First Howling: ME — Under the Skin

First Howling: WE — Firework

First Howling: NOW — War Cry

There are stories that entertain, stories that impress, stories that momentarily occupy your mind. And then there are stories that enter you quietly, stay tucked between your ribs, and begin to live inside your chest. Stories that grow with you.

I never thought I would find that kind of story in a boy group.

When I first encountered &TEAM, I didn’t anticipate anything more than great songs and well-choreographed performances—maybe an interesting visual concept or high-production MVs to enjoy in passing. But what unfolded in front of me was something far deeper, far more emotionally sincere than I could have imagined. It was a universe, yes—but more importantly, it was a story stitched with grief, loneliness, survival, healing, and eventually, a kind of love that wasn’t romantic or aesthetic, but earned. It felt human. And it felt like it was made to be felt with your whole heart.

&TEAM’s beginning, known as The First Howling, was not a gentle introduction.

They didn’t debut with glitter or lightness. They debuted with grief.

They began with something brutal and heavy. This was a world where surviving wasn’t a dramatic metaphor, it was literal. This was a story about being hunted for existing. About hiding the most honest parts of yourself just to stay alive. About wanting, deeply, for someone to see you, and still stay.

Their webtoon, The Grey City, introduced us to this world through the eyes of Khan (K), a boy who was more scar tissue than hope by the time we met him. He was an orphan, saved at a very young age from a horrific life of torture. His escape was possible only because of a single act of kindness from two strangers—an old woman with her husband who saw him for what he was and didn’t look away. They took him in. They gave him something resembling peace. But even with this small light in his life, the town around him never accepted him. Rumors clung to his name like rot. They called him a devil. He was feared, alienated, blamed. And still, he endured it all—not because he believed he deserved it, but because he was grateful. Grateful for the chance to live. Grateful for the little family he had.

Then, everything changed. Four new characters—Giri, Najak, Tahel, and Enzy (Nicholas, Taki & EJ)—entered the town. They, too, were werewolves. They, too, were orphans, taken in by Giri after their families were murdered by vampires in a mass genocide meant to harvest werewolf blood for power. And suddenly, for the first time in Khan’s life, there were people who didn’t flinch at the sight of him. People who weren’t afraid. People who recognized him—not just as someone like them, but as someone they could choose to protect. And in that moment, something shifted.

This story was not just told through lore—it lived inside the music. And this is what made The First Howling trilogy so affecting: the songs didn’t just accompany the plot; they carried it. They expanded it. They gave it color, texture, feeling.

“Under the Skin”, the first title track in First Howling: ME, was the sound of each of their loneliness. It felt like holding your breath for too long. Tight, aching, almost unbearable. It captured the feeling of pretending every day, of hiding your truth just to stay safe, of shrinking yourself so you wouldn’t be feared. Beneath that restraint was the desperation—not only to stop pretending, not only to be seen for what you really are and still be loved, but also to find someone like you. Someone who would understand the parts you kept hidden. It was a longing not just to be accepted, but to connect. To not be alone in what you are.

Then came “Firework,” in First Howling: WE. The sound of discovery. Of recognition. This was when the boys began to sense each other’s presence. Not as strangers or faces in a crowd, but as something familiar. Not quite close yet, but connected in a way they couldn’t explain. It wasn’t about being a family already. It was that first flicker. The kind of pull that tells you you're not alone. “You and I, will never forget / That moment when our eyes met,” they sing — and it’s not about romance. It’s about resonance. A dormant instinct waking up. The start of a bond not yet spoken, but already felt.

And then, “War Cry”—the climax in First Howling: NOW. A war breaks out. The vampires discover the presence of werewolves in the town. And despite how the humans treated them, the boys decide to protect them anyway. They make a vow: not to run, not to hide, but to fight for the ones who cannot fight for themselves. In that battle, everything changes. Khan comes into his full identity, learning that he is not just a werewolf, but a descendant of the strongest lycanthropic line. But the cost is immense. His foster parents die. And worse—Giri, the alpha who brought the others together, who gave them a future, dies too. With his final breath, Giri turns to Khan and asks the impossible: “Could you lead the pack in my place?”

And just like that, the trilogy ends. Not with a happy ever after. But with a promise. A beginning forged in fire and grief. A pack, finally united. Not perfect. But something.

What struck me about this era—and what still hits—is how emotionally raw it was. It didn’t sugarcoat loss. It didn’t rush to fix it. It sat in it. And that sincerity, that willingness to go there, is what made me—and so many others—fall in love with this group. There was something deeply human in it. In the way these boys didn’t become a team because they wanted to, but because they had no one else. Found family at its most honest.

So when the First Howling era ended, we weren’t just saying goodbye to an era. We were sitting in the ashes of a war. We were holding onto the weight of loss, the rawness of grief, the uncertainty of what comes next. And the strange thing is, even though it was fiction—even though these were songs, performances, stylized visuals—it hurt. It hurt in a way that felt real. Because the emotional truths underneath it all were real. The loneliness. The longing. The desperate search for safety and belonging.  And that’s what made it hard… and beautiful.

And this is where I want to talk about The Grey City again—because looking back, it’s mind-blowing to consider how this story began.

The title alone—The Grey City—already sets a certain tone. Grey, muted, lifeless. And at first, the webtoon matched that completely. The setting was dull, the color scheme was washed out, and everything felt cold and distant. It looked exactly like what the name suggested: a place without warmth, without color, without connection.

But as the story unfolded, something shifted. As the boys found each other, as their relationships started to grow, and as love—real, chosen, hard-won love—began to bloom between them, the world of The Grey City began to feel completely different.

Despite its name, The Grey City became one of the warmest, most emotionally rich stories I’ve ever followed. It was painful and heavy, yes, but it was also full of care, hope, and the slow, difficult process of becoming a family.