The taller coach spoke first, voice flat. "Remember, masks are props. Control is not."
The shorter coach added, "This is why we have practice runs."
That was it.
No lecture.
No correction.
No humiliation in front of the cameras.
Somehow, that made it worse.
The production assistant scribbled something onto her clipboard—careful, deliberate strokes—but her expression remained professionally blank. The camera operator shifted his angle slightly, capturing my reaction.
Or lack of one.
I swallowed, forcing my face into neutrality.
"Reset," the taller coach called. "From the top"
The trainees moved back into formation without comment. Hyunki retrieved my fallen mask from the wall and tossed it toward me.
I caught it, securing the elastic properly this time.
The music started again.
I hit every mark. Every beat.
Technically flawless.
But I knew what the coaches had seen—what the cameras had captured.
My singing hadn't failed.
