"Next up! Han Jiwon from Lumo Entertainment!"
The camera swiveled toward me, its red light blinking like a predator's eye.
Every face in the auditorium turned in my direction, hundreds of stares weighing me down.
The Titan trainees lingered near the stage exit, their presence still electric in the air.
Haejun caught my eye for a split second, his expression unreadable.
My heart hammered against my ribcage so hard I worried the microphone might pick it up.
After an S rank... they'll eat me alive.
Whispers rippled through the trainee section behind me.
"Lumo Entertainment? Never heard of them."
"Poor kid has to follow that performance."
Heat crawled up my neck. I forced myself to stand, legs unsteady beneath me.
The judges watched from their table—Coach Miyeon with her arms crossed, Vocal Trainer Song tapping his pen against his notes, and Ryu Seongwoo leaning back with the satisfied air of someone whose expectations had just been exceeded.
They looked expectant but neutral, like blank slates waiting to decide whether I'd soar or sink."
The stage stretched before me, still warm with the echo of Haejun's dominance.
I reached the center of the stage and bowed deeply, the movement automatic despite my trembling hands.
"Hello, I'm Han Jiwon from Lumo Entertainment."
My voice cracked slightly during the greeting. The microphone amplified every imperfection.
"I'll be performing 'Winter's Heart'"
The announcement hung in the air like a confession of mediocrity.
Coach Miyeon's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Vocal Trainer Song's pen paused mid-tap.
Ryu Seongwoo's expression remained neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes—was it disappointment?
I'd chosen the safest route possible.
A beloved ballad that showcased vocals without demanding athletic choreography.
I prioritized light movements, emotional delivery, and technical precision over flash.
The judges exchanged glances so brief I almost missed them.
The kind of silent communication that said, "Another safe choice; let's see what he's got."
My pulse thundered in my ears.
The stage lights dimmed around me, and the backing track's opening piano notes floated through the speakers, gentle and familiar.
This was it.
No more hiding behind practice room walls or small-town stages.
Everything I'd worked for condensed into ninety seconds under these unforgiving lights.
I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.
The first verse flowed from my lips like water finding its path downhill.
My voice carried steady and clear through the auditorium, each note hitting its mark, just as I planned it.
I'd sung this song hundreds of times in my bedroom, in practice rooms, and in empty hallways when no one was listening.
My feet moved in simple patterns across the stage.
Step, pause, gentle turn.
Hand to heart, arm extended toward the audience.
Nothing revolutionary, nothing that would make anyone gasp or lean forward in their seats.
Clean. Safe. Competent.
The judges' pens scratched against paper in near-perfect synchronization.
Coach Miyeon's expression remained stone-still, professional detachment masking whatever thoughts churned behind her sharp eyes.
Vocal Trainer Song nodded almost imperceptibly—approval for technique, maybe, but his face showed no spark of interest.
Ryu Seongwoo watched with the patience of someone evaluating a dozen identical performances each day.
The trainee section sat quiet.
Not the electric silence of Yuhyun's raw emotion or the breathless awe after Haejun's dominance.
Just… quiet.
Polite attention. Nothing more
My stomach twisted as the first verse ended.
This isn't enough.
The chorus swelled around me, my voice finding its groove as I reached for the emotional peak of the song.
My hand extended toward the audience, fingers trembling slightly as I poured everything into the sustained note—
Suddenly, the stage went silent.
The backing track died mid-beat, leaving my voice hanging naked in the air before cutting off abruptly.
The auditorium erupted in surprised gasps.
My body froze center stage, mouth still half-open, arm suspended in its gesture like a broken marionette.
Heat flooded my cheeks as hundreds of eyes bore into me.
PD Kwon's smile flickered for just a moment, revealing something cold underneath before snapping back into place.
A production assistant near the sound booth waved frantically at the technicians, her movements exaggerated for the cameras.
"Technical malfunction!" she called out, loud enough for the microphones to catch.
For a split second, I thought I saw one of the sound crew smirk before ducking out of sight.
Snickers rippled through clusters of trainees behind me.
"Poor guy," someone whispered, not bothering to lower their voice.
"Talk about bad luck."
The cameras zeroed in on my face, red lights blinking as they captured every micro-expression of horror, confusion, and dawning realization that this wasn't an accident.
My throat constricted.
Coach Miyeon's pen had stopped moving entirely.
Ryu Seongwoo leaned forward slightly, studying my reaction.
If I stop now... it's over. If I keep going... maybe I'll prove something.
I drew a steadying breath, feeling oxygen flood my lungs like borrowed courage.
Without the backing track's safety net, I launched into the chorus acapella.
My voice cut through the auditorium—clearer now, stripped of all pretense.
The first note trembled, vulnerability bleeding through despite my grip on control.
But as the melody continued, something shifted. My voice found its footing, growing stronger with each phrase.
Every trainee in the audience had gone completely still.
No shuffling feet, no whispered comments.
Each note hung suspended in the air before dissolving into the next.
My simple choreography—those safe, gentle movements I'd practiced a thousand times—suddenly felt intentional.
There was nothing to distract me from the sound spilling from my throat.
A camera zoomed close, the lens focusing on my face.
The determination burning in my eyes and the vein straining at my neck showed how much I was pouring into each line.
Sweat prickled along my hairline, betraying nerves the cameras would never miss.
This wasn't the performance I'd planned, but I had to deliver.
The final high note escaped my throat, pure and unadorned, carrying every ounce of hope I'd buried beneath years of hiding.
It soared through the auditorium, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, lingering in the air long after my voice gave out.
My chest heaved as the last echo faded into nothing.
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Had I done enough?