The moment the producer declared Ji Hyo and Junkyu as the "visual trainees," the room erupted in light-hearted laughter again. The tension had briefly lifted, replaced by the teasing atmosphere that only fellow trainees could create.
Coach Gunmi smirked, resting her chin in her palm. "Well, I do recall Ji Hyo's performance earlier in the team category. That new version of TT? The rest of the team was going fierce and intense… and then bam—Ji Hyo appeared with a bright smile and soft steps like he walked straight out of a flower field."
Even the other coaches laughed at that. Coach Badji added, "Yeah, it felt like someone changed the channel mid-performance."
Ji Hyo's ears turned red immediately.
He tried to hide his face, but it was too late.
A trainee from the back shouted, "Cutie Ji Hyo!"
Another chimed in, "Do an aegyo, please!"
Ji Hyo nearly choked on air. His hands were flailing a little, trying to calm them down. "Wha—no, no! Stop!"
Junkyu laughed quietly beside him, not bothering to hide his amusement.
The main producer grinned. "Well, it seems like I'm not the only one looking forward to this. So, Ji Hyo," he leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on the desk, "what are you going to perform for us?"
Ji Hyo blinked, caught like a deer in headlights. His throat dried instantly, and he had to force out the words, "…I'll sing."
The room quieted down again—interest piqued.
Coach Gunmi clasped her hands together. "Ah, a vocal performance. That's what I like to hear."
"Junkyu, step back for now," said the main producer with a wave of his hand. "Let's hear from our visual vocalist first."
Junkyu gave Ji Hyo an encouraging nod before stepping back toward the wall.
And suddenly, all eyes were on him.
Ji Hyo walked toward the center of the room, trying to keep his posture upright. His legs felt heavier with each step, and although there wasn't a single drop of sweat on his face, he swore a bucket of it was pouring down his back.
His palms were clammy. His stomach twisted. His knees didn't shake, but his heart did.
Standing in the spotlight was different than observing from the sidelines.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a quiet breath.
How did he even choose his song again?
His mind flashed back to the night before—after practicing for hours and hours, trying different ballads, pop songs, even R&B tracks. But nothing felt right. His voice cracked, his notes slipped, and everything sounded like a struggle.
He didn't have the control to pull off high notes, nor the emotion to sing a dramatic ballad. It had frustrated him so much that he had thrown his towel on the floor and flopped onto his bed in defeat.
And then… as he lay there, humming without thinking… he started singing a song from his childhood.
A children's song.
"Baby Shark."
Of all songs.
He had laughed at himself at first. What was he thinking, singing a toddler's song for a monthly evaluation? But the melody stuck in his mind. The simplicity was comforting, and the lyrics made him nostalgic.
He kept singing it while reminiscing about his past life, his school days, and the tiny joys he barely appreciated back then.
Somehow… the tune began to shift.
His voice softened, his tempo slowed, and the childish rhythm melted into something more lyrical, almost melancholic.
He didn't know how it happened—but that silly tune had turned into something strangely… emotional.
So now, here he was. About to sing a re-arranged version of Baby Shark as his solo performance.
Ji Hyo stood there awkwardly in the center, eyes darting toward the control panel.
"Can I start my audio?" he asked.
Coach Gunmi nodded. "Go ahead."
He tapped the button with trembling fingers, and soft piano notes began to play through the speakers—an emotional acoustic rearrangement that sounded nothing like the original upbeat version.
The room went silent.
Ji Hyo took a deep breath.
And began to sing.
"Baby shark… doo doo doo doo doo doo…"
His voice was soft, almost fragile—but there was clarity in it. Emotion. Warmth. The childish lyrics flowed with an unexpected tenderness. What once was playful now sounded like a lullaby filled with bittersweet longing.
The coaches leaned forward slightly.
There were still technical flaws—his breath wavered at times, and he lacked vocal strength in the higher parts—but there was something undeniably human in the way he sang.
Raw. Honest. Gentle.
It wasn't a perfect performance.
But it was real.
And that made it unforgettable.
As the final notes faded, Ji Hyo slowly lowered the mic. His heart was still pounding, and his eyes stayed fixed on the ground.
The room remained silent for a moment longer.
Then—
"…That was unexpected," Coach Gunmi murmured softly.
Coach Badji chuckled under his breath. "A cute childrens song… turned into a soulful piece but still cute. I'll be damned."
One of the other trainees whispered, "Wasn't expecting that version…"
The main producer leaned back, smiling. "Interesting. You certainly surprised us."
Ji Hyo looked up slowly, his cheeks still burning red.
"Thank you," he said in a small voice.
As Ji Hyo stepped back slightly from the center, he heard a faint chuckle from the trainee seats.
He glanced sideways—Kyunsoo was watching him with a slight smile, arms folded, a faint look of surprise in his eyes. Not mocking… just genuinely amused. Maybe even impressed.
Ji Hyo blinked, unsure what to make of it.
Then—
[Congratulations, Host. You have successfully transformed a nursery rhyme into an emotionally moving performance.]
"…Don't say it like that," Ji Hyo muttered quietly under his breath.
[Truly, a groundbreaking debut for the Cute Shark Prince of Glint.]
Ji Hyo's face twitched.
"System…"
[But in all seriousness, that was a clever adaptation. Even with your… modest talent level, the performance had heart. You should be proud.]
Ji Hyo sighed, shaking his head. "You're a menace."
Still, deep down, he couldn't help but smile faintly. As ridiculous as the song choice had been, it had somehow worked. And he had to give himself credit—it wasn't just a last-minute choice. He'd spent hours last night hunting through acoustic rearrangements, testing his voice against different backing tracks, and finally found one that brought out the emotion he'd been hoping for.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was honest.
The coaches were still exchanging looks, clearly discussing something among themselves before the main vocal coach, Gunmi, took the lead.
"Well," she started, tilting her head slightly, "that was… unexpected."
Coach Badji nodded with a short chuckle. "I've heard Baby Shark more times than I'd like to admit—siblings, nieces, nephews—you name it. But that's the first time I've heard it and actually… felt something."
"Agreed," added the rap coach with a smirk. "I was ready to cringe, but you pulled it off better than anyone expected."
Coach Gunmi leaned slightly forward. "Your pitch is still unstable in some parts. Breath control needs more refinement. But the way you interpreted the melody, the phrasing, and the emotion—that caught me off guard in a good way."
"Your vibrato was subtle, but noticeable," she added. "Which means you're learning control even if it's not fully developed yet."
Another coach joined in. "The way you matched the vocal color with the instrumental arrangement was clever. Who arranged the audio?"
Ji Hyo straightened a little, still nervous. "Ah… I found an acoustic version online and edited it myself to slow down the tempo and soften the transitions."
Coach Badji looked a bit surprised. "You edited it yourself?"
"Yes… last night," Ji Hyo said, scratching the back of his head. "I wasn't confident with any of the songs I tried, so I thought… if I couldn't match a song, I'd just try to make one match me instead."
A few of the coaches actually smiled at that.
"Smart thinking," said Coach Gunmi. "Knowing how to work around your current limitations is a valuable skill."
The main producer finally chimed in with a chuckle. "So you rewrote the emotional DNA of a toddler song to fit a low-range vocal profile and still moved a room of professional coaches. I'd say you're not completely hopeless."
Ji Hyo grimaced. "Thanks… I think."
The rap coach leaned over toward the producer. "I say we nickname him Shark Boy."
"Don't give them ideas," Ji Hyo muttered to himself, hearing a few chuckles behind him from the other trainees.
"Still," the producer added with a thoughtful expression, "that wasn't just a novelty. You took something ridiculous and turned it into an artistic performance. That shows instinct—and instinct matters."
Coach Gunmi nodded. "I'll be keeping an eye on you."
Ji Hyo gave a small bow. "Thank you."
"Now," the producer said, turning toward Junkyu with a clap of his hands, "our other visual. Let's see what you've got."
As Junkyu stepped forward to take his place, Ji Hyo returned to his spot at the side, letting out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in.
His heart was still racing, but this time… not from anxiety.
Maybe—just maybe—he could find his place on that stage after all.
Junkyu stepped forward to the center of the room with a calm, almost effortless air. His posture was relaxed, his expression composed—but there was a quiet confidence in the way he held the mic.
The music began—"U2" by JB—a sleek R&B track with a sensual undertone and smooth groove. The room fell silent, all eyes locked on him.
And the moment he sang the first note, the energy shifted.
His voice was surprisingly rich—deep yet soft, smoky with a distinct tone that immediately set him apart from the other vocal trainees. Every line carried intention, and every note was wrapped in subtle emotion. His body moved gently in rhythm—a few simple but well-executed dance steps, not flashy, just enough to enhance the performance without overpowering the vocals.
Even Ji Hyo found himself unconsciously leaning forward slightly, eyebrows raised. He's… really good.
There was something magnetic about the way Junkyu performed—he didn't just sing; he pulled people into the mood of the song.
But the most noticeable thing?
His eyes.
Throughout the entire performance, Junkyu's gaze never wavered—it was fixed entirely on the main producer.
It was almost intense. Like he was delivering every word, every verse, directly to him.
By the time the final note faded out, there was a moment of stunned silence before anyone spoke.
The main producer raised a brow and gave a half-laugh. "Wait a second—Junkyu… were you singing that to me?"
The room chuckled quietly, and even the other coaches looked at Junkyu curiously.
"Because you didn't take your eyes off me once," the producer added with a smirk.
Junkyu blinked, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Was it that obvious?"
"Very," said Coach Badji, chuckling. "I almost felt like I needed to leave the room."
Coach Gunmi leaned forward. "But let's be serious for a second—your vocal tone is unique. Smooth, expressive, and well-controlled. You didn't force vibrato or over-stretch your notes—you kept it intimate, and that worked really well with the song choice."
"Your lower notes are especially clean," she added. "And you managed to stay consistent through the entire song."
"And those subtle movements," said the dance coach, "simple but precise. You didn't try to overdo it—just the right amount of movement to match the mood. That's a good instinct."
"You're naturally expressive," another coach chimed in. "It's clear you understand how to build a mood without relying on just technique."
The producer nodded slowly. "Good job. I won't forget that performance any time soon."
Junkyu gave a short bow. "Thank you."
As he stepped back, returning to his place beside Ji Hyo, a few quiet murmurs of admiration spread among the trainees.
Ji Hyo glanced at him and whispered, "That was amazing."
Junkyu smiled. "You too. Cute shark."
Ji Hyo stared at him, horrified. "Please don't call me that."
Junkyu chuckled.
From the side, Kyunsoo snorted a laugh. "Cute shark? Really?"
Ji Hyo groaned, hiding his face behind his hands.
Just great. The nickname's spreading already.
But even so… a strange warmth settled in his chest.
He may not be the most talented, not the most skilled, but at least for today, he stood on that stage and was heard.
And that was enough—for now.