Chapter Two: Noise
By the third episode, they’ve stopped calling him “contestant.” He’s Teddy Dove now. Said like it means something. Said like it belongs on a poster.
The cameras love him. Not because he behaves. Because he doesn’t.
He forgets lyrics and turns it into something better. Talks back just enough to make it feel dangerous. Smiles like he’s in on a joke no one else has heard yet. The producers start building segments around him without saying it out loud.
“Just be yourself,” they tell him.
Teddy hears: be the version of you that makes people watch.
He can do that.
Backstage is a blur of cables, makeup brushes, and people who suddenly know his name. Hands on his shoulders, adjusting, guiding, touching like he’s already something owned.
“You’re trending,” someone says.
He doesn’t know what that really means yet. But he knows the feeling. It’s the same as stepping on stage and realizing the room is tilted toward you.
The first time it hits him is in a hallway. A girl—maybe his age, maybe younger—stops mid-step when she sees him. Like she walked into a wall she didn’t expect.
“Oh my god,” she says, like it slipped out.
Teddy pauses. He looks at her. Really looks.
That flicker again. The one he saw in the judges.
Recognition. Projection. Want.
He gives her that small, unreadable smile. The Mona Lisa one.
Her hand flies to her mouth. He keeps walking. That’s when it clicks.
I can do anything.
***
The parties start before the show even ends.
Someone always knows somewhere. A hotel room, a rooftop, a bar that doesn’t check too hard. Music too loud, lights too low, people orbiting anything that looks like fame.
Teddy doesn’t chase it. It comes to him.
Hands on his arms. Drinks pressed into his fingers. Names he won’t remember whispered like they matter. He learns quickly how to move through it—how to give just enough, how to take what he wants.
He kisses people like he’s trying on faces. Sleeps with them like it’s part of the performance.
Sometimes it feels like nothing. Sometimes it feels like everything for about five minutes.
That’s enough.
“Careful,” one of the other contestants tells him once, half-laughing. “You’re gonna crash before the finale.”
Teddy leans back, bottle loose in his hand, eyes half-lidded but sharp underneath.
“Maybe,” he says.
He likes the idea. Not the crashing. The edge of it.
***
The first fight happens outside a bar that smells like old beer and bad decisions. Some guy gets in his face. Says something about him being fake. Manufactured. A joke.
Teddy laughs. That’s what does it.
It’s quick after that. A shove. A swing. The world snapping into something simple and physical. No cameras. No judges. Just impact and heat and the sound of something real.
Teddy doesn’t win clean. But he doesn’t lose either. He stands there after, breath sharp, lip split, blood bright against his teeth. And he’s smiling. Not for anyone, for himself.
***
On stage, he’s untouchable. That’s what they say online. Clips of him circulate—him staring straight into the camera like he’s looking at one person instead of millions. Him stepping too close to the edge. Him not flinching.
The judges start arguing about him.
“He’s not disciplined.”
“He’s compelling.”
“He’s a risk.”
“He’s the only one people are talking about.”
Teddy hears pieces of it. Enough to understand the shape. He leans into it. Messier hair. Lower shirts. Longer eye contact. A little less restraint every week.
They don’t want safe. They want him. Or whatever version of him they think they’re getting.
***
One night, after a performance that goes too well, he ends up alone in a hotel bathroom. The noise is still in his ears. Applause echoing like it doesn’t know how to stop.
He grips the edge of the sink, looks at himself in the mirror. Eyeliner smudged. Sweat dried. Eyes too bright. For a second, just a second, the room feels too quiet. Too still. Like something dropped out.
Teddy tilts his head, studying his own reflection.
“Who are you?” he murmurs.
The version of him in the mirror smiles first. That small, unreadable smile. Teddy matches it.
There it is again. Control. He pushes off the sink, doesn’t look back.
The noise will be waiting outside.
It always is.
And he’s starting to understand— He doesn’t just live in it. He is it.
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