Mr Santoro's judgement

The Clockworks sat in the studio's rest area, their instruments temporarily set aside. The space buzzed with lingering excitement and nervous energy. They had been practicing tirelessly for days, ironing out every detail of their performance for the upcoming competition. It wasn’t just about music—it was about identity, about proving themselves as a cohesive unit. The decision to rename the band had felt like the final puzzle piece falling into place.

Beyond reclined on the couch, absentmindedly strumming a muted chord on his guitar. Simon, perched beside him, drummed a quiet rhythm on the armrest. Kokomi and Carter, seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor, leaned forward against the coffee table. Empty drink bottles and crumpled snack wrappers were scattered around, evidence of their marathon sessions.