After another deep breath—longer this time, heavier—Yen spoke.
"Um… growing up in the Philippines," he began, voice steady but sharpened by old scars, "there are families that still cling to very old superstitions. The kind that rot generations from the inside."
The air tightened.
"We were subjected to that extremeness. People called us spawn of the devil because of how we looked." His jaw flexed. "They said we were proof that our mother was—excuse the term—a whore for sleeping around."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the audience. Not the awkward kind. The furious kind.
"When our father finally pulled us out of that hellhole and we moved to a more metropolitan area, we thought it would stop." Yen let out a dry, humorless breath. "It didn't. It just changed shape."
He lifted his gaze, eyes sharp, deliberate.
"And I want to be very clear about this," he added firmly. "We love our home country. We love the Philippines. We are proud to be Filipino." A pause. "But Filipinos can be our own worst critics."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"There's a harsh reality called crab mentality," Yen continued. "Instead of lifting each other up, some people would rather drag you down so no one gets ahead." He emphasized the word some. "I am not generalizing. But it exists."
In the audience, a phone lit up.
@Hyouka_Icecream: y'all, I'm Filipino and imma keep it 100 — Yen is absolutely right. Why can't we just climb together instead of dragging each other down 😭😭😭😭
Yen paused—just long enough for that truth to settle.
"Zen," he continued softly, "used to be lively. Talkative. Bright." A faint smile flickered and died just as quickly. "But when we hit high school, the bullying escalated. It wasn't just students anymore—teachers joined in too, brushing it off as 'harmless teasing.'"
A scoff echoed somewhere in the dark.
"They said we weren't really Filipino because of how we looked. That we were abominations." His voice tightened. "You get the picture."
Silence.
"We were both bullied. Equally, at first." Yen swallowed. "But over time, I learned to fight back."
His eyes flicked to Zen—still standing behind him, still holding onto the hem of Yen's shirt like a lifeline.
"Zen didn't," Yen said quietly. "He closed off."
The room leaned forward.
"So some fuckers," Yen said, no longer censoring himself, "decided he was the weaker link."
A collective breath was held.
"One day, during lunch, they cornered him in the hallway. Pushing him. Laughing. Calling him names." Yen's jaw locked. "Then one of them shoved him too hard."
His voice dropped.
"Zen stumbled."
The pause that followed was brutal.
"And he fell down a flight of stairs."
The theater gasped.
Hands flew to mouths. Hearts clenched. Someone sobbed outright. It felt like the air itself had been knocked out of the room.
At the judges' table, Tuesday's nails dug into her palm. Luca's expression hardened, jaw set like stone. And Foca—Foca went terrifyingly still, the kind of stillness that meant someone somewhere was about to regret their entire existence. Legal repercussions weren't a thought anymore. They were a plan.
"Zen was in a coma for a week," Yen finished, voice quieter now, worn thin. "He healed physically. Thankfully." A beat. "But that's when the selective mutism started."
The silence afterward wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
The kind that sits on your chest and makes your blood boil—because cruelty like that doesn't belong in childhood… or anywhere.
"Thankfully, after we moved again and transferred schools, everything got so much better. It was like night and day. We were finally treated like everybody else." Yen paused, then swallowed. "But unfortunately, my brother wasn't the same. So I made a promise—that I'd always be there for him, and I wouldn't let anyone hurt him ever again."
Yen finished.
A deep, heavy silence settled over the room, thick enough to sit on. People found themselves staring at nothing, quietly wrestling with the same question: how could anyone be so cruel? How could human beings inflict that kind of pain on one another? Weren't they all the same at the end of the day?
And sadly, there might never be a clear answer.
"Whew…" Foca exhaled, mentally tucking away a very detailed, very vengeful legal plan into a locked file in his brain—for later. For now, he redirected his focus to what mattered most.
"As someone who's part Filipino myself," Foca said sincerely, "I deeply sympathize with what both of you have gone through. You didn't deserve any of it. And I thank God that you're both still here." His voice softened. "Even if there are wounds that haven't fully healed, you're standing. You're alive. And that matters."
He straightened slightly. "Now, I want to talk about the program. I know this may sound harsh, but at the end of the day, this is a competition." His tone was gentle, but firm. "My concern is how Zen will fare during moments when you may be separated—especially during performances and evaluations."
"I actually second what Foca's saying," Luca added carefully. "We've already talked about how brutal this industry can be. And realistically, it might be especially challenging for Zen to function within it." His concern was genuine, unfiltered.
"We completely understand your concerns," Yen replied immediately. "Before even auditioning, our family sat Zen down and had a very serious conversation about what this industry entails—the hardships, the pressure, everything he'd have to overcome to succeed."
Then Yen smiled, pride blooming in his voice. "But Zen told us he was determined to chase his dream. He promised he'd do his absolute best and never become a burden to anyone in the competition. He thought it through—every angle, every challenge—and came to us with solutions for how he'd face them."
Yen glanced at his brother. "He's determined. He's ready to do whatever it takes."
Then, softly, he added, "After watching Jordan on this show, Zen said, 'If he could do it… then maybe I could too.' And… here we are."
Both Yen and Zen turned toward the artists' seats.
"Jordan," Yen said, bowing deeply, "thank you for being a light for my brother. You have no idea how instrumental you've been in Zen's recovery. Truly—thank you."
Both brothers bowed again, gratitude written all over them.
Jordan immediately stood, tears already spilling as he rushed to the stage. He wrapped both brothers in a tight hug, catching them completely off guard.
"You guys are so strong," Jordan sobbed. "Just being here—that's already a victory."
He pulled back slightly and turned to Zen, gently cupping his face with both hands. "Don't give up, okay? It's going to be hard. Really hard. But don't give up. Run if you can. Crawl if you have to. Just keep chasing that dream, alright?"
Zen nodded fiercely, tears streaming down his cheeks. Yen watched him with a proud, knowing smile. He'd always been a fighter—but so was Zen.
There wasn't a single dry eye left in the theater.
The applause didn't come immediately.
At first, it was just silence—thick, heavy, sacred. The kind of quiet that settles only after something important has been said. Something that rearranges people internally.
Then one clap.
Then another.
And another.
Until the entire theater erupted.
It wasn't the usual polite applause either. This was standing-ovation, hands-stinging, chest-tight applause. The kind where people aren't clapping for you, but with you.
Zen flinched at first at the sudden noise, instinctively leaning closer to Yen. Yen immediately angled his body, grounding him, one hand resting reassuringly at the small of Zen's back.
Foca stood up first.
Then Luca.
Then Tuesday.
Soon, the artists was on their feet, followed by the trainees, and finally the entire audience.
Zen's eyes widened slightly. He wasn't used to this—being seen without being targeted. Being loud-room visible without danger attached to it.
Yen leaned down and whispered,
"See? You're safe. They're clapping for you."
Zen swallowed hard, nodded once.
Foca lifted a hand gently, signaling for the applause to settle. It took a moment—people were emotionally feral—but eventually, the room calmed.
"I want to be very clear about something," Foca said, voice steady but charged. "This program is about talent, yes. But it is also about resilience. Growth. Heart."
He looked directly at Zen.
"And Zen… you are not a liability. You are a testament."
Zen's breath hitched.
Luca followed, leaning forward slightly. "Selective mutism does not mean selective strength," he said firmly. "And it certainly does not disqualify you from artistry. Music is not only spoken—it's felt."
Tuesday nodded, eyes glossy but sharp. "And let me add this," she said. "This industry has chewed up and spit out far too many people because they were different. If this program means anything at all, it means we stop that cycle here."
The crowd hummed in agreement.
Somewhere in the internet, twitts were already flying like confetti.
@Rumi: I did NOT sign up to cry on a Sunday night but here we are
@RokuRoku: Zen doesn't need fixing. The industry does.
@ManilaMoonrise: As a Filipino—this hurts, heals, and hits HOME. Thank you for saying it out loud.
On stage, Jordan was still holding Zen's hand, thumb brushing small circles into his knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Zen finally lifted his gaze.
He didn't speak.
But he stepped forward.
Just one step.
Then—slowly—he bowed.
Not shallow. Not rushed.
A deep, deliberate bow.
The kind that says thank you for seeing me.
The theater erupted again, louder this time.
Yen blinked rapidly, laughing under his breath. "Yeah," he murmured, voice thick. "That's my brother."
Tuesday dabbed at her eyes again, then laughed softly.
"Thank God for waterproof mascara," she muttered. "Damascus, you're getting free promo tonight."
Tuesday dabbed carefully at her tears, mindful not to ruin her makeup—thankfully, it was fully waterproof this time. Newly formulated by Damascus, Alexandrite's skincare company now venturing into cosmetics, it proved to be an absolute lifesaver.
She cried ugly tears.
Still looked snatched as hell doing it.
The camera zoomed out.
Two brothers standing under the lights.
One who learned to fight.
One who learned to survive.
Both still standing.
And for the first time—
Not alone.