As the feedback segment began, the audience was still on their feet, refusing to sit down after the joint slayage they had just witnessed. Center stage, the Kweens stood shoulder to shoulder—breathing hard, sweat glistening, makeup intact, eyes still burning with fire.
They looked fierce.
Tuesday, unfortunately, was temporarily out of commission—still clutching her chest, emotionally flattened—so for once, Foca spoke first.
"The Kweens," he began, clapping steadily, nodding with unmistakable approval. "Living up to your name. That was an outstanding performance."
The applause swelled again.
"And this might surprise some of you," he continued, pausing just long enough, "but yes—I also made this song."
The audience gasped in perfect unison.
By now, everyone knew Foca was an exceptional lyricist, composer, and producer. But this genre? Ballroom-infused, high-camp, unapologetically queer pop? It felt completely out of left field—and yet here he was, proving once again that his artistry had no damn limits.
"Tuesday actually inspired it," Foca said with a grin. "She kept unknowingly chanting 'life in pink, pink, pink' over and over. Turns out it was from a commercial stuck in her head. I brought it up to her, we talked it through, and—voilà."
The crowd laughed.
"Leaving the song mostly bare was intentional," he continued. "So you could fill it with your voices, your truth. And you didn't just fill it—you shouted it for the world to hear. Congratulations. You embodied everything this song was meant to be."
The Kweens clutched each other's hands.
Then Luca stepped forward.
"Bringing out your fellow trainees was a genius move," he said calmly, already anticipating the discourse. "Nowhere in the rules did it say you couldn't ask for help—or share the stage."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the venue.
"What truly moved me," Luca continued, "was your camaraderie. Yes, this is a competition. But you still chose to lift each other up and create something bigger than yourselves. That kind of unity? That's what real artists do."
He finished by standing, offering them a full, unrestrained standing ovation.
And finally—it was Tuesday's turn.
She hadn't even spoken yet, and her eyes were already glassy.
"Kweens," she said, voice trembling, "well done."
She took a breath.
"You showed the world exactly who you are—without shame, without apology. You proved that you are not 'too gay' to be in a pop group. You represented your culture, your community, and showed younger kids watching that if you can do this… so can they."
The Kweens were crying now, carefully dabbing tears away, protecting lashes, liner, and legacy.
"I loved how you just did your thing," Tuesday continued, smiling through tears. "That was tens across the board. You slayed. You ate. You left no crumbs. Keep werking—because you served. Period."
And with that, the Kweens exited the stage.
They didn't just leave applause behind.
They left a legacy.
Of course, not everyone was celebrating.
Online? The comments were a battlefield.
@Conservationist: I can't believe they aired this on television. There are CHILDREN watching. This kind of vulgarity should not be celebrated. I'm so disappointed 😡
→ @Yoyo: Babe, no one forced you to watch. There was a giant PG-16 disclaimer at the start. Maybe log off and unclench.
@ALPHA_MALE6969: Y'all cooked parading this gay shit. Fucking gayyyyy 😂
@incelsUnite: (a predictable flood of homophobic garbage, exactly as expected)
@IdolPurist: This homo stuff doesn't belong in the idol industry. Get it out!
→ @Gilgamesh: Or how about you get out? You're not welcome here, asshole.
And just like that—the internet war began.
But the Kweens?
They weren't reading comments.
They weren't arguing online.
They were still backstage—heels kicked off, arms around each other, hearts full—basking in the afterglow of a performance that shook the room, rattled the industry, and made damn sure the world knew:
They were here. And they weren't going anywhere.
****
After a short break, the show returned with its next featured group—this time highlighting Nikola, Isaac, Leo, and a trainee who had spent most of the competition hovering right in the middle of the pack.
Nox.
Unmistakably Greek. Striking in a quiet, classical way. Kind almost to a fault. Handsome, charming—yet strangely overlooked.
Nox had been flying under the radar since day one. Not because he lacked talent—far from it. His voice was strong and controlled, his dancing precise, his lyricism thoughtful and emotionally grounded. On paper, he had everything.
And yet… he was always there.
Never falling behind.
Never surging ahead.
The reason?
Nox possessed an almost supernatural ability to blend in.
He was a chameleon—so seamless, so adaptable, that he often disappeared into the background. He didn't demand attention. He didn't steal the spotlight. He supported it. And in an industry that rewards loud brilliance, that kind of quiet strength often went unnoticed.
Day-one viewers of LEAVEN even joked that Nox was cursed.
"Born to shine, forced to blend into the background."
His small but fiercely loyal fandom had been frustrated for weeks, watching him get buried beneath bigger personalities, louder performers, flashier moments.
But where others saw a curse…
Foca saw a blessing.
A rare one.
Because the ability to blend in—to stabilize, to adapt, to reinforce without ego—is what makes someone the foundation of a group. The part you don't always see, but the one that keeps the entire structure from collapsing.
And Nox had proven this again and again.
During the second evaluations, when a teammate lost breath mid–high note—Nox caught it without hesitation.
In the third evaluations, when another teammate forgot their lyrics—Nox stepped in, word-perfect, even though it wasn't his part.
In the fourth evaluations, when someone nearly slipped onstage—Nox was already there, steadying them before disaster could strike.
Always present.
Always aware.
Always holding things together.
Nox was the definition of a strong foundation—quiet, hidden, but absolutely essential.
And Foca had noticed. He always had.
That was why he placed Nox with Nikola, Isaac, and Leo—three of among the strongest, most consistent top-performing trainees in the competition.
With them, Nox wouldn't need to support.
He wouldn't need to save anyone.
He wouldn't need to disappear to hold others up.
For the first time, the foundation didn't need to carry the weight.
And that begged the question—
If Nox was already exceptional in the background…
What would happen when nothing was holding him back anymore?