Miura stepped into the studio, the atmosphere instantly shifting at her presence. Urara rushed over, concern etched deeply in her features.

“Miura! What’s going on? You sounded... serious.”

Kid stood nearby, leaning against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest, irritation clear on his face. “Had to fly all the way back here just for… whatever this is?”

Miura glanced at him apologetically. “Sorry, Kid. I wouldn’t have called everyone if it wasn’t important.”

He paused, sensing her unease. His expression softened immediately. “Right… What's wrong, then?”

Miura moved further inside, everyone instinctively gathering around her. Reyn stood near the soundboard, his expression cautious yet focused. Urara still clung tightly to Miura’s arm, her worry almost tangible. Kid stepped closer, tension fading into genuine concern.

Miura hesitated briefly, drawing a careful breath. “Iris Corp released something. An AI that can perfectly replicate human voices.”

The band exchanged wary glances. Reyn’s expression darkened. “Whose voice did they replicate?”

Miura swallowed, her voice tightening. “My mom’s.”

The room fell silent, a shocked stillness settling heavily over them. Urara paled visibly, hands trembling as she whispered, “They wouldn’t dare…”

Miura nodded bitterly. “They did. There’s a song going viral now. A song she never sang—but it’s her voice. They're using her memory like some cheap advertisement.”

Kid’s jaw tightened in anger. Reyn slowly shook his head, eyes narrowed fiercely. “That’s just twisted.”

Urara clutched Miura’s hand tighter, looking up at her desperately. “What do we do now?”

Miura’s violet eyes burned with quiet determination. “We fight back. We're going to write our own song—a song real and powerful enough to remind everyone what true music is.”

The mood shifted instantly. Reyn straightened up, nodding decisively. “Say no more. We got you.”

Kid reached immediately for his guitar, a faint smile of resolve flickering. “Looks like I ain’t flyin' back anytime soon. Let's do this.”

Urara released Miura’s hand, nodding fervently. “They’re going to regret ever messing with us.”

The studio burst into focused chaos. Reyn quickly adjusted his drum kit, Kid tuned his guitar meticulously, and Urara prepared her bass, fingers moving restlessly as her mind raced with possibilities.

Miura stood quietly at the microphone, eyes closed, steadying her breathing. Across the room, curled up on a worn leather couch, Sona watched intently, sensing the seriousness but not fully grasping its entirety. She hugged her knees, wide-eyed with wonder at the raw emotion swirling through the air.

Reyn’s deep voice broke the anticipatory silence, gently signaling readiness. “Whenever you're set, Miura.”

She inhaled deeply, letting every worry and pain flow into her voice as it escaped in the first trembling notes:

“Why do you sound like her, yet can’t recall me?”

“An empty voice, you can’t fool the heart that remembers.”

The lyrics poured forth, hesitant at first, fragile with grief, but strengthening rapidly as her heart spilled onto the floor. Kid joined gently with soft chords, followed closely by Urara’s subtle bass notes. Reyn carefully guided the rhythm, drums quiet yet firm.

Sona leaned forward on the couch, captivated. It felt different from anything she'd heard before—it felt powerful, heartbreaking, and somehow… alive.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, the band tirelessly working to capture the moment perfectly. Miura's voice filled the studio again and again, reshaping the melody, refining the emotion. Sweat glistened on foreheads, fingers grew sore, but determination kept them going.

Late into the night, the studio finally fell quiet. Sona had drifted asleep on the couch, the music still resonating in her dreams. Miura sat at a small desk near the window, hair tied back loosely, scribbling and softly humming, bathed in the gentle glow of a single lamp.

A soft shuffle stirred her attention. Miura glanced up to see Sona rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Miura asked gently, setting her pen down.

Sona shook her head, yawning quietly. “I heard you singing. It sounded… pretty.”

Miura smiled faintly, motioning her closer. “Come here, kiddo.”

Sona padded over, and Miura lifted her gently onto her lap. Sona nestled into Miura’s embrace, feeling a comforting warmth surround her.

“What’re you doing?” Sona asked softly, eyes fluttering with sleepiness.

Miura’s voice was tender, a stark contrast to the emotion she had poured into the song earlier. “Writing a special song. Something that means a lot to me.”

“Because of your mama?” Sona asked quietly, glancing up at her with large, innocent eyes.

Miura nodded slowly, brushing a strand of hair from Sona’s face. “Yeah. Because someone tried to pretend to be her… but they can’t. Nobody could ever replace her.”

Sona pondered this quietly, nestled against Miura’s chest. “But…you sound like her sometimes, too.”

Miura hesitated, heart aching softly, touched by the sincerity in Sona’s simple observation. “Maybe I do. But it’s different because I remember her. She’s a part of me, just like how I’ll always be a part of you.”

Sona’s eyes were heavy, struggling to stay awake as she murmured softly, “Does that mean…I’ll sound like you one day, too?”

Miura smiled gently, holding her closer. “Maybe you will, kiddo.”

“I think I’d like that,” Sona whispered, finally drifting off, her breathing soft and steady.

Miura held her a moment longer, feeling a tender warmth she’d never anticipated. Carefully, she stood and gently laid Sona back on the couch, tucking a blanket around her small form.

“You’re already more like me than you know,” Miura whispered, brushing a soft kiss onto Sona’s forehead.

Morning sunlight crept gently into the studio, illuminating weary faces and tired eyes. But their exhaustion paled beside their determination. The band came alive once more, instruments in hand, as Miura stood ready at the microphone.

This time, when they played, every note resonated perfectly. It was the culmination of every moment they’d spent, every tear shed, every laugh shared—the song became not just Miura’s, but theirs. It was a statement, a rebellion, a tribute. Most importantly, it was genuine.

Finally, the last notes gently faded, leaving a poignant silence hanging thickly in the studio.

Miura slowly opened her eyes, breathing heavily. Her expression showed exhaustion, yet a profound sense of fulfillment.

Kid let out a long sigh, leaning back. “Bloody hell... no machine’s ever gonna beat that.”

Urara wiped her eyes discreetly, smiling faintly through her tears. “That was... incredible.”

Reyn nodded firmly, locking eyes with Miura. “Your mom would’ve been proud.”

Miura smiled softly, feeling the weight lift slightly from her shoulders. “I hope so.”

Sona hopped off the couch and approached quietly, tugging gently at Miura’s sleeve. “That was the best song ever,” she whispered shyly.

Miura knelt down, gently hugging Sona close. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Kid stretched, setting his guitar down gently. “Well then, let’s show ‘em what real music sounds like.”

Miura stood, looking around at her family—her band—eyes shining with confidence and pride.

“Let’s make sure the world hears us.”