As dinner finally wound down, the kind of fullness that had nothing to do with food settled over the hotel. Plates were cleared, glasses refilled, and laughter lingered like warmth clinging to skin. Most of the trainees drifted toward the main lobby, pulled there by the crackling fire, the plush seating, and the quiet promise of rest. Some collapsed onto couches, groaning dramatically and clutching their stomachs, victims of their own lack of self-control at the buffet. Others sat cross-legged on the carpet, shoes kicked off, talking in low, lazy voices—about home, about nothing, about everything.
The lobby itself felt alive. The fireplace roared softly, throwing gold and amber light across marble floors and wooden beams. Snow pressed against the tall windows outside, but inside, it was all warmth, breath, and heartbeats.
Bobby wandered toward the grand piano near the fire almost without thinking. Music had always been his reflex—when things got loud inside his chest, his hands found keys. He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and started fiddling. Nothing serious. Just muscle memory. Just sound.
A few careless notes drifted out at first, soft and exploratory.
Then something clicked.
His fingers stilled for half a second before falling into a familiar progression. One he loved. One that knew him too well.
As his hands began to move with intention, the chatter around the lobby slowly faded. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence. Laughter softened. Even the fire seemed to hush, as if leaning in.
The melody filled the space—gentle but heavy, beautiful but aching. It carried longing in its bones.
Bobby didn't notice the shift. He was already gone, swallowed by the song.
And then he sang.
🎶 Close enough to start a war
All that I have is on the floor 🎶
His voice was lush and intimate, like a confession spoken into the dark. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It slipped between ribs and curled around hearts, tugging on old wounds that people thought had already scarred over.
🎶 God only knows what we're fighting for
All that I say, you always say more 🎶
A few heads bowed. Someone's fingers tightened around a sleeve. A mother in the back covered her mouth, eyes shining.
Bobby sang like he always did when he forgot the world existed—eyes half-lidded, shoulders loose, voice cracked open and honest. He didn't see the way people were drawn closer, how the lobby had slowly rearranged itself around him, orbiting that piano.
When he reached the pre-chorus, something shifted.
🎶 I can't keep up with your turning tables
Under your thumb, I can't breathe 🎶
Suddenly, another voice slipped in beside his.
Then another.
Ryu and Corsair had stepped forward without a word, their harmonies weaving around Bobby's melody like hands reaching out in the dark. Their voices blended so seamlessly it was almost frightening—smooth, aching, devastatingly beautiful. The sound rippled through the room, raising goosebumps on every exposed inch of skin.
Bobby startled slightly, eyes flickering open—but his hands never stopped. His fingers kept moving, trusting the music to carry them all.
More footsteps joined the circle.
When the chorus hit, a different voice cut through—strong, raw, burning.
🎶 So I won't let you close enough to hurt me
No, I won't rescue you to just desert me
I can't give you what you think you gave me 🎶
Eli.
He sang like he was bleeding out every truth he'd ever swallowed. His voice rang with defiance and grief, every note sharp with history. If Bobby sang the song like a memory, Eli sang it like a reckoning—as if the words were aimed straight at a ghost that he had longed to meet his entire life.
A few people realized, all at once, that he was crying. Crying for the person that he'll never get the chance to meet.
He didn't wipe the tears away.
When the second verse came, Mika stepped forward, voice trembling but resolute. He sang like he was staring down the faces of everyone who had tried to break him, every voice that had told him he was fat.
🎶Under haunted skies I see you, ooh-oohWhere love is lost your ghost is found
I braved a hundred storms to leave you
As hard as you try, no, I will never be knocked down 🎶
The line landed like a vow.
Bobby, Ryu, and Corsair lifted the pre-chorus together again, the three of them sounding like one soul split into harmony.
Then the second chorus arrived—and it soared.
Isaac's raw, gritty voice collided with Monarch's clear, high, fearless tone. One grounded, one flying. Pain and power braided together into something transcendent. It was the kind of harmony that didn't just sound good—it meant something.
By the time the bridge approached, there wasn't a single dry eye left untouched.
Kang Ian stepped forward slowly, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself. When he sang, it felt like watching someone finally turn their back on a nightmare.
🎶 Next time I'll be braver
I'll be my own saviour
When the thunder calls for me 🎶
His voice cracked, but he didn't stop. He sang through it, through the fear, through the weight of trauma and loss of his innocence.
Then Jordan joined him.
Jordan, who knew he wasn't the strongest singer in the room. Jordan, who had spent years being told he wasn't enough—by teachers, bullies, even his own father. His voice wasn't perfect. It didn't need to be.
He sang because his heart demanded it.
🎶 Next time I'll be braver
I'll be my own saviour
Standing on my own two feet 🎶
They looked at each other as they sang—two boys choosing themselves for the first time.
That was when the dam broke.
Tears fell freely now. Parents clutched their children. Trainees reached for each other's hands. Cat stood frozen near the edge of the lobby, one hand pressed to her chest, eyes glassy with awe.
When the final chorus hit, everyone joined.
Voices rose—dozens of them—imperfect, powerful, human. The sound swelled until it filled every corner of the hotel, echoing off walls that had never heard anything like it. Staff stopped in their tracks. Loved ones peeked out from hallways. The world narrowed to that moment.
They sang not as competitors, not as trainees—but as survivors.
As family.
Bobby, Ryu, Corsair, Aqua, Isaac, Kang Ian, Nikola layered harmonies. Mika, Eli, and Monarch went feral with soaring riffs and ad-libs, voices climbing higher and higher like they were clawing their way toward the light.
The final note rang out.
Then—
Silence.
A holy, breathless silence.
And then one clap.
Another.
Until the room erupted.
Cheers crashed like waves. Applause thundered. Trainees collapsed into each other's arms, laughing and crying and holding on like they'd drown if they let go.
For that moment, every scar felt lighter.
And no one was alone.
****
PS-
The song sang in this chapter is one of absolute favourites. It's "Turning Tables" by Adele.