? Seriously? It's like we're in boot camp."

Hyunjin shot him a sharp look, eyebrows raised. "That's the point, genius. Stop whining and move."

Han, usually quiet, stayed at the center of the formation, eyes trained on the mirror in front of them. Every misstep, every stagger, every dropped beat was amplified by the flashing cameras that recorded every move for the survival show. Failure wasn't just personal—it was public.

"Have you earned your stripes?" The question echoed in Han's mind, coming from the producer earlier that morning. It was meant as a challenge, a threat, and maybe a test. "Stripes" meant everything here: recognition, survival, a step closer to debut. But it also meant pain, sacrifice, and pushing beyond limits they didn't know they had.

Lee Know stumbled, catching himself mid-spin. "I... I missed the cue," he muttered, frustration lacing his voice.

"You've got one more chance," the producer said, voice calm but cold. "Then we start cutting time."

Felix bit his lip, fists clenched at his sides. He was tired, exhausted to the bone, but he refused to show it. The cameras didn't care about tiredness, only execution.

"Focus," Bang Chan snapped, stepping forward to adjust a formation. "We've survived this long because we move together. Don't let mistakes break us now."

It was ironic, really. Survival show. Eight of them against countless other trainees, each vying for a spot that seemed impossibly small. But somehow, amidst the exhaustion, the sweat, and the endless loops of choreography, they had survived. OT8. Together.

Seungmin's voice cracked as he tried to keep up with a particularly punishing combination. "I... I can't—"

"Can't isn't in this room," Han said firmly, cutting him off. "Either you move, or you fall behind. Your stripes don't wait for anyone."

The words stung. "Stripes." It wasn't a literal badge, but it was everything. Every late night, every blister, every missed meal, every tear that no one would see—they were fighting for recognition, for survival, for validation that they belonged.

The music restarted. A thunderous beat filled the room. Minho launched into the next section, spinning, jumping, his body aching but refusing to falter. Hyunjin followed, every movement sharp, precise, almost robotic. Han kept his rhythm with the metronome in his mind, eyes scanning for every lapse in coordination.

Felix caught Seungmin mid-step, silently guiding him back into formation. The unspoken bond between them was stronger than the fear that gripped the room. Survival wasn't just about skill—it was about trust. About leaning on each other when the weight of expectation threatened to crush them.

The producer leaned closer to the glass, expression unreadable. "Do you think you've earned your stripes yet?"

Bang Chan glanced at Han, who met his gaze with quiet determination. They didn't answer verbally. They didn't have to. The eight of them moved as one, sweat dripping, muscles screaming, every step a declaration: we survive, we endure, we fight.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes, time lost all meaning. Pain was constant, exhaustion inevitable. And yet, with every repetition, every corrected step, every synchronized motion, the stripes slowly etched themselves into their very being. They weren't just marks of survival—they were proof of who they were, who they could become.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the music ended. The room was silent except for ragged breathing and the quiet buzz of the lights. The producer remained behind the glass, watching. And then... he nodded. Just a slight tilt of the head, almost imperceptible, but enough.

"You've earned them," he said, voice low. "For now."

The words hit them all differently. Relief. Pride. Exhaustion. Fear of what came next. But above all, Han felt something deep inside him—a fire that refused to be extinguished. Stripes weren't just about surviving a show. They were about surviving themselves.

Outside, the cameras had stopped rolling. The other trainees had left, and for the first time in hours, OT8 was alone. They didn't speak at first, just sank to the floor, shoulders touching, hearts still racing.

Lee Know broke the silence with a small, exhausted laugh. "We... actually did it."

Hyunjin leaned back, closing his eyes. "We survived... together."

Han looked at each of them, all eight faces etched with fatigue and determination, and finally allowed himself to smile. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We earned our stripes."

It wasn't over. Not even close. The real battle—the debut, the world, the expectations—lay ahead. But for now, in that silent, fluorescent-lit room, they had earned their mark. They had proven to themselves, and to everyone watching, that they belonged.

And Han knew, as he stared at the reflection of the eight young men in the mirror, that no amount of fear, pain, or exhaustion could ever take that away. Not when they moved as one. Not when OT8 survived.