An angel descends, everyone finds a little peace.
Pastor Bronson had two thoughts at once. First, if he had that voice, he could daydream about the papacy. Second, why didn't the night follow the script he already wrote in his head.
On the projector, Azazel beat Red Lion. You could've guessed that with a toenail. How's a beast supposed to beat an angel?
"My steak just turned into caviar," Pastor Bronson muttered, using his own weird metaphor to say he was floored.
Round three felt bland. He'd been to the Maldives, now someone took him to a kiddie splash bay. Big gap.
Even though Magician was the famous comedian Navis, nothing stirred him. His head was still ringing with the afterglow of that song. Hunger gnawed anyway, so he moved like a puppet to pan-sear a steak.
If you want a single line to sum up how hard Chu Zhi's voice hit him, here it is. He plated his steak, lifted the fork, and forgot the caviar.
"My God, I forgot the most important part. Who eats steak without caviar? Wait, my feeling's right…" He left the food, opened the blue bird app.
Sure enough, ten minutes after Azazel's performance, Twitter blew. Three of the top ten trends belonged to a show that hadn't even aired an hour.
#Azazel
#WhoIsAzazel
#VoiceOfAnAngel
"I'm an atheist, but you can see the light of faith."
"How can anyone hate this? I'm fighting throat cancer, this comforts me."
"If you've heard Bible stories, you won't dislike this song. It's so simple, but it holds so much."
"The world's rough. I cried in Canada looking at my grandma's photo before she passed. God bless you, granny, rest easy."
"He moved a wooden heart. I'm a lonely person, and this gave me hope."
Stuff like that went on and on. Pastor Bronson scrolled two pages. Ninety-nine percent said they were shaken by this pure Christian song. The other one percent wanted to know who Azazel really was.
Watching the discourse like a hawk, Pastor Bronson tapped out a fresh post.
Bronson, Spreading Love: "#VoiceOfAnAngel So angels sing after all. I heard compassion in Azazel's voice, a wish to save the fallen and heal everyone's heart. I'd love to meet him and talk about spreading God's glory."
When he drafted it, he deleted "he's absolutely devout." He was sure, but, well, the name's from a Jewish legend. Better be cautious.
The production wasn't idle either. In North America, new songs get registered with the big four, ASCAP, BMI, SESAC, and SoundExchange. When Fox checked the listing for Azazel's piece, the database showed: "Per creator's request, details are temporarily sealed. We can share that performer and creator are the same person." That's Fox working with Aiguo's registration to hide the trail.
"Go on then, take off, Season Seven." Producer Lukinsky stared at the online chatter dashboards. He didn't need to wait for Sunday's ratings report. He could tell they'd cleared a fifteen percent household share. Sure, that's nowhere near the Super Bowl halftime's thirty online, but check yearly variety numbers. American Idol's peak myth was fourteen.
Crack ten percent and you're a juggernaut. Side note, the U.S. measures household share, not individual rating like back home, which runs higher by method.
"I hope Mr. Chu Zhi sings another gospel piece in episode two," Lukinsky murmured. "A few like that, and Mr. Chu Zhi will become America's, no, the world's most beloved singer among Christians."
That idea scared the head writer Augur a little. He isn't religious, but he grew up soaked in it. His parents are devout, both in their sixties, and somehow they're fans of that Chinese singer too.
"As long as he keeps his private life clean," Lukinsky added.
Augur got why it's scary. At this rate, he could reach that target. Imagine a Chinese artist with that kind of influence across the West and beyond. It makes you shiver.
"Who do we line up against Azazel next?" Augur asked.
"That's a brain teaser," Lukinsky said, frowning. With Chu Zhi's level, the four remaining masked singers, plus tomorrow's substitute, would all get crushed. Pick anyone and it's their funeral.
One line fit perfectly. Your only mistake is choosing to be my enemy.
"Any ideas?" Lukinsky asked the room.
Forty-plus minutes, ads included, wrapped by nine. The internet flipped. Folks who cried blasphemy before the show aired watched the real thing, then realized the promo had been restrained. Wild path no one expected.
More important, Jesus Loves Me didn't need a critic to explain chord voicings or thematic arcs. It's plain, it's clear. If you went to a community school, or didn't, if you've ever heard Bible stories, you don't hate it. Most people loved it. A comment nailed it: if you've heard Sunday School once, you'll get it.
"What was I doing, resisting this? Will God forgive me?"
"I'm dying to know who he is. I want to thank him. He gave me strength."
"I'm sorry. So sorry. You brought us hope, I hurled insults."
"I need to go to church tomorrow."
"If he releases an album, I'm buying it. There's sunlight and redemption in that voice."
Social feeds filled with apologies and hopes. Short posts can't carry all the backstories, so here's one.
Ochter Gannady looks mid-thirties, actually under thirty. Her skin ages fast, though her color's healthy. She's in home clothes, rocking her two-year-old. Her eyes keep drifting to a sand timer on the nightstand, the only gift her ex, Bookie Sofara, ever gave her. The rest of their time together, he gave her nothing but "ecstasy and ruin."
Knock, knock. The door rattled. She startled.
"Ochter, it's me. Can I come in?"
It was her father, Devron Gannady. Ochter said, "What is it, Dad? Come in."
"What's wrong, Dad?" She saw his swollen eyes. Looked like he cried. She tensed.
Devron drew a deep breath. "Ochter, I'm sorry. I've hidden something from you."
"What is it?"
"Mr. Sofara's been sending you letters, one a month, for two years," Devron said. "I hated him too much. I saw his name and thought of what he did to you and Bryant, so I intercepted them all. I never gave you a single one. I'm sorry."
Bryant's her son. He was born with a mitral valve problem, weak since birth. Bryant means strong. The whole family hoped he'd grow sturdy.
"Dad, are you alright? It's okay," Ochter said quickly. "I forgot about him long ago. I know you were protecting me. He's no good for the baby, even if he's the father."
"Ochter…" Devron had peeked at the letters. It wasn't right, but he feared she'd get tricked again. Before she met Bookie, Ochter was a straight-A model student.
"I brought them. Thirty-one in total." He set down a stack of envelopes and a biscuit tin, then left, giving her space.
Why the sudden change? He'd just watched Azazel sing Jesus Loves Me, and the line, whether right or wrong, the Lord forgives us, got inside. He checked the letters, saw Bookie trying to change. He had no right to block them.
Ochter looked at the envelopes, then at the child, back and forth, again and again.
For the fact he's the father, she told herself, let's read them in order.
May 2023: "Ochter, I've decided to quit. For the kid, and so I can face you like a man."
June 2023: "I almost failed. I told my dad to check me into rehab. I need to succeed. You and the baby are my faith."
July 2023: "They say I need a full year clean after rehab before I count as clean. It's so long. I'm scared I'll fold. Were you that scared back then? Ochter, I won't ask you to wait, but when I make it, I'll find steady work and send support with my own pay. Please don't refuse."
The letters got longer. Maybe he had more to say. He started to ask about her, too. Tears pooled in her eyes.
June 2024: "Half a year out. No reply. Maybe no reply's the best reply. I still get cravings, but the thought that I could see the kid in a few months flows warm through me. Did you name him? Can you tell me? Don't worry, I won't disturb him without your say. Good news, I'm a community patroller now. Stable hours, nothing much at night. I'm reading, studying. Can you believe a Chinese singer's music gives me strength? I sent an album. Give it a listen. — Bookie Sofara."
Letter by letter, Bookie crawled from a junkie toward a person.
The last one was months ago.
November 2024: "I pulled a kid from danger today. The addict behind the wheel was me, the old me. He tore through the neighborhood like nobody's life mattered. I saw it, and I was there to act. Maybe God gave me a shot at atonement. Thank God the girl's okay, only scrapes. Her name's Catherine. She's adorable. I bet our kid's just as cute. I want to see him. I want to see Noble Holiday with you again. I know I'm babbling. My head's fuzzy. The doctor's taking me to surgery. I'm scared. I don't want to die. I haven't played catch with my boy. If God takes me, can I be selfish once? Please tell him his birth father's name is Bookie Sofara."
The handwriting was different. Someone took dictation.
Nothing after November. Four months silent. Ochter didn't dare think the worst. Maybe he's badly hurt, can't write. Maybe a coma. She'd take a coma. He's still alive.
Her hands shook as she opened the tin. There was some cash and a CD, The One Gazed Upon by Gods. Her tears finally broke, flooding down.
…
Audiences can pivot fast. Priests and pastors had it rougher. A few had hats ready to throw. Now, well, you can lie with a straight face, but it's risky.
Most deleted posts and hid at home.
Small thinking. Watch the big names.
Pastor Ned pivoted. "I confess to God for my misunderstanding. I feel peace now, because it means there was no sinner in this matter. I'm comforted we've found another excellent preacher."
Pastor Tris followed. "Jesus Loves Me suits church playback. When the singer's identity's public, I hope to ask permission to use it. I don't know why he picked Azazel. Maybe the show forced it, maybe it means something else. Saying he didn't understand religion, that was my error. Anyone who can write and sing this understands faith."
Watertight. Untouched.
Entertainment always answers demand, even when demand's twisted, like staff squeezing fans for obscene "gifts."
North America, with Mexico in the backyard, sits deep under Hollywood's shadow. Fox's online and offline guessing game around Azazel's identity exploded.
Whoever lands a clue gets clicks, a reporter gets paid, the audience gets their curiosity scratched. Fox can leak a tiny hint and who cares. Everybody wins.
Reporters swarmed. Based on the Masked Singer schedule, Azazel's next recording is tomorrow. More than thirty North American papers posted up at the building doors, photographing every celebrity walking in or out, crossing names off one by one.