As the time passes the more I started to realize—the competition wasn't really about talent or looks. It was about money.
-And i hated that-
At first, I thought it would be a fair competition. That if you had the right presence, confidence, and skill, you'd naturally rise to the top. But the deeper I looked, the more obvious it became: this whole thing was rigged.
There were 30 participants in the competition competing along with me. Out of them, only 10 would be considered "winners." And the grand prize? 500,000 KRD though only given to Number 1. But it wasn't just about the money. The top 9 contestants would also get media attention, brand deals, and a real shot at making it in the industry.
-At least, that's what they wanted us to believe-
-How the Rankings Actually Worked-
The first and second place winners were decided by votes. Not skill. Not talent. Just votes. And here's the catch—each vote cost 10 KRD.
-You could buy as many votes as you wanted-
So, if you had 1,000 KRD, you could buy 100 votes. If you had 10,000 KRD, you could buy 1,000 votes. There was no limit. You could literally just pay your way to the top.
-And people did-
The third and fourth place rankings weren't much better. Instead of votes, your position was based on how loud the crowd cheered for you when you walked the stage.
-That might sound fair—until you realize the event tickets weren't sold to the public-
If you wanted a crowd to cheer for you, you had to buy the tickets yourself and give them away to your family-the people you know off-random people to come to the for you. Each ticket cost 1,000 KRD.
So, if you wanted to place high, you had to spend thousands just to fill the room with people who would scream your name.
-By this point, I wasn't even surprised anymore-
Sixth and seventh place? It was still a pay-to-win system, just a different version. This time, it wasn't about how many votes you got, but how many individual people voted for you.
Same concept, different execution. If you had money, you could pay influencers, run ads, or offer incentives for people to vote for you.
And eighth, ninth, and tenth place? Those were the only spots actually based on talent. Judges with real experience in the industry picked the winners there.
-But those were the lowest rankings-
The system wasn't built to reward skill. It was built to reward whoever was willing to spend the most.
-What Was the Point?-
-I asked my self-
-I have money. I have fame. I could've played the game-
I could bought thousands of votes. I could handed out tickets and packed the venue with people screaming my name. If I wanted to, I could take the number one spot without even trying.
-But what's fun in that?-
-Where was the challenge? Where was the fun?-
-The joy of getting reward after putting efforts-
If winning was just about who had the biggest wallet, then it wasn't really winning at all for me.
As the event drew closer, I already my decision—I wasn't going to invest a single KRD. No buying votes, no handing out tickets, no paying people to scream my name. If I was going to compete, I was going to do it on my own terms.
And now, standing backstage, watching the crowd erupt in cheers for the other contestants, I felt the weight of that decision.
The energy in the room was electric. Every time a contestant walked out, their supporters roared, chanting their names, clapping like their lives depended on it. Some had entire sections filled with their fans—people they had personally brought in with thousands of KRD worth of tickets.
-Meanwhile, when my turn came… silence-
Well, not total silence. There was still polite clapping, maybe a few murmurs of recognition, but compared to the others? It was awkward. Uncomfortable.
I walked onto the stage, feeling the emptiness around me. No deafening screams, no overwhelming applause. Just a few scattered reactions that barely made a dent in the noise of the event.
-And yet, I kept walking—head held high, posture straight-
This wasn't about proving anything to them. It was about proving something to myself.
I knew how this would end before I even stepped on that stage. I wasn't naive. Without playing their game, without throwing money into the machine, there was no way I was making it into the top 10.
-And I didn't.-
The results were announced, and just as expected, my name wasn't on the list.
No shock. No disappointment—at least, not the kind that hurt.
-Just acceptance-
-Because this wasn't a failure. This was a lesson-
I stepped off the stage, not with my head down, but with a quiet sense of understanding.
If this industry was really just about who could pay the most, then fine. I am not going to fight a rigged system.
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