The opening beats of "Predator" crashed through the auditorium like a thunderstorm.
Hyunki didn't just move to the music—he became it.
His body snapped into sharp isolations, each movement carved with surgical precision.
When he dropped to the floor, his limbs flowed like liquid before freezing mid-motion, every muscle locked in perfect control.
The choreography was brutal. Primal.
He rolled his shoulders in predatory circles, then exploded into a sequence that had him spinning, dropping, and rising again in one fluid assault on gravity.
When the vocals kicked in, his voice cut through the instrumentation like a blade.
"Hunt you down, nowhere to run—"
The sound was raw, guttural—something pulled from his chest rather than his throat.
Each word dripped with controlled aggression that made the hair on my arms stand up.
But then the chorus hit, and his voice transformed completely.
Apex Corp's years of relentless vocal training were evident in the clean, soaring notes he produced.
The contrast was devastating—beast one moment, angel the next.
Even during the brief instrumental breaks, Hyunki commanded every eye in the room.
He'd freeze, head tilted slightly, red hair catching the stage lights, and somehow that stillness felt more dangerous than any movement.
The other trainees leaned forward unconsciously.
I found myself holding my breath.
This wasn't just a performance—it was a declaration of war. Against Haejun's team, against anyone who thought they could compete.
Hyunki's sharp smile never faltered, even as sweat beaded along his jawline. His eyes swept across the audience like a predator surveying territory.
The auditorium erupted.
Gasps rippled through the seats like waves.
Phones lifted, camera flashes strobing against the darkness as trainees forgot the no-recording rule.
Even the production crew seemed mesmerized—I caught a cameraman adjusting his angle to get a better shot.
Then came Hyunki's rap section.
His flow was machine-gun fast, each syllable fired with lethal accuracy.
"Competition thinks they got what it takes; watch me hunt down every fake—"
The words tumbled over each other in perfect rhythm, his tongue wrapping around consonants like they were prey.
No stumbles. No breath breaks where there shouldn't be.
Pure technical mastery wrapped in venomous confidence.
But the moment that made my stomach drop came during the bridge.
Hyunki found the main camera—the one broadcasting live to millions of viewers.
He locked eyes with the lens, that predatory smile widening as he delivered the final rap line directly into the camera.
"Bow down or get devoured."
The smirk that followed wasn't meant for the judges or the trainees in this room.
It was for everyone who was watching at home. He'd just claimed the entire audience as his territory.
When he hit the final pose—one knee down, head thrown back, arms spread wide—the silence that followed felt electric.
The judges' faces revealed nothing.
But the message was crystal clear: Apex Corp hadn't sent him here to lose.
PD Kwon's voice boomed through the stunned silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what we've just witnessed—"
He paused for dramatic effect, tablet clutched against his chest.
"That level of stage presence, that raw power—this is why we created this show."
The cameras swooped in like vultures, zooming tight on Hyunki's face as he maintained that predatory smile.
Sweat glistened on his forehead, but his breathing remained controlled.
"Judges, your decision?"
The screen behind them blazed to life—bold gold letters screaming "S RANK" across the display.
The trainee section detonated.
"No way—"
"He got an S? Solo?"
"Titan got an S as a group, but Hyunki pulled it off alone."
Whispers cascaded through the seats.
Some trainees stared with naked awe; others shrank back as if Hyunki's performance had physically struck them.
I felt the weight of their glances shifting between Haejun and the stage.
Two S ranks. Two different monsters.
Hyunki's bow was sharp and perfunctory.
His eyes swept the trainee section one final time before he strutted off stage.
The message was unmistakable: the real competition had just announced itself.
The relief I'd felt moments ago—surviving with my B rank, proving I belonged here—crumbled like cardboard.
If Titan was Everest, then Apex was the top, like its namesake.
My hands trembled in my lap as the reality sank in.
Two S ranks. Two performances that existed in a different stratosphere from everything else today.
The gap between my safe ballad and what I'd just witnessed felt insurmountable.
"This is insane," someone whispered behind me.
"How are we supposed to compete with that?"
The trainee's voice echoed my own spiraling thoughts.
I'd spent weeks convincing myself that talent could bridge any divide.
That sincerity and hard work mattered more than raw power or industry backing.
But watching Hyunki command that stage like he owned it, seeing the judges' faces light up with genuine excitement—not polite encouragement, not constructive criticism, but pure awe—shattered that illusion.
These weren't flukes.
They were the real deal.
The chosen ones.
And I was just... me.
A small-town omega pretending to be something more, clutching my B rank like a life preserver while monsters walked among us.
The weight of every blocker pill I'd swallowed, every lie I'd told, and every risk I'd taken to get here pressed down on my shoulders.
The performances blurred together after Hyunki's devastating display.
C ranks. D ranks. The occasional B that felt like a miracle.
Most trainees delivered technically competent performances that earned polite applause and forgettable scores.
Safe choices. Predictable songs. The kind of performances that would disappear into the editing room's cutting floor.
But then Starforge Entertainment took the stage.
Numbers 73 —Kang Minjae and Han Daeun.
Minjae's silver hair caught the lights as he adjusted his mic with a cocky grin. Daeun stood beside him, broad shoulders tense with nervous energy.
They'd chosen "Chainbreakers"—a song that demanded attitude more than technical perfection.
Their chemistry was undeniable—two troublemakers who'd found their element.
The judges awarded them both A ranks, and I watched Minjae's smirk widen as they left the stage.
The performances dragged on. Numbers climbed toward ninety as exhaustion settled over the auditorium.
Then the boy beside me—number 90—stood up.
"Choi Doyun, Helix Entertainment."
His voice carried quiet determination as he adjusted his glasses before walking toward the stage, shoulders set with Beta resolve.