The days blurred together. Training, rehearsals, sleepless nights. By the time the competition was finally set to begin, the hotel felt like a boiling pot. Contestants barely spoke to one another now, their nerves so tight it felt like every word might shatter them. Some stayed in their rooms, muttering lyrics to themselves. Others disappeared into the studios, running scales, testing arrangements again and again, trying to fix last-minute doubts.

The whole area felt cold years of hardwork was put into place to get here and half of the numbers would not see the end of the night it was scary and exciting.

For many they would bid goodbye and some would move to the mext satge all in all the hotel felt hot.

Dayo felt it too. The weight pressing on his chest wasn't just about his own performance—it was the weight of knowing that half of them would be gone by tomorrow. He wasn't ready to go home, not now, not after everything he had built.

The evening arrived, and buses took the contestants to the venue.

The arena was unlike anything Dayo had seen before. A massive dome, packed with tens of thousands of screaming fans, neon lights cutting through the dark like blades. The stage was enormous, designed with sweeping LED panels that shifted and bent like living walls. Cameras floated on cranes above the crowd, while drones hovered overhead, broadcasting every second to millions around the world.

The noise was deafening. The air, electric.

Backstage, contestants gathered in a tense line. Then, as the lights dimmed, a voice thundered through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the Global Competition!"

The crowd erupted, cheers crashing like waves. Spotlights cut across the arena, landing on the stage where the host stepped out.

He was a tall man in a black suit with an effortless smile, the kind of person who could hold a stadium's attention with a single glance. A world-class presenter, one whose face was known across continents. His voice carried confidence and rhythm, each word feeding the fire of the crowd.

"For years," he continued, "artists from every corner of the globe have been fighting for this chance. Tonight, sixty of them stand ready. But only thirty will remain after this stage."

The roar was deafening. Contestants backstage stiffened, hands clenched tighter each making a silent prayer.

"And now," the host spread his arms wide, "let's meet our judges!"

One by one, the spotlight fell on them at the long panel table in front of the stage:

Amara Bello, Nigerian pop icon whose voice had defined a generation.

Lucien Duval, French classical conductor with a sharp tongue and sharper ears.

Carolina Vega, Latin American producer behind dozens of chart-topping hits.

Hiroshi Tanaka, Japanese singer-songwriter turned international mentor.

Adele Strauss, German opera legend with unmatched stage presence.

Marcus Cole, American R&B veteran known for brutally honest critiques.

Each waved as their names were called, the audience screaming louder with every introduction. Together, they looked like an impossible wall—six different masters of music, each ready to dissect every note.

The host gave a nod. "Our judges are ready. Our contestants are ready. And our world is watching. So let's begin!"

The crowd rose to its feet. The competition had truly started.

The first few contestants went by in a blur—nervous voices, shaky starts, a few bold surprises. Dayo watched carefully from backstage, soaking in the energy, memorizing how each performance was received. Every cheer, every critique was like data feeding into his mind.

He made discoveries that shocked him there were people stronger than his roommates.

Then it happened.

"Next up… Contestant Twenty-Seven versus Contestant Fifty-Seven!"

That was him. Dayo inhaled sharply, his hand brushing the mic he carried. But first, it was Miguel's turn.

The lights dimmed, and Miguel Alvarez stepped onto the stage. He was shorter than Dayo remembered, his nervous smile trembling as he faced the sea of cameras. His dark hair was neatly combed, his shirt tucked too tight, like he was trying to look sharper than he felt.

The host handed him the mic. "Introduce yourself to the judges."

Miguel bowed slightly. "My name is Miguel Alvarez, from Mexico. Contestant number fifty-seven." His accent was thick, but his voice steady enough to carry.

Judge Carolina leaned forward, smiling kindly. "And what are you going to sing for us tonight, Miguel?"

He swallowed hard. "An original song. It's called 'Skyline Dreams.'"

Marcus Cole raised an eyebrow. "And why this song? Why now?"

Miguel hesitated, then gripped the mic tighter. "Because… my whole life, people told me I couldn't make it here. That I wasn't special enough. I got this chance through a raffle. Everyone says it's just luck. But for me, this is my dream. And tonight, I want to sing about what it feels like to reach for something bigger than yourself—even when nobody believes you can touch it."

There was a pause. Even the audience quieted, hanging on his words.

"Alright," Marcus said simply. "Let's hear it and goodluck."

The track began, soft piano chords spilling into the arena. Miguel closed his eyes, then began:

🎵 "I was a shadow chasing lights,

Always told to stay behind.

But the skyline called my name,

And I refused to walk in shame.

Now I'm standing where I dreamed,

A million voices, can you hear me scream?

This is more than chance—it's the fight inside,

These skyline dreams will never die." 🎵

His voice wasn't flawless, but it was pure. Honest.And it carried the dreams. Each note carried a tremor of nerves, yet also a sincerity that made people lean closer. As the song built, his tone grew steadier, stronger:

🎵 "From the ground I learned to rise,

With broken hands, with tear-stained eyes.

Even if I fall tonight,

Know I reached for something bright.

This is more than chance—it's the fire in me,

These skyline dreams have set me free." 🎵

By the time he finished, the crowd erupted. Cheers thundered across the dome, some people already standing. Miguel stood there, chest heaving, his hands shaking as the music faded.

The judges exchanged glances.

Amara Bello leaned into her mic first. "Miguel, I'll be honest—I didn't expect much. You were a raffle draw, and most people would've said luck put you here. But that… that was heartfelt. I felt your fight in every note although there's room for improvement it was a beautiful perfoemance."

Lucien Duval nodded curtly. "It wasn't perfect, but perfection doesn't move people. You did. That was music, in its truest sense."

Carolina Vega smiled warmly. "You reminded us that sometimes the underdog can shine the brightest. Beautiful choice."

The other judges murmured their agreement, each giving their own mix of praise and critique. But the consensus was clear: Miguel Alvarez had exceeded expectations.

Backstage, Dayo tightened his grip on the mic. His opponent had just raised the bar higher than anyone thought he could. The crowd was buzzing, the judges impressed.

And now, it was Dayo's turn and the pressure was immediate but he took a deep breath and he was ready.

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