The days blurred together. Training, rehearsals, sleepless nights. By the time the competition was finally set to begin, the hotel felt like a boiling pot. Contestants barely spoke to one another now, their nerves so tight it felt like every word might shatter them. Some stayed in their rooms, muttering lyrics to themselves. Others disappeared into the studios, running scales, testing arrangements again and again, trying to fix last-minute doubts.
The whole area felt cold years of hardwork was put into place to get here and half of the numbers would not see the end of the night it was scary and exciting.
For many they would bid goodbye and some would move to the mext satge all in all the hotel felt hot.
Dayo felt it too. The weight pressing on his chest wasn't just about his own performance—it was the weight of knowing that half of them would be gone by tomorrow. He wasn't ready to go home, not now, not after everything he had built.
