The downfall didn't come loudly.
It came quietly, wrapped in empty spaces and unanswered messages.
OG felt it first the day they arrived at a music show recording and were guided—not to the main waiting room they were used to—but to a smaller one, tucked away near the back corridor. No staff greeted them with excitement. No juniors bowed nervously. Just a polite nod and a schedule handed over without eye contact.
They told themselves it was temporary.
The first performance hurt the most.
Once, their concerts had sold out within minutes. Tickets crashed servers. Fans camped overnight. Venues added second shifts, sometimes even third, because demand couldn't be controlled. OG had joked about exhaustion back then, laughing as they performed twice in one night, adrenaline carrying them through.
Now, as they stood backstage, Sakura peeked through the curtain.
There were people.
But not thousands.
Not oceans of lightsticks.
Just hundreds—scattered across seats that once overflowed.
Whole sections were empty.
"Maybe more will come later," Yuki whispered, forcing a smile.
But they all knew.
When they stepped on stage, the cheers were softer. Still sincere—but thin, fragile, like glass that could crack at any moment. The fan chants didn't echo anymore. They faded before reaching the back of the hall.
Sakura's chest tightened as she sang.
She smiled because she had to.
She danced because muscle memory demanded it.
But every empty seat felt like a question she couldn't answer.
After the performance, they bowed deeply. The applause came—polite, respectful—but it ended too soon.
Backstage, no one spoke.
The next week was worse.
A university festival canceled their appearance, citing "budget changes." A brand politely declined renewal. A variety show replaced them with a newer group—younger, louder, trending.
Then came the street performances.
Once, OG couldn't even cross a street without being recognized. Fans lined up for photos. Security surrounded them.
Now, they stood near a small stage set up in a public square, hoping passersby would stop.
People walked past.
Some glanced. Some whispered, "Aren't they that group?"
Few stayed.
A child tugged her mother's sleeve. "Who are they?"
The question pierced deeper than hate ever could.
The hardest moment came during their next concert.
The venue had planned for two shifts out of habit—old confidence, old data. But ticket sales stalled. Days passed. Then weeks.
The second shift was canceled.
Then half the seats in the first were closed off with black curtains.
To even cross the ticket line, to convince people to come, became difficult.
OG watched staff remove chairs, shrinking their world physically to match their reality.
Hana cried quietly in the dressing room that night.
Aiko stared at the mirror, jaw tight, anger and guilt twisting together.
Sakura sat in the corner, hands trembling, replaying every decision, every word she had spoken at that dinner.
This is my fault, she thought.
When they went on stage that night, they still gave everything they had.
Because even if only hundreds remained—
Those hundreds still believed.
And OG clung to that belief, fragile and flickering, as the lights dimmed and the fall truly began.