On his way to the stage Henry stumbled upon a contestant who his face pale and his eyes watery, as if the weight of failure had crushed him. He looked like he wanted to cry but swallowed it down, not willing to break in front of the others.
When his gaze met Henry's, embarrassment flickered across his features. He forced a weak, crooked smile before shuffling past.
Henry knew that look. It wasn't hard to read. That was the expression of someone who had just been broken on stage, dreams shattered in front of the world. This was how things were—the world of performance was a battlefield with only two kinds of people: victors and the vanquished.[add how he had once experienced this and it crushed his dream so he hoped the guy won't give up like him etc.
Backstage had been a hive of restless energy, and now Henry could feel gazes pressing into him from every direction. Whispers traveled through the waiting participants like wind through tall grass.
After waiting for a few minitues the stagehand tapped him on the shoulder and jerked his chin toward the curtain signaling it was time. Henry's chest tightened instantly [add how he could feel his heartbeat [add how he calmed himself inhaling the air to calm his heart beat saying this is it the point of no return.
"Next up," the stage manager said, giving him a pat on the back. His face wore a half-smile, eyes crinkling with a harmless sort of pity. "It's your turn. Good luck."
Henry caught the unspoken words in that look. You'll need it.
"Thanks," Henry muttered, inhaling sharply as if trying to swallow all the air he could carry. Then he stepped forward.
The curtain parted.
The world exploded into light and sound.
The heat of the spotlights slammed against him like a furnace, the air suddenly heavy, pressing against his skin. He could feel sweat forming instantly at the nape of his neck. Cameras shifted on sleek black arms, their red recording lights blinking like watchful eyes.
Beyond them stretched a sea of faces—rows upon rows of people, their chatter folding into a low, anticipatory hum. Some leaned forward, curiosity etched into their features; others folded their arms, already skeptical.
For a moment, Henry forgot how to breathe. His lungs felt tight, his mind blank. So this is what an introvert's nightmare looks like, he thought grimly. Thousands of strangers, all waiting, silently judging.
And then, front and center, the judges.
Three figures seated behind the long desk, bathed in soft light.
On the far left was Jessica—a woman in her late twenties with long, cascading blonde hair that shimmered under the lights. She was stunning, the kind of beauty that wasn't just skin deep but radiated confidence and poise.
Everyone in the hall knew her name. Jessica was a world-famous singer and actress who had just broken records last year with her comeback album Eternal Flame, an album that dominated charts for six months straight after a two-year hiatus. Tonight, she looked every bit the star, in a glittering gown that reflected light like a thousand diamonds.
In the middle sat Jones. Early forties, bespectacled, sharp features, piercing eyes. His very posture radiated authority, as though he could dismantle a person with a single sentence. And indeed, he could. Jones was a media personality and songwriter, infamous for his merciless critiques.
His nickname—The Guillotine—had stuck ever since his biting comments on the show Singer Winner years ago, when he reduced a contestant to tears with one sentence. That moment went viral, and his career skyrocketed.
On the right was Levinson. At first glance, he looked like the friendly uncle next door—round cheeks, a kind smile, even the way he leaned back in his chair seemed approachable. But appearances deceived.
Levinson was a legendary pop singer turned songwriter and producer, a man who once held the top spot on global charts for nearly two years straight with back-to-back hits. Though retired from singing, his influence in the industry remained unmatched.
Henry's grip tightened on the microphone, his palms slick with sweat. His throat felt tight, but he forced his spine straight. Damn, this lineup is intimidating.
The silence stretched for a moment before Jones leaned into his mic, smiling faintly. "Hello there. Tell us your name and where you're from."
"Henry," he said. His voice came out steadier than expected, surprising even him.
"Originally from Eart—" his tongue slipped, and panic spiked. His heart skipped a beat. Idiot! He caught himself quickly. "—from Ivory Spire," he added, forcing a crooked grin. "A little place no one's heard of unless they got lost on the way to somewhere better."
Laughter rippled through the audience. Even the judges smiled, the tension easing for a heartbeat.
Levinson flipped through the sheet in his hand, speaking with practiced calm. "From the information here, you're an independent artist, right? I also noticed there is no detail about the song you'll be perform today."
"That's right," Henry replied. His voice rang a little stronger now. "A day ago, my contract was terminated by my agency. So today, I stand here as an independent musician. As for the song—" he paused, letting the silence stretch, "—I just finished it yesterday. There wasn't enough time to register it.Sorry"
The cameras zoomed in. The audience murmured, the air thick with speculation.
"Independent?" someone whispered loudly enough for the mic to catch. "Sounds like he's fishing for sympathy votes."
Another voice added, "I've seen this trick before! Remember four years ago? That guy who said he was homeless and even brought a dog on stage? Reached the semis until they exposed him—turned out he was backed by a major agency all along.What a scum!."
"Yeah," another muttered, "makes you wonder if this one's the same."
Jones arched an eyebrow, studying Henry as though he were trying to peel away his soul with his gaze.
>Jessica leaned forward, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder, her voice warm but sharp. "Your courage is commendable. To come here after such a setback shows strong will. And performing an original at auditions? That's rare. I'm curious to hear what you've prepared."
Henry's grip on the microphone tightened. He bowed his head slightly before lifting it again, a faint smile appearing on his face.
"Thank you, Judge Jessica. Ahem!this song... was written for someone who was once very special to me."
He paused for a heartbeat, his expression turning unexpectedly nostalgic.
"Life doesn't always go the way we hope. Sometimes people walk into your life, and sometimes they leave just as quickly. Even so, I believe the memories are still worth cherishing. This song is my way of expressing those feelings... and perhaps giving that chapter a proper ending."
The audience fell silent, a few people already looking at him with sympathy.
...
Oh God... what nonsense am I spouting?
Henry nearly wanted to slap himself.
The song had been shoved into his hands by the blasted Superstar System five minutes ago.
There wasn't any touching story behind it.
There wasn't any heartfelt inspiration.
There wasn't even a dramatic midnight songwriting session.
He had literally made the entire thing up on the spot.
It's not like he had a choice. Every song needed a story, right?
Then another horrifying thought struck him.
Wait...
If my ex hears this later, won't she think I wrote it for her?
Henry's face almost twitched.
Absolutely not.
The predecessor had practically been thrown away like yesterday's trash after she found someone richer.
If that woman started crying to her friends about how he still couldn't move on...
Henry could already imagine her dramatically posting online:
"I never knew he loved me this much..."
He felt goosebumps crawl up his arms.
No, thank you.
Lady, you're giving yourself way too much credit.
Unfortunately...
It was already too late.
The lie had left his mouth.
All he could do now was finish the performance and pray thay history wouldn't rewrite itself into the world's biggest misunderstanding.
...
The hall quieted, the anticipation heavy enough to crush stone. Somewhere above, a stage light flickered, casting a fleeting shadow across the stage. The heat from the spotlights was suffocating now, his shirt sticking to his back. But Henry didn't waver.
He knew this song's worth. Time had proven it on Earth; it would prove itself again here.
Jones gave a rare small smile and leaned into his mic. "Alright then, Henry. The stage is yours."
Henry closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, steadying his heart.
The crowd leaned forward.
The spotlight centered on him, swallowing everything else in darkness.He raised the microphone to his lips.
Meanwhile, in a spacious private lounge backstage, two familiar figures lounged on a couch.
Liam sat lazily with his arm draped around Anne, his gaze fixed on the screen displaying the live feed. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Ha. I thought he wouldn't dare, but it seems I underestimated his stubbornness. What's he trying to prove here?"
Anne shook her head, her expression mixed with resignation. "I had a feeling he'd show up. He's always been hardheaded. Still… I don't know where he found the courage."
"Maybe he thinks he's some novel protagonist," Liam sneered. "But reality's cruel. Once he's eliminated, maybe then he'll understand."
Anne said nothing, eyes narrowing as she kept her gaze locked on the TV.
Back on stage, Henry gripped the microphone tightly as the music cue approached. The hush in the theater was absolute.
The spotlight blazed, isolating him against the vast dark.