The heavy door creaked open, and Henry stepped into the backstage corridor of the Celestial Theatre.
The air hit him first—cool, crisp, tinged with the sterile bite of disinfectant and the faint musk of stage dust and sweat. It smelled like nerves and ambition.
The corridor stretched long and bright before him, every corner washed in sterile white light. It was almost unnervingly clean, a shocking contrast to the chaos of Ironvale's streets.
A staffer in a navy-blue polo shirt appeared from the side, headset clamped over his ears and a clipboard tucked under one arm. His pace was brisk, his eyes sharp, the sort of man who had been running on caffeine and adrenaline since dawn.
"You're a contestant?" he asked, his tone quick and clipped, scanning Henry from head to toe.
Henry nodded, straightening a little. "Yeah—uh, this is where I get my badge, right?"
"ID."
Henry fished the card from his pocket and handed it over. The man's gaze flicked between the ID and the clipboard, then gave a curt nod. He opened a plastic crate on the side table and pulled out a laminated badge on a black strap.
"Here. Wear it where it's visible. Contestant holding area's down the corridor. Follow the red arrows. Don't get lost."
"Thanks," Henry said, slipping it over his neck.
The plastic tag clinked softly against his chest—but to him, it felt heavier than it should. It wasn't just an ID. It was a symbol of a second chance.
He took a deep breath, feeling the jittery rhythm of his heartbeat steady—barely.
He wasn't a stranger to pressure. Back on Earth, he'd done presentations before crowds, spoken to executives. But this… this was different. Here, he wasn't reciting figures. He was standing on the edge of something real—his dream and his redemption balanced on the same knife-edge.
The hallway ahead looked endless.
Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The walls were plastered with glossy posters shouting "ROC – Rookie of the Century!" in blinding red. Motivational slogans screamed things like "Your Voice Defines the Future!" and "Dare to Dream, Dare to Sing!"
A red carpet ran down the middle—already dulled and wrinkled from countless nervous shoes pacing on it.
The air vibrated with energy. Muffled voices overlapped—contestants rehearsing, humming, whispering pep talks to themselves. Someone behind a door practiced vocal scales that rose and cracked. A burst of laughter escaped another room.
Henry adjusted his badge and followed the arrows. Crew members brushed past him in a blur—headsets crackling, clipboards flapping, walkie-talkies squawking with stage cues. Thick black cables ran along the floor like veins, taped down but somehow still tripping hazards.
He turned a corner and stopped before a door marked Contestant Holding.
Pushing it open, he was greeted by a wave of heat, chatter, and anticipation.
The holding room was packed—easily a hundred people squeezed in. The air was thick with nerves and dreams colliding.
To his left, a man sat cross-legged on the floor, humming deep baritone notes with his eyes closed, trying to center himself. Near the corner, a woman with razor-sharp cheekbones tapped her stiletto against the tiles—fast, rhythmic, impatient. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine shoot, every hair and gesture rehearsed.
Against one wall, a guitarist with hair like a broom head plucked muted strings on a plugged-in electric, sending faint feedback through a small amp.
Others sat alone, headphones on, eyes shut, whispering lyrics under their breath. Some paced like caged lions, rolling their shoulders, shaking out nerves. A few strutted around with the arrogance of royalty—top-company contestants, no doubt.
Henry could see them immediately. Designer jackets, perfect hair, expensive watches. Even their bottled water screamed sponsorship deals. They stood out in the crowd like peacocks among pigeons.
He found an empty chair by the corner near a water dispenser and sat down, exhaling slowly. His eyes scanned the room, observing, memorizing. Every face told a story—some of hunger, some of desperation, some of quiet confidence.
And then, his gaze caught on one in particular.
A young man stood near the center, strikingly dressed. His blonde hair gleamed under the lights, slicked back so smoothly it looked sculpted. His silver-blue suit shimmered like a disco ball, and his shoes reflected the ceiling lights as if he'd polished them five times that morning. His chin tilted upward, nose slightly raised—the very image of someone who wanted to be seen.
Henry's lips curled. Of course.
Davis.
The memory clicked. A fellow rookie from his old company—a man who'd always acted overly polite, almost theatrical with his "Miss" - this and "Ma'am" that. But Henry had seen through it. Behind that gentleman act was ambition sharp enough to cut glass.
And, of course, Davis had always had that little crush on Anne.
Henry remembered now—Davis had left the company two months ago, supposedly because of "contract disputes." But the truth? Liam had been purging potential rivals, especially those who had even the faintest connection to Anne.
And here Davis was, standing tall, basking in imaginary spotlight.
As if on cue, Davis turned, spotted him, and smiled—the kind of smile that was all teeth and no warmth. His head tilted, sharklike. Then, for everyone to hear, he began singing out loud.
🎵
"It's something about ya, girl
That just makes my head wanna twirl
Oh, you got me wanting to tell all them other girls
'There's nothing else better on this world!'"
🎵
The room turned toward him.
Henry blinked, half-stunned. Wait… I know this song. It tickled something in his memory. A ridiculous, funny tune—he was sure he'd once seen it in a meme video or from some internet comedian.
He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. "The multiverse really does have a sense of humor."
Still, Davis sang with a ridiculous confidence, eyes half-closed like he was performing at the Grammys. The voice wasn't bad—but it was identical to the original, every note and tone copied.
Henry was still shaking his head in amusement when he saw Davis walking straight toward him.
Here we go…
Davis strutted over, every step oozing smugness.
"Well, well, well," he drawled loudly, ensuring half the room could hear. "If it isn't our one and only Mr. Termination Contract. Tell me, Henry—how's life as an independent artist? Or did you somehow manage to land another contract already?"
He tilted his head in mock sympathy, then chuckled. "Ah, silly me. I forgot—no one's willing to sign trash."
A few contestants glanced over. Davis's grin widened; he was waiting for Henry to snap, to lose control, to make a scene.
But Henry just smiled. Calm. Unbothered.
"Thanks for asking," he said casually. "Life's been hard, yeah, but I'm still trying my luck. And no, I haven't landed another contract yet." He wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye. "Guess I'm not talented enough like you. Even after being kicked out, you've still found a leg to cling to."
A few people stifled snickers.
For a brief second, Davis's expression cracked. He hadn't expected composure—let alone sarcasm.
"Haha," Davis forced out, lips tight. "At least you're self-aware. I admire that tenacity—you came here even though you have zero chance of success."
Henry shrugged lightly, tapping his badge with a faint smile. "Who knows? Maybe I'll land a contract after they see my performance."
Davis let out a loud, mocking laugh that turned heads. "If you even pass the first round, I'll stand naked in the city square!"
Henry raised an eyebrow. "Eew. Who wants to see that? Don't tell me you're into that kind of thing. Can't you just bet money like a normal person?"
The room erupted in laughter. Davis froze, eyes wide, face burning red. He looked around quickly, grinding his teeth as he realized several contestants were still snickering.
He opened his mouth to retaliate, but words failed him. His lips twitched. Finally, desperate to save face, he sneered, "Oh, and by the way… Anne will be here today. To support Liam. The company's planning to push them as a power couple."
Henry smiled, almost kindly. Davis's embarrassment was delicious enough.
"As for Anne," he said with a relaxed shrug, "I don't really care. Feelings fade. And besides—she's not my type anymore."
That last jab hit like a dart. Davis stiffened, jaw flexing. His mouth opened, then closed again as if his brain had glitched.
Scowling, he spun on his heel and stormed away, muttering under his breath as the laughter followed him.
Henry leaned back in his chair, smirking to himself. Some things never change. Guys like that are predictable. Easy.
As for Liam… just you wait. Your turn will come.
For now, he had another matter to handle.
When he'd entered the venue earlier, he'd heard the faint ding of the system in his head. He hadn't dared to check then—but now, curiosity burned like fire.
He willed it open.
Instantly, a holographic interface shimmered before his eyes.
Playlist System: Active.
New notification blinked in the corner—[Gift Pack – Diamond Tier].
His pulse quickened. The promised diamond-tier signing song.
He tapped it.
A burst of radiant color exploded in his vision—brilliant lights swirling like fireworks, too bright, too loud. Henry clenched his jaw, keeping a straight face in the middle of the crowded room.
When it finally faded, his eyes widened. His lips parted, and then—he laughed softly, running a hand down his face.
"Of all the songs… You've got to be kidding me," he whispered.
The system stayed silent, smug in its own way.
He reached into his pocket and brushed his fingers against a small USB drive containing the instrumental track which the system had issued. As for the lyrics? He didn't need them. Every Earth-born soul knew this song by heart—it had reached god-tier status.
"Henry?"
He looked up. A young woman with a clipboard and a headset stood at the door, scanning faces. When she spotted him, she hurried over.
"You're Henry Storm?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Are you performing an original song or covering another artist?"
He smiled faintly and handed her the USB. "Original."
"Alright," she said, jotting notes. "We'll cue this up for your stage entrance. Be ready—you're in the next batch."
As she walked off, Henry stood, adjusting his coat. The sleek black fabric shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights. The white trousers, the striped shirt, and the posture—it all struck him suddenly.
He was dressed almost exactly.
Coincidence? Or fate's cruel little joke?
He smirked. Either way, he was ready.
He straightened his shoulders, took a slow breath, and looked toward the glowing stage door where muffled sound couldbe heard.