Rain hits the windows of TNG's high-rise apartment in Seoul. It hasn't stopped since they left the Refrain Vault. Not normal rain—it hums faintly, like static. Like a distorted beat trying to sync.
No one sleeps. Sae watches the message glow and fade over and over again:
"The Composer wants the final performance."
None of them know who the Composer is—not truly. But Luna says she felt it when they sang the True Note. A presence behind the music. Behind Glo. Watching. Waiting.
Minji finally speaks, voice quiet but firm.
"It's not a person. It's a force. It's what created the light in the first place… and now it wants it back."
Zaya clenches her jaw. "Then let's give it something to listen to."
They're invited—no, summoned—to a private concert held at a place called Stage Zero. It's not listed on maps, not online, not even on GPS. But their steps guide them straight to it. An abandoned stadium in the middle of nowhere, where every seat is filled with shadows shaped like people. Silent. Watching.
A grand piano sits center stage, untouched. The air smells like cold metal and old vinyl.
As the girls step onto the stage, lights flicker. The shadows begin to move. The Composer arrives, not as a body, but as a voice—low, melodic, distorted like a record in reverse.
"You took what was meant to be one. You scattered Glo across five hearts. Now you will give it back."
The shadows rush forward. For the first time, TNG sings without a microphone, without backup dancers, without lights—just their voices.
But the Composer doesn't want performance. It wants surrender.
It pulls at them—rips into Rin's memories, replays Zaya's worst fears, floods Minji with guilt, silences Sae's thoughts, and tries to steal Luna's light entirely.
And then—Luna smiles.
Because she realizes something.
The Composer isn't angry because they broke something.
It's angry because they redefined it.
They didn't just borrow Glo's light…
They evolved it. Multiplied it. Transformed it.
TNG sings their most personal, raw song yet. Unwritten. Unrehearsed. It's not about demons, or fear, or power.
It's about who they are when the music fades.
They don't blend. They don't harmonize perfectly. But their voices are real. And for the first time, the Composer hesitates.
Luna steps forward. "You gave us this light. You don't get to take it back just because we shine differently."
The Composer lets out one final, thunderous note—then collapses inward, disappearing in a spiral of sound.
The shadows vanish. The stadium empties. And the sky clears.
For the first time in weeks, the city hears silence. Peaceful silence.
TNG walks off the stage—not as survivors, not as replacements, but as creators of their own story.
They don't need to prove themselves anymore.
They are The New Glo.
And their next comeback?
Will be nothing anyone expects.