The Master of Ceremony's voice crackled through the speakers, barely audible over the thunderous applause and chanting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please... if we could have some order..."
His pleas fell on deaf ears as the crowd continued to roar their approval for Brandon and BMG.
"13! 13! 13!"
"BMG! BMG! BMG!"
The people in the audience were from the elite families of the world nurtured in the strictest of environments but they were also teenagers— teenagers who thrived in chaos.
On the judges platform, Headmaster Alaric chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He leaned over to Director Annabelle, speaking loudly to be heard over the din.
"Now that, my dear, is how you make an entrance into an industry!"
Annabelle tried to maintain her professional composure, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"It was... certainly unexpectedly dramatic," she admitted, unable to hide the pride in her voice.
"Unexpected? It was brilliant!"
Alaric exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
"That boy is both charismatic as he is cunning!"
Annabelle's facade cracked, and she let out a laugh.
"Heh… like father like son," she agreed, her eyes following Brandon's retreating figure.
Meanwhile, beside them, Gerald Sinclair sat rigid, his face a mask of barely contained fury. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension.
'How dare he?' Gerald's thoughts raced, his mind a tempest of rage and calculation.
'This brat, this... nobody thinks he can challenge the Sinclair empire?'
He watched as the crowd continued to chant Brandon's name, each repetition like a dagger to his pride.
Gerald's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the spot where Brandon had disappeared backstage.
'A revolution huh,' he scoffed internally.
'As if the industry needs saving. We've built this empire on blood and sweat. Who is he to tear it down?'
But beneath the anger, a cold fear began to creep in. Gerald's mind raced, analyzing the potential fallout.
If Brandon's message resonated, if artists flocked to BMG...
'No,' he thought, his jaw clenching.
'We can't allow this. The Sinclair name has stood for generations. We won't be toppled by some pretty boy with a guitar.'
A darkness settled over Gerald's features, his eyes glinting with malice. He'd dealt with threats before, crushed those who dared to challenge the Sinclair dominance.
This would be no different.
'Brandon Blackstone,' he mused, a sinister smile playing at his lips.
'You have no idea what you've started. But I promise you, by the time I'm done, you'll wish you'd never picked up that microphone.'
Back in BMG's assigned green room, Brandon collapsed onto a plush leather couch, his heart still racing from the adrenaline of his performance.
His eyes locked onto the massive flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, where the voting results were about to be revealed.
The screen flickered, and a holographic bar materialized, stretching across its width. Numbers began to tick upward, a vibrant blue light filling the bar from left to right.
"Holy shit," Brandon muttered, his eyes widening as the percentage climbed higher and higher.
80%... 85%... 88%...
The bar finally settled at a staggering 90%, glowing proudly above where Brandon would've stood.
The Master of Ceremony cleared his throat, tapping the microphone to regain the audience's attention. The crowd's chants gradually subsided, anticipation hanging thick in the air.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the results are in," he announced, his voice echoing through the grand ballroom.
"In this round, Blackstone Music Group's '13' versus Morgan Records' 'The Dolls'..."
"With an overwhelming 90% of the votes,"
The MC's voice boomed,
"the winner of this round is... Blackstone Music Group's '13'!"
The crowd erupted once more, their cheers drowning out any further announcements.
Hovering beside the MC was a Morgan Records voting bar which only reached the 10% mark. Beneath it stood Darrel Morgan, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
The harsh stage lights cast deep shadows across his features, making him appear almost ghoulish.
Darrel's eyes darted frantically between the screen and the cheering audience.
His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. The once-cocky heir to the Morgan empire seemed to shrink under the weight of his defeat, his shoulders slumping as reality set in.
As the camera panned across the audience, it caught glimpses of Jong-kook and Catherine.
Jong-kook's face was contorted with rage, while Catherine's expression was a mix of surprise and grudging admiration.
Back in the green room, Brandon let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
'Hah! At least there's nothing wrong with the people's taste in this world, all they lack is someone to open their eyes…'
The camera panned across the judges' faces, most beaming with approval. And then it landed on Gerald Sinclair.
Brandon leaned forward, studying his expression. Gerald's face was a mask of forced neutrality, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
As the voting breakdown appeared, it became clear that Gerald was the sole dissenting voice, his Morgan Records sign standing out starkly against the sea of BMG's logo.
"At least he has the balls to stay shameless till the end!"
Brandon chuckled, shaking his head.
The door burst open, and Jessie rushed in, her face flushed with excitement.
"Boss! Did you see—"
"Yeah," he nodded, gesturing to the screen.
"Looks like we made it to the finals."
"Boss, that was incredible! You've got everyone talking out there," she exclaimed, gesturing towards the door.
Brandon nodded, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Thanks, Jessie. But we can't rest on our laurels just yet. Did our camera crew record the performance?"
Jessie's expression turned serious, her professional demeanor taking over.
"Of course! I made sure everything was captured from multiple angles. We've got high-quality footage of the entire performance and the audience reactions."
"Perfect," Brandon said, leaning forward.
"I need you to get our media team on this as soon as the gala ends. We need the clips, including that of the red carpet press exchange, edited and posted on all our official social media pages ASAP."
Jessie's brow furrowed slightly.
"Right away, but... why the rush?"
Brandon's eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
"We need to control the narrative, Jessie. The traditional media outlets are still mostly under Sinclair Media Group's control. Who knows how they'll choose to portray us?"
Understanding dawned on Jessie's face.
"You're right. If we get our version out first..."
"Exactly," Brandon nodded.
"We set the tone of the conversation. We show the world what really happened."
Jessie nodded vigorously, already pulling out her phone.
"I'll get on it right away. We'll have that footage up before anyone else can even think about twisting the story."
"Good," Brandon said, leaning back with a satisfied smile.
"This is just the beginning, Jessie. We're going to change the game, one performance at a time."
Jessie's grin was infectious, but it slowly morphed into worry.
"Are you sure you want to proceed with your plan? What if you get disqualified for making too much of a scene?"
Brandon waved his hand dismissively, a confident grin spreading across his face.
"We're here to make a statement, Jessie. Whether we win or not in the end doesn't matter," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"We've already shaken things up. But a gala is technically a party, no? Now it's time to really get this party started. Let's light this place up!"