The final note did not end.
It lingered.
It stretched, thin and trembling, vibrating through the vast auditorium like the last breath of a dying star. The orchestra faded first, the strings dissolving into silence one by one, until only Avery's voice remained—bare, exposed, and impossibly steady.
Then even that vanished.
For half a second, the world froze.
No applause.
No cheers.
No screams.
Just silence.
A silence so complete it felt sacred.
Then—
The first person stood up.
No one noticed who it was at first. A single figure rising from the sea of seats, clapping slowly, deliberately, as if afraid to break the spell.
Then another.
Then ten.
Then hundreds.
And suddenly—
The entire audience surged to their feet as one.
The sound exploded.
Thunderous applause crashed against the walls of the studio, rolling wave after wave, so loud it drowned out the background music cues that the production team desperately tried to play. People were shouting now. Screaming. Some were crying openly, hands clutched to their chests, eyes red and shining.
This was not polite applause.
This was instinct.
This was surrender.
Backstage, producers stared at the monitors in disbelief. One assistant whispered, "This… this wasn't in the script."
At the judging table, Mila Vance was already standing.
She didn't clap politely. She didn't smile for the cameras.
She applauded like a woman possessed.
Her palms struck together hard enough to sting, again and again, her chest rising sharply as if she had just run a mile. Her eyes glistened—not with tears, but with something far rarer in her long career.
Excitement.
Pure, unfiltered excitement.
When the applause finally began to soften, when the roar dropped just enough for voices to be heard again, Mila leaned forward, gripping her microphone with both hands.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Her voice trembled, and she didn't try to hide it.
"That technique… that breath control… the emotional pacing…" Mila shook her head slowly, almost in disbelief. "You aren't just a singer."
She looked straight at the Phoenix.
"You're a storyteller."
The crowd erupted again, cheering wildly.
Cameras zoomed in on the Phoenix's mask—on the shimmering crimson feathers, on the unblinking eyes behind it. Avery stood calmly in the center of the storm, her heart steady, her breathing perfectly controlled.
Inside her mind, the Entertainment System flickered quietly.
[Performance Evaluation: Legendary Tier]
[Audience Emotional Synchronization: 94%]
[Public Favorability Surge Detected.]
She lifted the microphone.
Before she spoke, she activated the System's modifier.
[System Function: Voice Transformer — Activated.]
[Tone: Synthetic / Gender-Neutral / Masked.]
When she spoke, the voice that emerged was no longer human.
"I am the Phoenix," she said.
The sound was distorted, metallic, layered—as if multiple voices were speaking at once through a machine. It sent a shiver through the room.
"I rose from the ashes of a house that wasn't mine to burn."
The words echoed.
The audience didn't just hear them.
They felt them.
A murmur spread through the crowd—whispers, speculation, excitement.
"What does that mean?"
"Did you hear that?"
"That line gave me chills…"
Julian Vane had not stood.
He sat rigidly in his chair, fingers interlocked so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His face was carefully composed, his expression neutral for the cameras—but his eyes were sharp, calculating.
Too sharp.
When the applause finally died down enough for him to speak, Julian leaned toward his microphone.
"A poetic answer," he said smoothly.
A few scattered claps followed, but the crowd's energy shifted. The warmth cooled slightly, replaced by unease.
Julian smiled—just enough.
"But," he continued, tilting his head as if offering genuine critique, "your voice lacks warmth."
A ripple of confusion moved through the audience.
"It's impressive," Julian said, choosing his words carefully, "but it's too… technical. Almost cold. Music should comfort people, not intimidate them."
The effect was immediate.
Not admiration.
Not agreement.
Hissing.
Actual hissing echoed through the auditorium, sharp and unmistakable. Audience members booed openly, some shouting, "Are you serious?" and "What show are you watching?!"
Julian blinked, surprised.
For the first time that night, his control slipped—just a fraction.
The camera caught it.
The Entertainment System chimed softly in Avery's mind.
[Target: Julian Vane]
[Public Favorability: Declining]
[Current Drop Rate: -3%… -5%… -8%…]
Live metrics streamed silently across Avery's vision. Social media sentiment graphs dipped sharply, comments flooding in faster than moderators could keep up.
—"Julian sounds jealous."
—"That wasn't critique, that was bitterness."
—"Why does he look scared?"
Mila Vance turned slowly to look at Julian.
Her gaze was not gentle.
"Warmth?" she repeated, incredulous. "That performance burned."
The crowd roared its approval.
Director Zhang cleared his throat, visibly unsettled. He adjusted his glasses, eyes flicking toward the audience, then back to the Phoenix.
"I… have criticized thousands of singers," he said slowly. "Very few make me forget to write."
He gestured to the empty space where his pen had fallen earlier.
"That alone should tell you something."
More applause.
Julian's jaw tightened.
He glanced around and realized—too late—that the room was no longer on his side.
And Avery hadn't accused him.
Hadn't revealed her identity.
Hadn't said a single word about betrayal, scandal, or lies.
She had simply sung.
And that was enough.
[System Notification: Indirect Face-Slap Achieved.]
[Effect: Enemy Reputation Suppression (Minor).]
Avery lowered her microphone and inclined her head slightly, the Phoenix's feathers catching the light as she did.
Behind the mask, her lips curved into the faintest smile.
This wasn't revenge yet.
This was positioning.
Julian Vane, the "Golden Boy," had just been publicly rejected by the very crowd that once adored him—without Avery Rivers ever stepping out of the shadows.
And as the cameras cut to commercial, one truth settled deep into the industry's bones:
The Phoenix had arrived.
And the fire was only beginning.