Dayo walked out of the arena quietly.

The roar of the crowd faded behind him until all that remained was the sound of passing cars and the evening wind.

His steps were slow, but his mind was calm.

He had done what he wanted to do.

He took the train from Washington to New York — about three and a half hours — then ordered an Uber home.

When he arrived, his mother was the first to see him. She stood up from the couch, surprised.

"Dayo?" she said. "You're home already? What happened?"

His little sister peeked from the hallway. Even she could tell something felt different.

Dayo gave a faint smile. "I'm fine, Mom."

His mother frowned. "Are you sure? Did something happen?"

He sat down and nodded slowly. "I'm fine. I just needed a bit of space."

She came closer and sat beside him. "What does that mean?"

Dayo looked down at his hands for a moment. "I fought my own fight. That's all."

His mother studied his face. She could see the exhaustion in his eyes — but also a quiet peace. She wanted to ask what exactly he meant, but she held back.

"Alright," she said softly. "Whatever it is, we'll stand by you."

He smiled faintly, appreciating that she didn't push. "Thanks, Mom."

She sighed and stood up. "Your father's at the back. He's been sitting there since morning. I tried talking him out of it, but you know how he is."

Dayo nodded and walked to the small yard behind the house.

His father was there, sitting on a wooden chair, staring at the sky.

The air was cool and quiet.

When Dayo walked up, his father didn't turn right away.

"You're back," he said simply.

"Yes, sir," Dayo replied.

There was silence for a few seconds before his father asked, "So… you left the stage, or what?"

Dayo nodded. "Yeah."

His father turned to him slowly, eyes steady. "Why?"

Dayo took a deep breath. "Because it felt right. I didn't want to fight dirty. I didn't want to lose myself in all this. I had to walk away — even if it meant giving up something I love."

His father stared quietly for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "I'm proud of you."

Dayo looked down, a small smile forming. "Thanks, Dad."

His father leaned back in the chair. "You know, losing your uncle broke me too. I won't lie about that. But I'm glad you understand what it means to stand by what you believe in. That's something not many people have."

Dayo nodded. "I get that now. I just don't want us to fall apart. I know how hard it's been for you."

His father chuckled faintly. "You sound older than your age, son."

"Maybe," Dayo said softly. "But I had to grow up fast."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, watching the fading sky.

Then Dayo smiled. "Alright, Dad. Let's go in. I'm cooking tonight — your favorite."

Jason looked at him and smiled. "Haha, very well then. Let's go."

Dayo walked inside and started preparing dinner. His whole family joined him in the kitchen, helping, teasing, laughing.

Watching them move around, seeing everyone together — it gave him peace.

After all, there was always home to come back to when everything else fell apart.

That thought alone was enough.

---

Later That Night

Somewhere far away, behind the scenes, the production team for The Global Stage held a late-night meeting.

The conference room was silent at first — only the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the air. Then, gradually, voices began to rise — sharp, divided, restless.

On the large screen at the front of the room was a paused image of Dayo mid-performance, eyes closed, mic raised. The timestamp showed the moment before he had dropped the mic and walked off the stage.

Alice sat at the long oval table, her hands clasped together, watching as the rest of the team argued.

"He's out of the competition," said Mark, the executive editor, leaning forward. "There's no reason his segment should take the main spotlight again. We should cut his screen time in half."

Someone else nodded. "It makes sense. The focus should be on contestants who are still active. Keeping him at the center doesn't help us."

Another voice cut in sharply. "But Dayo's performance was too good. The crowd loved it. Cutting it now will backfire. Viewers will accuse us of being biased."

That last comment drew quiet murmurs. Everyone in that room knew Dayo had been the face of the show from the start. His performances drew millions of views every week — more than any other contestant combined.

Still, the air in the room was heavy. There was pressure — unseen, but present.

The director, Mr. Howard, sat at the end of the table, rubbing his temples. Moments ago, he'd stepped out to take a phone call. Everyone knew who it was from.

Michael.

And his words still echoed in Howard's mind:

> "Do whatever it takes to tone him down. The spotlight on Dayo ends now."

Now, as the team argued, Howard spoke quietly.

"We've received word from the higher offices. We'll have to reduce Dayo's airtime for the next episode. The focus should be on the remaining contestants."

The room went silent.

Alice looked up sharply. "With respect, sir, that's not fair. The episode is already edited. His performance carried the whole show. Viewers will notice if we cut it."

Howard met her gaze, tired but firm. "I know. But it's a directive. I don't want trouble from sponsors or investors."

Mark smirked. "Exactly. We can't keep glorifying someone who's no longer competing. The audience will move on."

Alice turned toward him, voice calm but pointed.

"That's not how audiences work, Mark. You don't erase the person who made them fall in love with the show. They'll see right through it."

Whispers spread through the room — two sides forming: those for Dayo, those against.

Finally, Alice exhaled. "Then let's vote. We've gone in circles long enough."

The motion was seconded. Hands went up one by one.

When the last hand went down, the result was clear — five for cutting Dayo's part, three against.

Alice closed her eyes briefly. She knew this was coming, but it still stung.

Howard nodded. "It's settled. We'll trim his segment to half the time. Adjust the sound balance, and make sure the teaser for next week focuses on the others."

The team began packing up, but Alice stayed seated, staring at Dayo's frozen image on the screen.

She remembered the last time she saw him — after an interview had been reassigned from her. He had walked down the studio hallway, tired but polite, still thanking the crew. There was something about him that made her believe he deserved more than what the system was offering.

"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.

Her assistant looked at her. "Ma'am?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just… save a copy of the original edit. Don't delete it yet."

The assistant hesitated, then nodded.

As the others left, Alice stood by the glass wall, looking out at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Dayo was probably home, resting — unaware that decisions were being made about his legacy.

She sighed.

"The industry isn't fair," she whispered, "but sometimes… the truth finds its way back."

Then she turned off the screen and walked out, the reflection of Dayo's image fading slowly into darkness.

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