The silence stretched like a taut wire ready to snap.
My lungs burned from holding my breath, waiting for anyone to speak.
Behind me, whispers began creeping through the trainee section like wildfire.
"Did you hear his voice without the track?"
"He's got serious talent, but..."
"Technical issues always mean elimination."
"Poor bastard doesn't stand a chance now."
Each comment was like a punch in the gut, but I kept my chin up, eyes locked on the judges' table.
The cameras prowled between us, red lights blinking as they captured every micro-expression.
One lens focused on Coach Miyeon's pursed lips.
Another zoomed tight on Ryu Seongwoo's fingers drumming against his notepad.
Vocal Trainer Song had his pen frozen halfway to paper, eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
PD Kwon maintained his practiced smile, but his eyes held calculation—already planning how to edit this moment for maximum drama.
My palms grew slick with sweat.
The stage lights felt hotter now, bearing down on my shoulders like judgment itself.
Every second that passed without a verdict felt like confirmation that I'd failed spectacularly.
Coach Miyeon shifted forward first, breaking the suffocating quiet.
"Your song choice was safe. Too safe."
Her words cut through me like ice water.
"Winter's Heart is a beautiful piece, but it doesn't showcase range or challenge your limits. You played it comfortable."
My stomach dropped.
"However." She paused, studying me with those sharp eyes.
"Your discipline under pressure was exceptional. Most trainees would have crumbled when that track cut out. You adapted instantly and maintained your composure. That's not something we can teach."
Vocal Trainer Song cleared his throat, pen finally moving across his notes.
"Technically speaking, very few trainees could maintain pitch accuracy without backing instrumentation. Your ear training is solid." He looked up at me directly.
"But your breath support needs work. You rushed through the bridge, and your confidence wavered on the high notes. Those are fixable issues."
The cameras swiveled toward Ryu Seongwoo, who remained silent.
Everyone—trainees, crew, and judges—leaned forward in anticipation.
He set down his pen with deliberate slowness.
"Your performance was predictable."
Seongwoo's voice carried the weight of years in the industry, each word measured and final.
"Honestly? It was boring at first. You chose comfort over ambition."
My pulse slammed in my ears. The cameras captured every flinch.
"In this industry, safe choices don't create stars. They create backup dancers."
The silence pressed down harder. Behind me, I heard someone exhale sharply.
"But."
That single word made me straighten up.
"When that track died, something shifted. You didn't panic, didn't fumble for excuses. You stripped away the safety net and showed us who you really are."
His dark eyes locked onto mine.
"That raw, unfiltered continuation had more authenticity than most trainees manage in their entire audition."
Seongwoo leaned back in his chair.
"The question is whether you have the courage to bring that same energy to your next performance, or if you'll hide behind another safe choice."
The judges exchanged glances, pens hovering over their scorecards.
My throat felt dry as sandpaper, waiting for their verdict.
PD Kwon's smile stretched wider, his eyes gleaming as he savored the tension crackling through the auditorium.
The cameras panned across anxious faces while he milked every second of suspense.
"Han Jiwon." He paused, consulting his tablet with theatrical slowness. "Your ranking is..."
The massive screen above the judges' table remained black.
Waiting. Tormenting.
"B Rank."
The bold letter blazed across the screen in electric blue.
Gasps erupted from the trainee section, like releasing steam.
"He survived?!"
"Wait, seriously? After that disaster?"
"Honestly, a B is impressive for a no-name agency."
"I thought he was done for sure when the track died."
Relief flooded through me so suddenly my knees nearly buckled.
B rank meant safety. It meant I could continue.
I bowed deeply to the judges, throat too tight for words.
"Thank you."
But before I was fully straightened, PD Kwon's voice boomed across the auditorium with theatrical enthusiasm.
"Excellent work! Now, on to Number 48!"
The cameras immediately swiveled away from me, hunting for their next prey. I might as well have become invisible.
"From the powerhouse Apex Corp, we have Lee Hyunki!"
The trainee section erupted in excited murmurs.
Apex Corp commanded respect—and fear—in equal measure. Their trainees were manufactured to perfection, polished until they gleamed.
As I made my way toward the seating area, Yuhyun caught my eye and offered a small, proud smile.
Nearby, Haejun watched me with that same calculating expression, but now a faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.
As I sat down, still processing my own performance, something unexpected caught my attention.
Hyunki walked onto the stage alone.
No backup dancers. No teammates. Just him.
That was strange. Apex Corp always sent groups that showcased their coordinated perfection.
Individual performances meant either supreme confidence or complete desperation.
The red-haired alpha strode to center stage, his sharp smile cutting through the stage lights.
Even from this distance, his presence felt overwhelming—all dominance and barely contained aggression.
"I'll be performing 'Predator' by Storm," Hyunki announced, his voice carrying easily across the vast space.
Another power move. Performing his agency's hit song took serious balls.
Whispers rippled through the trainee section like a rising tide.
"He's going solo against Titan's group performance?"
"Either brilliant or suicidal."
"Apex Corp doesn't send anyone who isn't already guaranteed to debut."
The whispers around me buzzed with conflicting rumors about Hyunki.
I'd heard fragments of his story floating through the trainee underground network—scattered pieces that never formed a complete picture.
Some claimed he was a prodigy held back by his attitude. Others insisted he was all bark and manufactured hype.
What everyone agreed on was his temper.
Still, watching him now as he positioned himself center stage, I couldn't imagine how he planned to compete with what we'd just witnessed.
Haejun's team had set the bar impossibly high. That kind of precision and power wasn't something a single performer could match, no matter how skilled.
Hyunki stood alone under those blazing lights, his sharp smile never wavering.
But there was something in his posture, the way his shoulders tensed just slightly, that suggested even he understood the odds stacked against him.
The backing track began—heavy bass and aggressive synths that made the floor vibrate.
This was going to be interesting.