Gangster to Idol

The intermediate group delivered a solid performance, sparking a flicker of hope in the show.

Their act breathed new energy into the room, hinting at the potential to turn things around and lift the mood after the earlier disappointments.

Eventually, Cain stepped under the spotlight, the crowd hushed in anticipation. The lights dimmed, casting long shadows on his frame as the beat of Electric Heartbeat began to thump through the speakers.

The heavy bass reverberated through the room, syncing with the rhythmic pulse of his heart, but something was off tonight.

C.C. had always been a strong performer — sharp, dynamic, and charismatic.

But as he started dancing, it became painfully clear that his usual energy was lacking. His movements were still precise, each step perfectly timed, and every sharp spin or fluid transition showed his innate skill.

However, there was a stiffness to his performance, his expression contorted with discomfort as he tried to push through the pain that wracked his body.

Every muscle ache, every moment of fatigue, was evident on his face, and despite his effort, it was impossible to mask the strain.

His body moved, but his mind seemed elsewhere, preoccupied with the exhaustion that clung to him. His voice, which was normally alright, cracked under the weight of it all.

🎵 Feel the electric . . . heartbeat . . .

racing through my veins . . . 🎵

He sang the opening lines of Electric Heartbeat, but his voice lacked the usual clarity. It was hoarse, thin, and weak.

The passion and energy the song demanded wasn't there, and no matter how much he tried to muster it, the energy just wasn't translating.

Damien, watching from the side, was ecstatic. He cheered, pumping his fist to the beat. While Riku, standing beside him, felt the tension. He bit his lip, eyes glued to C.C., worry etched deep in his face.

"C.C., I hope you don't get eliminated," he muttered under his breath.

🎵 Pulse is quickening, can't stop the flow . . . 🎵

Cain's voice strained as he hit the chorus. Each note wobbled, his pitch faltering, and there were moments when his voice nearly gave out entirely. He pushed through, but the roughness of his voice betrayed him at every turn.

The mentors exchanged glances. Evelyn leaned forward, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

Kalista pursed her lips, tapping her fingers against her clipboard.

Jaxton raised an eyebrow, clearly baffled by the lackluster performance, though he couldn't hide his grin.

Mitchell sat back, arms crossed, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

🎵 Electric heartbeat, it's out of control . . . 🎵

Cain's dance moves, while still technically sound, lacked the usual spark. His jumps felt a bit heavier, his spins slightly slower, and the emotion behind his movements seemed muted, drained by the fatigue that clung to him like a shadow.

He grit his teeth through the pain, determined to finish, but it was clear he was struggling.

Kalista leaned over to Evelyn, whispering, "What happened to him? He's off. Completely off."

Evelyn nodded. "It's like he's running on fumes. He doesn't have anything left in the tank."

🎵 Feel the rhythm, feel the fire . . . but I'm burning out inside . . .

🎵

The line seemed to eerily reflect Cain's current state. His energy was fading fast, and it wasn't just visible — it was palpable.

The audience could feel the disconnect. There was no fire, no passion, just a performer trying to get through a song.

By the time the final note came, Cain looked exhausted. He gave one final, half-hearted spin before ending the performance with a pose that seemed more about balance than flair. His breathing was ragged, his face pale with fatigue.

The room was quiet for a moment. Even the audience, who usually clapped no matter what, hesitated. It was as if everyone could feel that something had gone wrong.

Damien was still cheering, oblivious. "That was great, C.C.!" he called out, sneering and mocking.

Riku stood frozen, wide-eyed. "C.C., you . . . are you okay?"

Cain stumbled off the stage, grabbing a bottle of water, gulping it down desperately. He couldn't even bring himself to answer Riku, too focused on catching his breath.

Fifi was covering her eyes all the time at Cain's performance. It had to be his worst performance yet.

The mentors began their critiques.

Evelyn was the first to speak, her voice calm but disappointed. "C.C., I can see you've been working hard, and I appreciate the effort you put in tonight. But . . . this wasn't your best.

Your voice, your energy . . . it just wasn't there. I'm giving you 5 points for effort."

Kalista sighed, shaking her head slightly. "You're talented, C.C. You've proven that before. But tonight? Looks like fatigue had caught up to you. I didn't feel any fire from you.

5 points."

Jaxton was the harshest. "I don't know what you were thinking, but you weren't ready for this performance. Your voice was shot, and your moves were sluggish. You have potential, but this was a mess. 2 points."

Mitchell leaned in, his tone firm but understanding. "Look, practice is essential, but so is rest. You're pushing yourself too hard, and it showed in your performance. Your body and voice can't handle that kind of strain without recovery. 5 points from me, and a lesson to take care of yourself better."

Cain swallowed hard, nodding silently. He knew they were right, but that didn't make it any easier to hear. He had never been one to overwork himself, always knowing when to step back and recharge.

But this time, his relentless drive to perfect his voice, to secure a spot in the next show, and complete the special mission to get those idol points, had backfired spectacularly.

As the score flashed on the screen — 17 points — the weight of his performance's failure settled in.

Cain stood in the wings, staring blankly at the stage as the next contestant was called up.

Riku glanced at him, biting his lip. "C.C., don't let it get to you. You'll bounce back. It's not the end yet. There's still many shows yet!"

But Cain wasn't so sure. His body was aching, his voice barely holding on, and his mind was already wandering to the next performance.

He had to figure out how to come back from this. He was only 7 points from getting eliminated. This couldn't keep up. Because in this world, one bad performance could be the difference between staying in the game or being forgotten.

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|| A/N ||

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