The production assistants moved forward to escort the Pulse trainees offstage, but their leader stepped ahead instead of retreating.
"Wait."
His voice cut through the murmur of the audience as the cameras swiveled toward him.
"We'd like to know why we were given those scores."
PD Kwon's smile faltered for a split second. This wasn't part of the script.
Coach Miyeon straightened in her chair, her expression hardening.
"Excuse me?"
"We believe we've put everything into our performance. The least you could do is explain what we did wrong."
The other three Pulse trainees stood by him, their earlier devastation replaced by desperate determination.
Gasps rippled through the audience. Trainees exchanged glances—no one ever challenged the judges.
"Well, if you insist," Vocal Trainer Song set down his pen. "Your technique was sloppy. Your synchronization fell apart during the bridge. And your song choice was not suitable for an idol audition."
"We're trying to be different—"
"Different doesn't always mean better," Seongwoo interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of industry authority.
"Idols represent perfection, discipline, and dedication to craft. What you showed us was amateur hour dressed up as innovation."
The silver-haired leader's hands clenched into fists.
"So we should just copy everyone else? Sing the same songs, dance the same moves?"
"You should master the basics before attempting to break them."
Coach Miyeon's words landed like hammer strikes.
The cameras captured every micro-expression of humiliation crossing their faces.
I watched as the Pulse trainees exited the stage. Their heads hung low, dreams crashing around them in real time.
Part of me admired their courage; standing up to the judges took guts I wasn't sure I possessed.
But another part understood why the judges had been so harsh.
This wasn't a platform for experimentation. It was a proving ground for future idols, and the industry demanded precision above all else.
"Next up, Nova Media!"
PD Kwon's voice boomed across the auditorium, instantly shifting the energy.
Two figures emerged from the wings.
"Hello, I'm Im Sejin!"
"And I'm Yoo Harin!"
"We're from Nova Media, and we'll be performing "Stay With The Light" today!"
The camera panned across their faces, focusing on Sejin's sharp jawline and perfectly styled hair, then to Harin's warm smile that could melt glaciers.
Even from my seat, I could feel the difference.
These weren't scrappy underdogs hoping for a break.
These were trainees from one of the Big Three, polished and media-trained since childhood.
The crowd buzzed with anticipation. After the train wreck of Pulse Entertainment, everyone wanted to see how the elite agencies performed.
I leaned forward, studying them both.
The opening notes filled the auditorium—a slowed-down, acoustic version of Nova Media's biggest hit from last year.
A smart choice. Everyone knew the song, but they'd reimagined it completely.
Sejin stepped forward first, his voice silky smooth during the opening verse.
There was no showboating, just pure technical precision that demonstrated years of professional training.
Then Harin joined in for the harmony, their voices blending seamlessly.
The choreography was understated but flawless—synchronized steps that never overshadowed the vocals.
When they moved apart for the dance break, each found their spotlight without competing for attention.
Sejin handled the chorus section with crisp delivery, while Harin provided beatboxing backup that had the audience nodding along.
They'd transformed an upbeat pop anthem into something intimate yet powerful.
As the final notes faded, scattered applause erupted into thunderous cheering.
The judges exchanged glances—the kind that meant they were impressed despite themselves.
"Well," Vocal Trainer Song cleared his throat. "That's how you respect source material while making it your own."
Sejin and Harin both received A ranks—no surprise there. Their performance had been flawless, technically perfect in every way.
But as I watched them bow and exit the stage, one question gnawed at me.
What exactly did it take to earn an S rank? What could possibly be better than perfection?
I gripped the armrest of my seat. Performance number 47 suddenly felt very far away.
The evaluations continued in brutal succession.
A trio from Stellar Academy received C, D, and F ranks despite flawless vocals because their stage presence was apparently lacking.
Two rappers from independent agencies both earned D's for "trying too hard to impress."
A pattern emerged with each performance. Technical skill alone wasn't enough.
The judges wanted something indefinable, something that went beyond perfect pitch and synchronized choreography.
Even trainees from respected mid-tier agencies found themselves ranked lower than expected.
A vocalist everyone had pegged for an A rank walked off stage with a B, shoulders sagging under the weight of disappointed expectations.
The cameras captured every moment of devastation, every flicker of hope crushed under the judges' clinical assessments.
My palms grew damp as the numbers ticked by. Thirty-two. Thirty-five. Forty-one.
"Next up, number forty-three! Park Yuhyun from Horizon Entertainment!"
My breath caught.
Yuhyun stepped onto the stage alone, looking smaller under the harsh spotlight than he had during our brief encounter.
His messy brown hair caught the stage lights as he adjusted the microphone stand.
Like me, he'd entered as a soloist. And like me, he came from a smaller agency without the resources of the Big Three.
If anyone understood the pressure I was feeling, it was him.
"Hello, I'm Park Yuhyun. I'll be performing "Paper Wings", an original composition I wrote myself."
An original song? This would either be brilliant or catastrophic.
The opening guitar chord rang out—a simple acoustic sound that carried notes of memory.
Then Yuhyun's voice followed; it was raw and unpolished compared to the Nova Media duo but carried something they'd lacked.
Genuine emotion.
His lyrics spoke of chasing dreams despite everyone saying you weren't good enough, of small towns and bigger aspirations.
Each word felt personal, like he was singing directly to me.
The judges leaned forward. Even Coach Miyeon's perpetual scowl had softened slightly.
When Yuhyun reached the chorus, his voice cracked on a high note—not from technique failure, but from the weight of what he was singing.
My chest tightened. This wasn't perfect. His breathing was uneven, his posture stiff with nerves.
But it was real.
The song built to a crescendo where his voice finally found its power, filling the auditorium with desperate hope.
As the final chord faded, the auditorium fell into complete silence.
Camera operators pivoted toward the audience, capturing wide eyes glistening under the stage lights.
One trainee pressed his hand to his mouth while another wiped away tears with his sleeve.
The silence stretched, heavy with anticipation of judges' scores.