The next morning came fast. When the group assembled in the studio, Dayo and Maya were already waiting with fresh sheets spread across the table.

Emily raised her brows. "You two didn't sleep, did you?"

Maya only smiled, sliding the pages forward. "We worked on the arrangement. Adjusted some of the weak spots. Just… see for yourself."

They tried it. Emily played the new chords on the piano, humming softly as she tested the tone. Tyrell dropped into a steady beat, Dayo guided the melody on guitar, and Maya slipped in the lines she had polished overnight. Even Frank, after a pause, lifted his trumpet and tested a few notes against the changes.

The sound filled the room—and for the first time, it didn't feel rough. It felt like a real song.

Emily looked stunned. "This… this actually sounds like something."

Tyrell grinned, twirling his drumsticks. "Mad. Real mad."

Even Frank muttered under his breath, arms crossed, "Not bad."

Dayo glanced at Maya. She returned the look, proud but already scribbling more notes.

That was the start—and they built from there.

Synergy began to form. Emily expanded the chords, giving the piano a fuller sound. Tyrell added fills and rolls, making the rhythm pulse like a heartbeat. Frank, reluctant at first, tested a bolder trumpet riff, then another—confidence creeping into his playing without the sharp tongue this time.

It wasn't perfect, but for the first time, they were moving in the same direction.

DING!

(Writing Skill has improved. You're close to a breakthrough.)

The faint text flickered across Dayo's vision. He didn't react outwardly, but inside his chest, excitement surged.

This proved his theory that working with people who had strong skills could sharpen his own. Practicing with Maya, especially, was pushing him forward. He filed the thought away, already planning to use it wisely.

---

The following days fell into a rhythm.

Mornings began with warm-ups—vocal exercises to keep their voices steady, light stretches to keep the body loose, and water breaks to protect against strain. After that came specialized training.

For Maya, it was constant work on her Korean pronunciation. Dayo patiently coached her through lines, repeating phrases until her singing matched the flow.

For Tyrell, it was pressure drills on the drums—building stamina so his rhythm wouldn't falter under the stage lights.

For Emily, it was refining her pitch, since she was carrying the English lead. She pushed her voice again and again until her lines flowed like water.

And then there was Frank. He handled the bridge. He still carried an attitude, but he worked hard. Dayo noticed it. Whenever Dayo adjusted something, Frank was quick to mirror it with his trumpet, almost as if refusing to be outdone. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was rivalry. Either way, Dayo didn't complain. Progress was progress.

Their voices cracked. Instruments wore down. Notebooks filled with scratched-out lyrics. But each rough edge is smoothed out with practice. Arguments turned into compromises, and by the end of each night, they walked out stronger than when they walked in.

By midweek, they weren't just five individuals anymore. They were starting to feel like a group. Emily's harmonies wrapped around Dayo and Maya's Korean lines. Tyrell's rhythm locked with Dayo's guitar. And Frank's trumpet, sharp and bold, gave them a unique flair no other team had.

It was exhausting, but no one dared slacken. Everyone knew the next elimination would cut ten names. No one wanted to be on that list.

That thought alone kept them grinding, even when their bodies begged for rest.

---

By the time the final rehearsal ended, the room felt heavy with fatigue.

Dayo looked around at his teammates—faces tired, shoulders slumped. They had worked themselves raw. He knew if they carried this energy onto the stage, nerves might crush them. They needed something different, something to reset their minds.

He stood in front of them. "I want to congratulate you all for making it this far. We've evolved and made ourselves better. You all deserve a break. So, as your team leader, I'm taking you out. My treat."

Tyrell blinked, then burst out laughing. "Wow, Dayo the rich kid." He shook his hand with a grin.

The girls almost squealed. After such a stressful week, the idea of a breather lit them up.

"Oh, Dayo, you're so handsome and caring. Come marry me," Maya said shamelessly, earning laughs.

Emily, usually the reserved one, even joined in. "No, no. Not Dayo. He's already taken—by me. Didn't you tell her, Dayo?"

"….."

They all looked at him, then broke into laughter. The tension melted instantly. For a moment, the fear of elimination faded, replaced by simple joy.

And Dayo could afford it now. Thanks to the system rewards and his growing status, he was practically a mini-boss. Covering a small outing was nothing.

He glanced at Frank. "Are you coming?"

Frank only shrugged and walked out without a word, leaving a faint chill behind.

The silence threatened to sour the mood, but Tyrell quickly jumped in. "Well, more food for me then."

The group of four burst into laughter again and headed out, determined to enjoy themselves, even if just for one evening.

---

Across the ocean, in a quiet New York office, Michael sat behind a wide desk as city lights reflected against the glass walls. His assistant slipped in silently, holding a tablet.

"Sir, we retrieved the clip."

Michael didn't look up. He just gestured.

The footage played: Dayo receiving the envelope, glancing at it once, then tearing it to pieces without hesitation. The scraps fell into the bin. No pause. No second thought.

The assistant shifted uneasily. "He didn't even check the offer."

Michael finally leaned back, narrowing his eyes at the screen. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Most people at his level would beg for a shortcut. But he doesn't even flinch."

The assistant asked quietly, "Doesn't that make him harder to manage, sir?"

Michael's smirk widened, though it held no warmth. "Exactly. He's the kind of artist who refuses favors. Who doesn't bend? Who can't be bought? That makes him dangerous."

He tapped his desk lightly, already calculating. "But it also makes him worth watching. Hard to deal with, yes… but the ones like him? They're the ones who change the game."

The screen dimmed, but Michael's thoughts lingered. For the first time in years, he felt curiosity stir.

"Dayo Jason," he whispered, almost amused. "Let's see how far your stubbornness carries you."

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