Unconscious Husband: Meet Her Love In Silence by Ken Slaner

One of the guys in the group, a blond dude sporting a hip-hop getup but known for his rock vocals during tryouts, was especially
antsy.
Having been overlooked by the big-shot agencies, he was under the wing of a lesser-known outfit.
His spirits had taken a hit since the previous night.
Restless, he began to pace, his patience thinning by the second.
“Where on earth is she? Reckon she’s left us high and dry? If she’s given up on us, she could at least have the decency to tell
us!” he exclaimed.
Tom Rivas couldn’t contain his exasperation any longer, slumping to the floor in defeat. He grumbled, “Joining her team was a
mistake.
Even if I’d been kicked out during the auditions, it would have been better than this public embarrassment. The net’s buzzing
with ridicule about us. Why are we even still here?”
Brucie Armstrong, sitting nearby, flexed his muscular arms beneath his sleeveless shirt.
He wasn’t as wound up as Tom, but his low spirits were palpable. He remarked, “Unless a miracle occurs, we’re likely the first
ones out.
Did you see the others at the auditions? How do we even stand a chance?”
As the group’s spirits dampened, Woodrow tried to interject some optimism.

“There might still be a stage meant just for us. We can’t lose hope now. Better to try and fail than not try at all. Giving up now
means we’ve truly lost everything.”
Tom gave a derisive snort, looking at him with thinly veiled contempt.
“Really? You two can barely face a camera, and now you’re giving pep talks?”
Caught off-guard, Woodrow struggled to respond. Tom’s disdain for the brothers was evident as he continued to mock, “Thinking
of winning, are you? On what grounds? Your shrieking voices? Or those clumsy dance steps that look like a chicken’s?”
“Have you even got a clue about comedy? Keep your ill-informed comments to yourself,” Franklin defended, quickly escalating
the exchange into a full-blown argument between him, Woodrow, and Tom.
In the midst of the heated debate, Brucie’s voice cut through the noise, his irritation evident.
“Enough with the shouting! What’s the point? We shouldn’t even be here. The blame is on whoever picked us.”
The tension in the room was palpable as Tom continued venting his frustrations.
Agitated, he exclaimed, “She dragged us here at the crack of dawn and then vanished. I could’ve spent my time better sleeping.
And last night, I looked up her company, this ‘Landon Media,‘ I’ve never heard of it! Probably just some dubious front using us as
a facade.”
From his perch on a nearby couch, a young man named Jim Woden, distinguishable by his weary eyes and single eyelids, had
silently observed the escalating dispute. Finally, he couldn’t hold back.
Offering a cold stare, he challenged, “You weren’t griping when you secured your positions yesterday. What good does shouting
do now? If you’re so discontented, just leave.”

Tom’s ire was now directed at Jim. Hurling his script aside, he charged towards the exit, eyes blazing.
“You know what? I will!”
But as he reached for the door handle, it swung open from the other side.
A breathless Ariana entered, immediately apologizing.
“I’m so sorry for the delay. The vocal coach the program arranged had an emergency, so I had to find a suitable replacement.”
Before she could elaborate further, a man stepped into the room behind her, leaving everyone in a state of shock.
Recognizing the newcomer, eyes widened in astonishment.
“Isn’t that Julio Cugat, the esteemed vocal coach and composer from Melcorn?”