Glossy wooden floors. A stunning golden curtain, pulled back at the sides with wide satin ribbons. Warm, muted lights. Empty rows of red velvet seats stretching up into the darkness. Down at the foot of the stage—a long table. And behind it, the judges—the only people in the entire theater, apart from me, a couple of camera guys, and a plump woman with fiery red bob and a microphone clutched in one hand.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat catching on every nerve, and forced my legs to carry me to the center of the stage, right onto the white tape X. The mic stand waited. Four pairs of eyes locked on—three belonged to men, and the fourth, a woman who looked maybe thirty-five. None of them looked even vaguely familiar—not that I watch much TV, but still.
And here is an Asian man, possibly a Korean... Are we really going to have a joint project with Korea?
I made a silent promise to myself that as soon as this audition was over, no matter how it went, I would go online to find out something about their music scene.
"Number three-twenty-two," the woman with the shimmering white-blonde hair began, reading from her clipboard, "Tate Miller, age twenty… From New York?"
She stared at me, her face practically screaming: Why am I still here? Why am I asking this for the three hundred and twenty-second time today?
"Yes," I replied in a hoarse voice. I cleared my throat, trying to sound at least a little less scared.
"Interesting hair color," said the guy with round glasses, he had long, half-gray hair that he pulled back into a ponytail. He smiled, and I just nodded, clutching the microphone with all my might—my hands needed something to do before I started shaking.
"Pretty cute," the Asian judge said matter-of-factly, jotting something in his notepad—zero accent, his voice smooth and even.
"Where did you learn to sing?"What is it?" the hollow-cheeked man asked, watching me from under his overhanging eyebrows.
"Self-taught," I said, holding his gaze.
And not the slightest bit embarrassed about it, either.
"Well then…" The blonde let out a sigh that screamed Here we go again. More wasted time. "What are you going to perform?"
She didn't even look at me—her gaze was fixed on the polished table in front of her, on which she was tapping a rhythm with neon pink nails..
"Evanescence. 'Call Me When You're Sober'," I answered without missing a beat.
The judge flicked her eyes up, black liner perfectly sharp, and gave a tired little smile.
"Again?" she sighed with a soft laugh. "Gentlemen, just how many times are we hearing this song today?"
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her thin, bracelet-laden arms—probably half her weight in jewelry.
Not even a twitch from me. Cold sweat was trailing down my neck and back, but my face didn't give anything away. I knew exactly how popular this band was—even if their star had faded a bit in recent years. Amy Lee's legendary vocals, the whole deal. But honestly, I was here to test myself. If nobody in this room was impressed, nothing catastrophic would happen. I didn't care how many times this song had echoed through these walls today.
"Susie, be nice," an elderly man in round glasses gently chided her, and his friendly smile turned to me. "Start when you're ready, Tate." It's late, but we've got your full attention.
And there it was—that lump in my throat again. "Get on with it, already!"
I drew a deep breath, filling my lungs until it hurt, closed my eyes, and let it out slowly.
And then the music started—playing only in my head. My own private orchestra, conjured from thin air. The imaginary instruments, the phantom band, all of it exactly as it had always been. Like it was back in foster care, like it was in every desperate moment, like it was at my mother's funeral. Back then, I couldn't hear anything at all. That was when I first learned this trick—how to make music inside my mind. How to block out the world, letting nothing in but the melody that kept me breathing, dreaming, moving forward.
I could hear it now—the piano. Soft and melodic, gentle but unbreakable. The notes rippled, edge to edge… just the way I felt them.
And the—boom—the whole orchestra in my head exploded into life: guitars crashed in, bass vibrated through my bones, drums pulsed in a wild, urgent rhythm… The first words tore themselves from my chest at just the right moment.
I sang the only way I knew how: feeling every phrase, every word, every single note. Living inside them. Becoming one with the music in my mind—with the world the song created inside me. I was flying. Not above the stage, but somewhere else entirely—in another world, another reality. I sang soft, but with a raw edge. Fierce, melodic. From one end of the spectrum to the other—exactly the way I do it.
"My" music faded out in the hush of a last guitar chord. My voice went silent.
I set the mic back on its stand. Opened my eyes, blinking against the glare of the camera—now pointed right at me, when just before, it had been switched off and facing the floor.
My breath came in heavy bursts—this song was a beast, both vocally and emotionally.
Of course, I looked at the judges. Four stone statues, eyes like spotlights, every gaze pinned straight at me. No way to read those faces—nothing. Not a flicker of approval or disappointment. Not even a hint. Just… blank.
Reserved—that was the word for them. So, so reserved.
The Korean judge spoke first, drilling me with those dark, sharp eyes.
"So, why did you choose this song?"
Standard audition question, I guess. But hey, if they're not saying "Thank you, next," maybe things aren't a total disaster?..
"Just because I like it," I replied, still fighting to catch my breath.
"Or is it because, without musical backing, this particular piece shows off a singer's range rather nicely?" The blonde smiled, but there was nothing warm about it. "You think a song we've already heard a dozen times today really helped you stand out? Is that why you picked it?"
I tried to give her the softest smile I could manage. Not sure I pulled it off.
To be honest, if you don't have the patience or endurance to endure the entire qualifying round without losing your composure and objectivity, then why the hell did you even go as a judge for such a large-scale competition? Who is this woman anyway? What does this have to do with rock music?
"I think I already answered that, didn't I?" I said, giving her my sweetest smile and refusing to look away.
She laced her fingers together and leaned across the table, just a bit.
"Just because you like this song?"
"Exactly," I said, snapping my fingers—which was probably a terrible idea.
Suzy—or whatever her name was—arched her brows in total confusion.
"I just want to say that this song can make an impression, even if there's not a whole band behind it," I immediately added.
"Oh, so you think you made an impression on us?" Suzy's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Not me. The song itself can be impressive," I replied gently.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory.
"What do you mean, 'a song without real music'?" the hollow-cheeked man asked, sounding genuinely interested. "I've never heard anyone say that before. It sounds… broken."
I turned to him, making a conscious effort to keep my voice soft.
"I just meant that you don't need to shake the whole building for a performance to be powerful. Sometimes, as long as you can hear it in your own head, that's all that matters." I tapped my finger to my temple.
The man with the hollow cheeks nodded, solid and approving. Suzy let out a sound—maybe a scoff, maybe a laugh—and looked away. The Korean judge kept scribbling in his notebook. The guy in glasses was grinning ear to ear, clearly pleased with my answer.
I let out a quiet breath. Well, at least someone here was on my side.
"You do realize you sang it in the wrong key, right?" the man in glasses asked, his tone friendly.
"I do," I nodded. "That's just how I always sing it."
"And where, if you don't mind me asking?" he continued.
"Nowhere, really." I shrugged. "I just like humming it to myself. Like, when I can't fall asleep. Or when time's crawling by way too slow."
"Interesting," the man in glasses said, giving me a thoughtful, lingering look. "I appreciate your honesty."
"The interpretation was just so-so," Suzy interjected, her eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down, "but I'll admit—it wasn't bad. Not the worst we've heard today."
"Agreed completely," the Korean judge said, twirling his pen in the air.
The hollow-cheeked man nodded again, solid as ever.
And the guy with glasses was still beaming at me.
"Do you know what level of vocal singing you have?"
"Of course I do." I gave a little shrug.
Suzy snickered.
"That sounded kind of loaded."
I didn't bother to explain that what I really meant was "my level is nowhere near perfect."
Not that the man in glasses gave me a chance to clarify.
"Could you come here for a moment?" he waved me over.
I jumped off the stage and only then realized that there were steps very close by. Susie let out a loud, exasperated sigh. The Korean judge grinned.
"Here." The man in glasses stood and handed me a plastic badge on a thick satin lanyard.
"What's this?" I took it carefully, my hands shaking.
"A ticket to Disneyland!" Suzy cackled. "You really are something, girl."
"It's your pass to round two," the man in glasses said with a warm smile.I blinked hard a few times, staring at the large badge with "Participant" and my name printed on it.
"Show this to the assistants in the side room—they'll take you to the bus if you don't have anywhere to stay tonight. You're from New York, right?"
It wasn't really a question, but I nodded anyway, meeting his warm brown eyes through the thick lenses.
"Well? Go on." He nodded toward the door.
"Oh, this isn't even close to over…" Suzy groaned, already turning to talk to the Korean judge.
I backed out of the hall, still completely speechless.
Wait… Did I just make it? Did I seriously pass the first round?
"Welcome to 'Rock Without Borders!'" the man in glasses called after me, then turned back to his colleagues.
Barely containing the scream of pure joy rising in my chest, I bolted from the hall.
My blood was roaring in my ears. My knees were shaking. My breathing was even heavier than after my song. And all I wanted to do was laugh. Laugh at the top of my lungs. This was it—my chance, and I'd actually grabbed it.
I did it! I actually did it! I can't believe it…
Me. I made it.
Grace's jaw is gonna hit the floor.
"The guy in glasses said to show this," I gasped, flashing my pass to the assistant.
The girl smiled wide, raising her brows in surprise.
"The guy in glasses?"
I think I nodded—or maybe I just grinned like an idiot. Either way, my knees were still shaking.
That's it. First round, done! You can finally relax, Tate. Worry about everything else tomorrow. Tonight, you're allowed to actually get some sleep. I mean… can I really sleep now?
"Tate Miller," the assistant read off my badge, "just so you know, that 'guy in glasses'—" she dropped her voice to a whisper, "is actually the director of Victory Records himself."
My eyebrows shot up. Suddenly, everything snapped into focus—the room stopped spinning and my brain, momentarily forgetting about the euphoria, finally clicked back into place.
"Don't look so shocked!" she laughed, nudging me toward the dressing room door. "No one had any idea he'd show up for the very first audition. Total surprise!"
She glanced at my pass one more time, muttered some memorized congratulations I didn't really catch, and motioned for me to grab my stuff from the chair.
Oh, Gibson, I'm sorry!
I snatched up my guitar and bag in a hurry.
"There's a week before the next round," the girl explained, escorting me to the bus. "After that, they'll cut the number of contestants way down. All this time, you'll be filmed for the show—there'll be interviews and intro segments, all that stuff. You'll get all the details soon, but whatever you do, keep your pass on you at all times. Seriously, sleep with it if you have to. For the next seven days, contestants are staying together in the same hotel, three or four to a room. If you've got somewhere else to stay, you'll have to be at the hotel by eight a.m. for filming. Lose your pass, and you're out. Got it?" She eyed me, making sure it sank in. "You don't have anywhere to stay, do you?"
I shook my head.
"Alright then," she nodded, "hotel it is. Most people who made it through are from out of town, but don't let that fool you—this crowd isn't all sweethearts. Competition's fierce, so stay sharp. And get ready for round two—that's when the real battle starts. Especially with the judges they've lined up."
"Wait, what do you mean?"
We stopped in front of the bus, already packed with contestants and plastered with a huge 'Rock Without Borders' logo down the side.
The girl smiled, patted me on the shoulder, wished me luck, and told me to check my pass for all the info. Then she hurried off.
I immediately stared wide-eyed at my plastic badge. At the very bottom, printed in tiny silver letters under all the other details, was a note: "Special guest judges for round two and beyond—fan-favorite, chart-topping rock band of the year: Fallen Bliss!"
Holy crap.
My arms dropped to my sides, my back pressed against the cool metal of the bus, and my gaze drifted up to the star-studded Los Angeles sky.
Well, Tate. Looks like this round might be your first and last.