The temple trembles as the Composer's final test begins.
The glowing orb at the center of the room cracks open, and five beams of ancient light surge toward TNG—one for each girl. But these aren't gifts. They're pieces of Glo's original burden, raw and unforgiving.
Each beam lashes out like a storm, trying to bend them into versions they never chose to be.
Zaya is dragged into a reality where her strength is absolute—she commands armies of light, but her soul is numb, empty from carrying the world alone.
Minji's light pulls her into a reality where she's everyone's obsession—worshipped, but caged, her fire no longer hers but owned by millions.
Sae is shown the perfect future, designed by her every calculation. No surprises. No chaos. No risk. But also… no joy.
Rin finds herself as the last mirror. She reflects the truth of every person—but forgets how to see herself.
Luna becomes a living cure. Anyone who touches her is healed—but she slowly turns transparent, forgotten by those she saves.
The Composer's voice rises, layered, echoing:
"Power demands sacrifice. Will you give up your light to preserve your identity… or give up your identity to preserve the world?"
Zaya screams through the illusion: "We didn't come here to be perfect. We came to be us!"
Their real voices push through. Not scripted. Not flawless.
Real.
One by one, they shatter the test—rejecting the forced realities and reclaiming their true selves.
They reunite at the center, hands reaching for one another.
The orb pulses violently.
The Composer hesitates, its form flickering.
"You… chose yourselves?"
Luna steps forward, her glow steady. "We chose truth. Even when it's messy. Even when it hurts."
TNG begins to sing—not a comeback song. Not a hit. Just a melody they created before they even debuted.
A song they never released.
One they wrote just for them.
It harmonizes with the core of the temple. The cracked orb closes. The golden glow floods outward. The Composer doesn't vanish. It bows.
"You've done what I could not. You held the light and your hearts."
As it dissolves into soundwaves, it leaves behind a whisper:
"Now finish the story."
The temple quiets.
The ground stops shaking.
But the skies above the world begin to shift.
Something even older than the Composer has awakened.
And it knows who TNG is now.
When the girls step out of the Temple of First Sound, the sky above Shirakawa is no longer blue.
It's glowing.
Gold. Red. Violet. Shades that don't belong to daylight or sunset. The clouds swirl in slow motion, like breath being held across the world. Something is watching. And it's not the Composer.
Back in Seoul, screens flicker with strange static. Music apps freeze. Billboards stop mid-song. All across the globe, sound begins to break.
People call it the Quietening.
Then it speaks—no words, no voice, just emotion pressed into every heart.
"I am the One Before the First Note."
TNG feels it immediately. This isn't a demon, a reflection, or an echo.
This is the source.
The primordial silence before anything was ever sung.
The force that created Glo's light in the beginning... and could end all sound forever.
Sae reads the energy spike across global systems. It's everywhere and nowhere. It doesn't attack. It listens.
And then it gives a message, written in light on the side of TNG's studio building:
> "One more song.
One final performance.
If it fails, sound ends."
It's not just a test of power anymore.
It's a test of meaning.
Zaya stares at the skyline. "If this is the end… we're going out singing."
They spend the next few days writing their most important track. Not a performance. Not a production. A farewell, if needed. A declaration. A prayer.
They call it "Final Verse."
Every lyric is pulled from their journey—fighting demons, falling apart, rising again, losing fans, finding each other.
Minji writes the chorus in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes.
Rin adds harmonies from voice memos she never let anyone hear.
Sae arranges the composition with heartbeats instead of drums.
Zaya lays down her rap in one take, her voice cracking, raw and defiant.
Luna's verse is just a whisper:
"I am not light because you see me.
I am light because I survived."
The performance is set.
No cameras. No audience. Just an open rooftop beneath the glowing sky.
They stand in a circle.
Hands locked.
They begin to sing.
And the world listens.