"Okay, that was a good start," Foca said with a pleased nod. "Now… who's next?"
His eyes swept across the trainees like a lazy spotlight—
then stopped.
Locked on one poor soul.
A slow, wicked smirk curled on his lips.
"Bobby. You're up."
A wave of cheers rolled through the room as Bobby stood like a man on his way to the gallows, whispering a tiny, desperate "help me," which only made everyone laugh harder.
"Bobby, you're pretty versatile," Foca said, leaning back casually. "You can sing, rap, dance… and I don't think I'll ever recover from the memory of you booty-shaking, by the way."
Bobby's face went scarlet. Like tomato-level. Like "sunburn in July" level.
He shook his head vigorously, silently begging God and every ancestor that Foca would forget that moment. Spoiler: he won't.
"But anyway," Foca continued, eyes gleaming, "I'm curious what else Bobby Miller might bring to the table."
Panic. Full, visible panic washed over Bobby.
He searched his brain like he was flipping through a cluttered filing cabinet.
After a good thirty seconds of suffering, a lightbulb finally flickered on.
"Uhh… can I pull up the lyrics?" Bobby asked, already fumbling for his phone. "I don't know them by heart."
"Go ahead," Foca said, settling in with a look of honest anticipation.
Bobby tapped away, found the song, inhaled deeply… and then opened his mouth.
And the second—
THE SECOND—
the first line left his lips…
The room detonated.
🎶 Yeah, you fuckin' with some wet-ass pussy
Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet-ass pussy… 🎶
Every trainee—EVERY SINGLE ONE—lost their damn minds.
The shy, soft-spoken, sweet-as-honey Bobby
was rapping about a soaked vagina
in the most casual tone imaginable
like he was reading a grocery list.
He was so focused on his phone he didn't even notice the pure chaos erupting around him.
Foca nearly doubled over laughing.
Aqua, Kitty, Javi, and Pink screamed like banshees, waving their arms like hyped-up aunties at a school talent show.
People were falling off their seats.
Someone choked on their water.
Someone else was wheezing.
It didn't take long before half the trainees joined in, turning the room into a full-blown, high-energy rap circle…
about a drenched vagina.
It was obscene.
It was unhinged.
It was art.
Foca had a fleeting thought of, There's no way in hell we can broadcast this.
But he shoved that worry aside.
Right now?
Everyone was having the time of their lives.
When the madness finally died down, the energy in the room was still sky-high—buzzing, electric, the kind of chaos that sticks to your skin.
"Bobby… Bobby… oh sweet, sweet Bobby…"
Foca shook his head slowly, grinning like he was witnessing a cosmic miracle wrapped in pure chaos. He stared at Bobby Miller as if the boy had just reinvented comedy itself.
"Why did you choose that song?"
At last.
The question every single person in that room had been practically screaming internally.
Bobby clasped his hands in front of him, looking like a kid about to confess to stealing cookies.
"Erm… it's the song I would most likely avoid at all costs," he admitted. "My parents would definitely kill me if they saw me rapping this. So… um… Mom, Dad, please forgive me. Just this once. I swear I'll never do it again."
He looked straight into the camera as he said it—eyes wide, pleading, like he was delivering a hostage message—which set the entire room off AGAIN. People doubled over. Someone slapped the floor. Someone else wheezed like a broken accordion.
"If you knew your parents would kill you for doing that song, why pick it?" Foca asked, wiping tears from his eyes because he had absolutely laughed himself half-blind.
Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "Um… I don't… do well when I'm put on the spot. I kinda blanked out completely. The only reason I remembered the song is because I heard Nikola rapping it at the top of his lungs in the shower last night."
Silence.
Then—
BOOM.
Another explosion of chaos.
Half the trainees immediately turned to Nikola like hungry wolves spotting a wounded deer. They jumped on him with teasing, poking, elbowing, dragging him through the comedic mud for "corrupting the pure and innocent Bobby."
"Welp, I guess it's all Nikola's fault," Foca declared dramatically. "Anyway, good job, Bobby. And for what it's worth… I'll help speak to your parents about this incident."
The way Bobby exhaled—full-body relief.
Like he'd just been pardoned from the electric chair.
With Foca stepping in, maybe he wouldn't end up buried six feet under.
Maybe just… a mild concussion. A bruise or two.
Nothing modern medicine can't fix—right?
Jokes aside, the gratitude on Bobby's face was real.
Foca was a man of his word, and Bobby trusted that.
It softened the panic still fluttering in his chest, settling into something warm, grateful, peaceful.
****
As the class went on, more trainees stepped out of the shadows—some quietly, some dramatically—but each of them revealing a new layer the others hadn't seen before. And a few… damn, a few really stole the spotlight.
One of them was Nikola.
Twenty-three, German, with naturally wavy brunette hair and amber eyes that looked like they'd been stolen from a forest spirit. Born an artist, raised an athlete, and absolutely done with living someone else's script. He'd joined the program without telling his family—didn't say a word until he was already on a plane to Fiji.
And when he opened his mouth to sing?
He chose a classic.
A song from that movie—the one with the giant ship, the iceberg, and the unforgettable soundtrack.
His voice wrapped around the melody like velvet and saltwater, and suddenly everyone understood why he had run away to chase this dream.
Then there was Eli.
Twenty-one, from San Francisco. Surfer boy to the bone—sun-kissed skin, hazel-green eyes, golden-blonde hair always a little damp like he'd just stepped out of the ocean. He was basically allergic to shirts. The only reason he'd wear one was if the law demanded it or if someone physically forced it over his head. A small tattoo sat on his hip, a simple heart—minimalistic, but somehow very him.
He chose a song from a recent musical about Henry VIII's six wives.
Specifically, the song of the queen who died because of childbirth.
His voice carried this soft ache, gentle but powerful, like waves pulling back from the shore.
And then there was Monarch.
Twenty years old, from the Philippines. Electric-blue hair that could light up a dark room and warm brown eyes that always looked like they were mid-smile. Around 5'11, broad-shouldered, and could cook like he was raised in a kitchen showdown show.
He sang a song from one of the most iconic rock bands of the 2000s—raw, emotional, nostalgic. The moment he hit the chorus, half the trainees got goosebumps.
With these three stepping forward, the shift in the room was undeniable.
People weren't just participating anymore—they were showing up.
The talent was sharpening, the energy intensifying, and the competition?
Yeah… it was officially getting fierce.
****
PS-
Bobby sang "WAP" by Cardi B 🤣
Nikola sang "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion
Eli sang "Heart of Stone" from Six the Musical
Monarch sang "In the End" by Linkin Park