Gangster to Idol

The next few trainees stepped onto the stage, and everyone could feel the tension crackling in the air.

One by one, they strutted forward, some overly dressed in lavish outfits that screamed desperation, while others were woefully underdressed, lacking the charisma their performances needed.
Your journey continues with m v|l-e'm,p y r

A girl in a glittering gold gown twirled onto the stage, her elaborate dress sparkling under the lights. But the crowd didn't cheer.

Instead, there was a collective cringe when her movements became stilted, clearly hampered by the heavy layers of fabric. Her shoes — heels far too high — made her stumble during her dance routine, killing any energy she had built up.

Her voice was shaky, struggling to keep up with the elegance she tried so hard to portray.

Then came another — a guy in a simple, oversized hoodie and jeans. He seemed relaxed, but the lack of stage presence was impossible to ignore.

His performance, while technically sound, was dull. No flair, no excitement. His appearance, too casual for the stage, made it hard to believe he even cared.

Through it all, Felice sat still, her smile never vanish from her face, watching with eyes as sharp as daggers.

When the gold-dressed trainee finished, Evelyn and Mitchell gave polite remarks, offering constructive critiques.

Kalista gave her usual measured response, focused on the need for balance between performance and style.

But then it was Felice's turn. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the judge's table, her expression demure.

"Zero," she said, her voice slicing through the air.

A hush fell over the room.

Zero?

The trainee's face turned pale. She stammered, trying to comprehend, but Felice didn't waver. "If you can't move properly in your costume, it's a distraction. You lacked poise, and your performance suffered for it."

The trainee's eyes welled up with tears, but Felice didn't care. "This isn't a fashion show gone wrong — it's a competition. You must wear something that enhances your talent, not buries it."

The guy in the hoodie was up next. He shifted nervously, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt as if he already knew what was coming.

Felice didn't even wait for him to speak.

"Zero." Her voice was cool, cutting through the atmosphere like a blade.

His mouth fell open. "But—"

"You didn't even try," Felice said, her tone icy. "Your look is sloppy. There's no passion, no effort. This isn't the streets. This is the stage. If you don't care about your appearance, how can we believe you care about your performance?"

Felice was ruthless. There was no middle ground with her. No "7" or "8" points for effort. You either impressed her, or you failed completely.

It wasn't about just the singing or the dancing — if she liked the style, the aura, the charisma, she'd throw out a perfect "10" like it was candy.

But if you fell short, even slightly, there was no mercy.

Some whispered that she was an angel, bestowing her divine approval with grace if you hit the mark. But others thought she was a demoness in disguise, waiting to crush you if you dared to underwhelm her.

Either way, she struck fear into every performer who stepped onto the stage. They never knew which side of her they would face.

The tension in the room grew with every performance. Trainees stood backstage, nervously adjusting their outfits, some wishing they had gone with a different look, others second-guessing their choices entirely.

No one knew where they stood with Felice, and that unpredictability terrified them.

The cameras captured every moment in flawless detail, and the production team couldn't have been more ecstatic. This was what the reaction they wanted!

With Felice's hundred million devoted fans, the ratings for RRR was going to skyrocket through the stratosphere.

Of course, she was an angel, perhaps even a goddess in human form!

To some, Felice was the ultimate judge — brutally honest but fair.

To others, she was impossible to please, with her expectations so high that one misstep would spell disaster.

The only certainty was that there was no middle ground.

"I... I'm glad I got a perfect score," Riku stammered backstage, finally able to breathe now that his performance was behind him.

"C.C., good luck. I'm sure Miss Felice will give you a perfect score too," he added with a smile, looking admirably at C.C.

Cain didn't respond, simply heading straight for the stage when his name was called.

As soon as he stepped into the spotlight, the audience gasped and fell into a stunned hush.

C.C.s physique was already impressive, but tonight, his look took it to another level. He wore a sleek black coat layered over a fitted vest, with a charcoal grey suit and matching gloves that made him look like a suave, untouchable figure.

Every detail of his appearance was meticulously sharp, but it was his aura that set the stage on fire.

He had always exuded charisma without even trying, but tonight . . . tonight, his presence was overwhelming, magnetic.

The moment the music started, the crowd was spellbound.

Cain launched into a sultry, smooth song, his voice weaving through the rhythm, accompanied by a slick, hypnotic hip-hop dance.

His movements were calculated, powerful, and a little dangerous — each step oozed confidence, and the way he blended sexy with cool had everyone on the edge of their seats.

The crowd couldn't contain themselves.

"C.C.! You can spit on me any day!"

"I swear, this man just got the entire planet pregnant!"

"My ovaries just signed a lease!"

The room erupted into chaos, people shouting wild things as Cain continued his performance, unphased. His charisma had the whole world wrapped around his finger.

When Cain finished his performance, the crowd was still in a frenzy. It looked like at any moment they might storm the stage.

The audience was utterly spellbound — some girls were even crying, desperate for a chance to touch C.C. as if he were a god among mortals.

"Whoa, that [Charm Bracelet] and that dance . . . man, that's some killer moves," Fifi muttered while lounging lazily, swinging his leg from the top of the spotlight like a carefree observer.