The smoke still clings to Alfred's jacket as he storms down the corridor, veins in his neck still pulsing with the last note. Crew members scatter out of his path, headsets buzzing with frantic chatter.
Leila's heels strike the floor like gunshots. She keeps ahead of him, leather glistening, her hair damp with sweat. She doesn't look back, not once.
"Leila... wait!"
His voice, raw from the song, echoes like a plea and a command all at once.
Leila stops dead, shoulders rising and falling. Slowly, she turns, eyes blazing.
"That wasn't a duet, Alfred. That was you trying to bleed me dry in front of the world."
The silence after her words is heavier than the music was.
Before Alfred can answer, the monitor in the hallway bursts alive, Michael Blurb's slow clap replayed on the broadcast, Synvie's smirk frozen in split-screen. The crowd's cheers roar through tinny speakers.
Alfred's jaw tightens. He looks at the screen, then back at Leila.
"That wasn't about you. That was about them."
Leila studies him, eyes searching! Part fury, part longing, part heartbreak. She steps closer, close enough that he can feel her breath, then whispers: "Then maybe you've already lost me."
She walks away, vanishing into the backstage maze. Alfred stands frozen, fists trembling at his sides, as Michael and Synvie's voices echo from the monitor like ghosts calling him to war.
Alfred takes a step after Leila, but a crew member blocks him with a headset and a clipboard, eyes wide.
Crew (hurried): "Seal, hold! Producers want you in the green room. Now."
Alfred shoves past, but the crew grips his arm. Cameras are everywhere. He can't cause a scene. With a bitter exhale, he turns toward the green room, swallowed by handlers and flashing red lights.
Meanwhile, the spotlight narrows to the judges. Michael Blurb leans back, hands steepled, calm as stone. Synvie whispers something in his ear, lips curling. The cameras catch the moment, and the internet ignites, speculation boiling over.
Michael (into mic, velvet and venom).
"If Alfred thinks rage is music, he's mistaken. Music is devotion. Music is truth. And he just proved he has neither."
The crowd gasps, half jeering, half cheering.
Synvie's grinning, playful but lethal!
"Leila sang fire, I'll give her that. But fire without control burns everything—including the ones you love. Isn't that right, Michael?"
Michael chuckles darkly, the sound amplified by his mic, echoing like thunder.
CAMERA – CLOSE-UP: Alfred appears on the backstage monitor, jaw set, eyes locked on the feed, watching them drag him in real time.
🔥 @TeamAlfred: "Michael and Synvie are tag-teaming him LIVE. This isn't judging, this is warfare. #VoiceSeason4 #JudgesShowdown"
💔 @LeilaXSeal4Life: "Leila's walk-off broke me. Alfred's face right now = a man being gutted. #RunMeLikeARiver"
👑 @SynvieTaylorArmy: "Taylor+ Blurb = power couple of destruction. They OWN this season. #TaylorXBlurb"
The battle line is no longer about contestants. It's about the judges themselves—on stage, backstage, and across the world.
Alfred storms in, the door slamming behind him. The room hums with monitors showing live feeds, red "ON AIR" lights reflected in every glass surface. Crew and producers scatter, murmuring apologies.
Producer (hurried, nervous): "Seal... you're live in thirty. The feed's showing every reaction. You need to calm down."
Alfred barely hears them. His eyes are fixed on the monitors—Leila's shadow slipping offstage, the judges' panel, Michael's slow, calculated movements. His chest rises and falls, still echoing the rhythm of the duet.
Then—Leila appears in the doorway, silent. The green room's chaos freezes around her.
"You let them see you bleed, Alfred. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
Alfred steps closer, voice low, hoarse from singing:
"I wasn't bleeding. I was fighting. For you. For us."
Leila's gaze sharpens, like ice slicing through fire.
"Then why does it feel like you just handed them my heart on a stage?"
Alfred reaches for her, but she pulls back, eyes glimmering with tears she won't shed.
"I can't follow a river that's already been dammed."
Michael and Synvie are shown on stage feeds, whispering, smirking, plotting. The red light on the broadcast blinks like a predator's eye.
Alfred clenches his fists, jaw tight.
"Then maybe it's time I carve my own path! No one else's rules."
Leila studies him, silent, torn between rage and longing. She finally nods once, just enough to signal recognition of his defiance, then steps into the shadows, leaving Alfred alone, surrounded by screens, smoke, and the ghosts of their duet.
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