The change didn't happen overnight—but when it did, it was impossible to ignore.
At first, it was subtle.
An email from a fashion brand requesting Sakura's attendance at a small showcase. Then another, asking OG to appear together for a photoshoot. Stylists began calling again. Makeup artists who once stopped replying suddenly found time in their schedules.
"Is this… real?" Hana asked one morning, staring at her phone in disbelief.
Yuki refreshed her inbox twice. "Three requests. Three. In one day."
Kairi laughed, a sound that felt unfamiliar after months of heaviness. "I think the world remembered us."
The first fashion show was modest—no grand headlines, no flashing cameras lining the streets. But when OG arrived, something shifted. Whispers spread through the venue.
"That's OG, right?"
"They look different."
"They're glowing."
Sakura walked the runway with quiet confidence—not the desperate kind she once feared she'd need, but something steadier. Experience. Survival. Strength shaped by loss.
Photos from that night spread quickly.
OG's Sakura stuns at fashion showcase.
Is OG making a comeback in fashion?
Soon, it wasn't just Sakura.
Aiko was invited for a high-fashion editorial, praised for her elegance and calm presence. Hana's visuals and soft aura caught the attention of beauty brands. Yuki's sharp style made her a favorite for streetwear campaigns. Kairi's expressive eyes landed her solo pictorials that sold out magazines within days.
Photoshoots followed one after another.
The girls stood in front of cameras again—not as rookies chasing validation, not as idols clinging to relevance—but as artists who had endured.
Between takes, they laughed like they used to.
"I forgot how tiring this is," Yuki groaned, stretching her arms.
"But it's a good tired," Hana replied, smiling.
Backstage mirrors reflected versions of themselves they hadn't seen in a long time—confident, hopeful, alive.
Fashion houses began requesting OG as a group.
Runway appearances turned into brand ambassadorships. Their names reappeared on billboards, not just as idols, but as muses. Designers praised their chemistry, their story, their authenticity.
"OG represents resilience," one creative director said in an interview. "They're not just beautiful—they're real."
Public opinion shifted.
Articles no longer spoke of flops and falls, but of comebacks and quiet strength. Fans returned—some old, some new—drawn not only by music, but by the story of five girls who refused to disappear.
Their social media numbers climbed again.
Not explosively.
But steadily.
Healthily.
At night, back in their apartment, the girls sat together on the couch, phones lighting up with notifications they once feared would never come back.
"We're really here again," Kairi said softly.
Aiko nodded. "But this time… it feels different."
Sakura understood what she meant.
This fame didn't feel like borrowed light. It felt earned.
She stood by the window later that night, city lights reflecting in her eyes. Somewhere out there, people were watching again. Cheering again.
And somewhere else—far removed from runways and spotlights—someone watched with a different kind of devotion.
Koharu sat in her office, fashion articles spread across her tablet. Every headline mentioning OG made her smile.
"See?" she murmured. "You belong there."
Her secretary stood nearby, silent, careful not to comment.
On the screen, Sakura posed for a luxury brand—confident, radiant, untouchable.
Koharu's fingers hovered over the image, stopping just short of the glass.
OG was famous again.
Stronger than before.
And as the world welcomed them back with open arms, one truth remained hidden beneath the applause:
This rise, like the fall before it, was being watched very closely.
And not all admiration was harmless.