The stage roared to life, every sculpted angle and polished surface shining like the production crew's collective magnum opus. This was the first ti the world would see it, and it looked like a damn art installation: bold, geotric, abstract, modern, immaculate.
The trainees filled the amphitheater seats, buzzing with nerves and excitent. Front and center, three plush couches waited for Tuesday, Luca, and Foca — the judges' throne. A matching couch sat nearby for Cat, their ever-slaying host.
And right on cue, the trainees erupted into screams as Cat strutted onstage like she owned Milan Fashion Week.
"Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening! Ladies, gentlen, and everyone in-between — welco to LEAVEN!" Cat announced, staring straight into the caras like they owed her money.
"Tonight, our trainees will perform for their second evaluations. We'll get to see just how much they've grown since arriving here. Are you ready?!"
A thunderous YES!
"But first, let introduce our evaluators."
She turned with a flourish.
"First — the ever beautiful, ever stunning, ever radiant… Tuesday Sumrs!"
Tuesday blew a kiss, glowing like a fairy princess.
"Next — the charr, the heartbreaker, the dangerously handso Luca Giovanni!"
Luca flashed his panty-lting grin and winked.
"And last — and certainly not the least…" Cat winked wickedly, "the mastermind behind everything, the man who made all this possible… Focaccia!"
Foca gave a polite nod, looking cozy and classy.
"And of course, I'm your host, Cat Dealey! Let's get this party started!"
The amphitheater roared.
Cat continued, "The trainees were given freedom to perform solo or in groups. They could choose from a song list, or perform originals if they pleased. But rember — even in groups, evaluations are individual. So no hiding behind the friend who can sing high notes."
Finally: "Please welco our first group of trainees! They chose a song from a Swedish two-ti Euroversion winner."
The first group perford, then lined up nervously for the comnts.
Tuesday stared at them, lips twitching as she searched for a diplomatic way to roast them on broadcast television.
"So…" she began. "I feel like so of y'all got the short end of the stick. Since the original was from a solo artist… I feel like the part distribution was abysmal."
So trainees nodded so hard their necks cracked.
"Who divided the parts?" Luca asked.
The trainee in the center raised his hand with Olympic-level confidence. "I did."
Luca tilted his head. "Just performance-wise… don't you think the distribution was a little unfair?"
"Not at all," the trainee replied instantly, without a single brain cell pausing to consider the question. A few teammates glared daggers.
"And why's that?" Luca asked.
"I assigned parts based on capacity," he said calmly. "Certain mbers simply can't handle responsibilities at the level I or so of the others can. To show the best performance possible, I had to distribute accordingly."
Logically… okay. Emotionally? Everyone wanted to throw a shoe at him.
Foca sighed through his nose — the "I'm trying so hard not to say what I really want to say" sigh.
"I'll be honest," Foca said. "You all did your best. But so of you overestimated yourselves. Dragoon, correct?"
"Yes." Dragoon stepped forward, posture perfect, ego iron-clad.
"You said your teammates couldn't handle the parts you took. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Then why," Foca asked calmly, "were you flat or sharp in most of your—very many—parts? And why were your ad-libs all over the place, overshadowing your teammates? Were those even rehearsed?"
"Yes, they were."
"No, sir, they were not." One of his teammates finally snapped. "He added them during the performance."
Dragoon shot him a death glare so sharp it could've skinned a deer. His jaw flexed, but he stayed silent — probably to avoid confirming he was exactly the asshole everyone knew he was.
Foca shook his head. "We evaluate individually. And so of you who grabbed the most 'responsibility' may have just shot yourselves in the foot."
Tuesday added, with full rachet auntie energy, "Mm-hmm. So of y'all really thought you were the Bayoncé, but… that performance said drunk karaoke at best."
Oof.
Dragoon's soul left his body.
As the group left the stage, the trainees murmured among themselves.
"Bro, that was painful."
"They just dragged Dragoon's ass."
"They clocked him, then re-clocked him for good asure."
****
As the performances rolled on, a few stood out right away. Ryu and Corsair blended their voices like they were born harmonizing; it felt effortless. And Isaac? That man's raw, unfiltered tone cut through the room and lit his whole group's performance on fire.
But for every standout, there were… let's just say, groups that needed a couple more days of practice — or honestly, should've never been grouped together in the first place.
Akash and Adel's team? They didn't just fumble — they cratered. Their biggest mistake was picking a song that had no business being paired with their voices. Adel and Akash have this haunting, earthy, almost ethnic color to their tone, and it clashed hard with the dance pop track they chose. And to make things worse, one teammate decided to choreograph the whole thing like they were headlining the freakin' Super Bawl. What ca out was a chaotic hodgepodge that didn't know what it wanted to be.
With more ti and so real training, sure — they could've adapted to the style. But right now? They looked like confused robots trying to pop and lock their way through a Top 40 hit.
On a brighter note, the evaluators were pleasantly surprised when Leo finally showed what he could really do — without nearly blowing out his vocal cords. He and his team delivered a genuinely impressive take on a rock song from a video ga soundtrack, and it actually worked.
And then, of course, Kang Ian's team. They simply dominated. Their rendition of a K-pop girl-group banger absolutely demolished the stage. They stayed loyal to the original, but added just enough of their own flavor to make it fresh. They walked that line between masculine and feminine energy so damn well. And Mika? Jesus. You'd look at him and think "rapper," but nope — he opened his mouth and belted the bridge like a beast, kept the original female key, sang it an octave higher, and owned it.
Kang Ian, being the perfectionist king he is, kept the harmonies tight as possible — practically identical to the original. The choreography was sharp, refined, and not a single person lagged behind. And the wildest part? The none Korean speaking mbers learned the Korean lyrics in under a week and still sounded natural. Under Kang Ian's leadership, that team wasn't just good — they steamrolled the competition.
****
PS-
Dragoon and his team perford "Tattoo" by Loreen
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