Cheers and whistles pierced the air as people leapt to their feet, their faces alight with excitement and awe.
The sound swelled, filling every corner of the vast room, reverberating off the ornate walls and crystal chandeliers.
Even the usually composed Headmaster Alaric rose from his seat, his eyes wide with intrigue and excitement.
His wrinkled hands came together in enthusiastic applause, a rare smile breaking across his face.
Beside him, Director Annabelle stood, tears glistening in her eyes. Her usual stern demeanor had melted away, replaced by an expression of unmistakable pride and joy.
The electric atmosphere crackled with energy, sending shivers down spines and raising goosebumps on arms.
People turned to their neighbors, eyes wide and mouths agape, exclaiming and gesturing wildly as they tried to put into words the extraordinary experience they had just shared.
"Did you hear those lyrics?" a woman in a sparkling blue gown asked her companion. "The way he compared card suits to different aspects of life... it's brilliant!"
Her friend nodded enthusiastically.
"The spades as swords, clubs as weapons... it's like he's painting a picture of conflict and war."
Nearby, a group of students huddled together, dissecting the song's meaning.
"And the diamonds?" one asked. "He said they mean money for this art."
Another student chimed in, "I think it's a critique of the music industry. You know, how everything's about money and not the actual art."
"After all, he says 'that's not the shape of my heart,'" a third added.
"It's like he's rejecting all of that. He's saying he's not in it for the money or the fame."
The discussions continued to ripple through the crowd, each person finding their own interpretation in Brandon's powerful lyrics.
As the applause continued to swell, Gerald Sinclair's face contorted with rage. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the judges' table.
*THUUDDD!*
Suddenly, he slammed his palms down hard, causing the glasses on the table to rattle.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, pushing himself to his feet.
The audience's cheers began to falter as Gerald snatched the microphone from its stand. His eyes bulged, face flushed an angry red as he glared at the crowd.
"What are you all cheering for?" he sneered, his voice echoing through the ballroom.
"That was nothing but a boring, meaningless drivel!"
A confused murmur rippled through the audience. People exchanged awkward glances, their enthusiasm dampened by Gerald's sudden outburst.
"You think the market will accept this garbage?"
Gerald continued, practically spitting into the mic.
"This isn't music! It's pretentious BORING nonsense masquerading as art!"
The applause died down completely now, replaced by an uncomfortable silence.
The audience shifted awkwardly, many turning to stare at Gerald with a mix of shock and disbelief.
"Wake up, people!" Gerald shouted, his voice cracking slightly.
"This boy is nothing but a fraud! A talentless hack trying to fool you all with fancy words and a pretty face!"
As Gerald continued his tirade, it became increasingly clear to everyone in the room that he was lying through his teeth.
The Master of Ceremony watched in horror as Gerald Sinclair's rant continued, his eyes darting nervously between the irate judge and the increasingly uncomfortable audience.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
"Is there no limit to his shamelessness."
He could see the looks of disdain spreading across the faces in the crowd. Some were shaking their heads, while others whispered to their neighbors, clearly disapproving of Gerald's outburst.
"This is going to be a PR nightmare," the MC hissed through clenched teeth.
"I've got to shut this down before it gets any worse."
Without wasting another moment, he signaled frantically to the tech booth.
The lights in the ballroom suddenly blazed to life, momentarily blinding Gerald and causing him to stumble mid-rant.
Seizing the opportunity, the MC dashed onto the stage, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. He snatched the microphone from Gerald's grasp with a swift, practiced motion.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the speakers.
"What an electrifying performance we've just witnessed!"
He flashed his most charming smile, hoping to dispel the tension that hung thick in the air.
"Now, let's hear what our esteemed panel of judges has to say about this new talent!"
The MC turned to face the judges' table, silently praying that someone would have the sense to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
Director Annabelle cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
"Mr. Sinclair, if I may," she began, her tone firm but measured.
"I believe you've missed the point entirely."
"This song is an intricate masterpiece, it isn't just about a gambler, is it?"
All eyes turned to Brandon, who stood calmly on stage, unfazed by Gerald's outburst.
He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You're right, Director," Brandon replied, his voice carrying across the silent ballroom.
"Life is a gamble, and we're all trying to beat the house."
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd. Gerald's face turned an even deeper shade of red, but before he could retort, Headmaster Alaric jumped to his feet.
Or rather, he tried to.
As he stood up, the top of his head barely cleared the judges' table.
For a moment, he looked comically frustrated, his wispy white hair just visible above the polished wood.
Undeterred, Alaric began to clamber onto his chair.
His small hands gripped the armrests as he hoisted himself up, his oversized robe tangling around his legs. With a determined grunt, he finally managed to stand atop the chair, swaying slightly as he found his balance.
"Hah!" Alaric exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"That's the beauty of this song! The duality lies in the fact that the lyrics can apply to a large spectrum of people, even as this young man pointed out, the house."
Director Annabelle nodded approvingly, a rare smile gracing her features.
"Indeed, Headmaster. And if I may add," she continued, her gaze sweeping across the room, "most of us here no longer play this game of life for money or respect once reaching certain levels. We play to manipulate, as the song puts it, the sacred geometry of chance, to understand and mold the hidden laws behind probable outcomes."
She turned to Brandon, inclining her head slightly.
"Bravo, young man. Bravo indeed."
Gerald's face contorted with rage, his eyes bulging as he shouted into his mic.
"Nonsense!" he spat, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth.
"You're all being fooled by this... this charlatan!"
He jabbed a finger accusingly at Brandon, who remained calm on stage.
"Cards? Gambling? Is this what we're calling music now?"
Gerald's voice rose to a shrill pitch.
"It's childish drivel, nothing more! We should be discouraging gambling, not glorifying it in song!"
His eyes darted to the row of music critics, shooting them meaningful glares. A few of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats before one cleared his throat.
"Mr. Sinclair does have a point," the critic said, adjusting his glasses.
"The metaphor is rather... juvenile."
Another critic nodded vigorously.
"Indeed. And promoting gambling, even metaphorically, is quite irresponsible. Think of the impressionable youth!"
Gerald's lips curled into a triumphant sneer.
"You see? Even the experts agree! This boy's so-called 'art' is nothing but rubbish!"
He turned back to the audience, his voice dripping with disdain.
"Are we really going to let this nonsense pass for music? Are we going to allow our industry to be degraded by such amateur attempts at profundity?"
The music critics, seemingly emboldened by Gerald's approval, began to chime in with their own criticisms.
"The performance was boring" one called out.
"Lyrics were unrelatable," another added.
"Hardly radio-friendly," a third critic sneered.
Gerald nodded approvingly at each comment, his confidence growing with every insult hurled at Brandon's performance.