The studio lights blazed brighter than ever —tonight was the first live round, broadcast nationwide. No second chances, no retakes. Millions will watch.
Amina waited backstage, dress borrowed from a kind seamstress on the neighborhood. Her shook as she gripped the microphone, whispering her lyrics under her breath.
Vanessa walked past in shimmering gown, pausing just long enough to murmur:
"Careful out there, songbird. Cages aren't the only thing that snap."
Amina ignored her, but unease coiled in her stomach.
When her turn came, she stepped onto the stage. The crowd buzzed, cameras zoomed in, the band struck the first chord—
And nothing.
The mic was dead.
The audience stirred. Confused murmurs. A camera caught Vanessa in the corner, hiding a smirk.
Panic slammed through Amina's chest. She tapped the mic once, twice—still silence. Heat crawled up her neck. Not now. Please, not here.
From the judges' table, Adrian raised an eyebrow, signaling the crew. But the technicians scrambled, too slow.
Something in Amina snapped.
She closed her eyes.
And sang anyway.
No mic, no music—just her voice, raw and unguarded, cutting across the hushed studio. The first note wavered, but the second burned, the third soared. Her voice filled the space like wildfire, cracking through doubt, silencing whispers.
By the second verse, the audience leaned forward. By the chorus, they were on their feet. The cameras captured every second —her unpolished strength, her refusal to crumble.
When the final note broke into silence, the crowd erupted. Applause thundered, drowning out the embarrassment of the failure.
The technicians scrambled to fix the mic, but it no longer mattered.
Backstage Vanessa's nails dug crescents into her palm. Her sabotage had backfired.
At the judges' table, Adrian scribbled a single word in his note book:
"Unbreakable."
Amina bowed, breathless. Her heart still raced with terror, but deep inside, a truth took root:
They could cut her mic. They could twist her story. But they couldn't silence her voice..