Sixteen-year-old Josh Barry had never seen so many lights in his life.
They shimmered across the vast stage like a galaxy of eyes, each one waiting to judge him.
He stood backstage at Britain’s Got Talent, gripping the microphone so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His throat was dry. His heart pounded in his chest like a drumline.
His teacher’s words echoed in his mind: “You’ve got something special, Josh. Don’t hide it.”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he whispered to himself, “time to own it.”
The Audition
The doors opened, and the crowd’s roar hit him like a wave. He blinked against the brightness, forcing his legs to move. His sneakers squeaked softly as he crossed the polished floor and faced the judges’ table.
Amanda Holden smiled encouragingly. Alesha Dixon gave him a quick thumbs-up. Simon Cowell leaned back, studying him with that infamous half-grin — the one that had crushed countless dreams before.
“Name?” Simon asked.
“Josh Barry,” he said, trying not to stutter. “I’m sixteen. I’m still in sixth form.”
“And what are you going to do for us today, Josh?”
“I’m gonna sing ‘My Girl,’ by The Temptations.”
Simon arched an eyebrow. “A brave choice.”
Josh smiled faintly. “It’s my dad’s favorite.”
The track began, and as soon as Josh opened his mouth, the room changed. His voice — rich, warm, full of something beyond his years — wrapped around every note. The crowd swayed. The judges smiled. Simon even tilted his head, clearly intrigued.
Josh moved with ease, one hand on the mic stand, the other gesturing lightly as if the music were part of him. When he hit the final note, the crowd erupted in applause.
Amanda stood. “Josh, that was just beautiful!”
Alesha clapped. “You’ve got real soul. That’s rare.”
Simon paused, arms crossed. The room went quiet.
Then, slowly, he smiled. “You’ve got a gift, Josh. Don’t waste it.”
The audience roared. Josh exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
He’d done it.
Or so he thought.
The Stranger
Two days later, Josh returned to school a local hero. Everyone had seen his audition online — it had already gone viral. Even teachers stopped him in the hall to congratulate him.
That afternoon, as he walked home through the drizzle, a black car slowed beside him. The window rolled down, and a man in a dark suit leaned out.
“Josh Barry?”
Josh frowned. “Yeah?”
The man smiled. “Impressive voice you’ve got. My name’s Mr. Hargreaves. I represent a few young performers. Mind if we talk?”
Josh hesitated. “About what?”
“About your future.”
The Deal
They met at a café near the station. Mr. Hargreaves was polite, charming — the kind of man who knew exactly how to make someone feel important.
“I saw your audition,” he said. “You’ve got presence, but more than that — you’ve got energy. Something audiences connect with instantly. That’s rare.”
Josh blushed. “Thanks.”
“I can take you beyond Britain’s Got Talent,” Hargreaves continued. “Labels. Tours. Exposure. But I need your cooperation — and a signature.”
He slid a document across the table.
Josh frowned. “A contract?”
“Just a preliminary agreement,” said Hargreaves smoothly. “For management. I’ll guide your career, protect your image, handle publicity.”
Josh hesitated. “My mum should probably—”
“Of course,” interrupted Hargreaves. “But let’s keep this between us for now. The industry moves fast. Sometimes faster than parents understand.”
Josh felt a strange chill, but he nodded anyway. He wanted it. He wanted everything.
He signed.
The Change
Within a week, Josh’s life transformed.
He had photo shoots, interviews, stylists. His school uniform was replaced by designer jackets. His face was everywhere — “The Soul Prodigy!” read one headline.
But the more famous he became, the stranger things got.
He never met anyone else from Hargreaves’ supposed agency. His calls were always private. And every time Josh performed live, the lights felt… different.
Stronger. Brighter. Blinding.
Sometimes, after stepping off stage, he’d find himself disoriented — unsure how long he’d been singing, or even what song he’d performed.
He’d catch flashes — crowds swaying, eyes glowing faintly white, faces blank with adoration.
The Discovery
One night, unable to sleep, Josh sneaked into Hargreaves’ office in London. The door was unlocked.
Inside, walls were lined with framed photos — child singers, dancers, actors. All young. All bright-eyed. And under each photo, a small brass plaque:
“Recruited.”
No dates of death. No updates.
Josh turned to the desk. Papers were scattered across it — contracts identical to the one he had signed. Each bore the same symbol at the bottom: a treble clef intertwined with a serpent.
Then he found a folder labeled “Project Siren.”
Inside were performance records — brainwave readings, neurological data, references to something called “Audience Synchronization Tests.”
He read one note aloud, his voice trembling:
“Subject J.B. demonstrates full resonance potential. Estimated range: 30,000 individuals per performance. Memory suppression successful.”
He froze. J.B.
Josh Barry.
The Confrontation
“Curiosity can be dangerous, Josh.”
He spun around. Hargreaves stood in the doorway, expressionless.
“What is this?” Josh demanded, shaking the folder.
“The truth,” said Hargreaves calmly. “Your voice does more than move people. It controls them.”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it? Haven’t you noticed how they listen — how they obey every note? Your frequency triggers something ancient in the human brain. We call it ‘resonant empathy.’ You can influence minds. Whole crowds.”
Josh backed away. “You used me.”
“I elevated you,” Hargreaves said. “You were destined for greatness. Now, with your cooperation, we can—”
Josh didn’t let him finish. He bolted for the door.
The Escape
He ran through the darkened corridors, heart pounding, lights flickering overhead. His reflection flashed in glass walls — frightened, disbelieving.
When he burst onto the street, he realized he was still holding the microphone from his last rehearsal. His breath steamed in the cold air.
A car screeched to a stop nearby. Hargreaves’ voice echoed: “Don’t make me activate it!”
Josh froze. “Activate what?”
“The implant,” Hargreaves said softly. “Every singer needs to be tuned.”
And then Josh felt it — a vibration deep in his skull, a soundless frequency that made his vision blur. He dropped to his knees.
But through the pain, he did the only thing that made sense.
He sang.
The Finale
The note that came out of him was pure — higher than he’d ever reached, trembling with desperation and defiance. The vibration changed, reversed. Windows shattered. Streetlights exploded.
Hargreaves staggered, clutching his head. The car alarms screamed.
And then — silence.
When Josh opened his eyes, Hargreaves was gone. The street was empty.
He looked at the microphone. It was cracked down the middle.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he’d broken the connection.
Epilogue
Months later, Britain’s Got Talent aired his audition. The world fell in love with the boy who sang “My Girl.”
But no one ever found him again.
Some said he’d been taken by an international label. Others swore they saw him singing on a subway platform in Madrid, eyes distant, humming a tune that made strangers stop and cry without knowing why.
And if you listen carefully — in a crowd, or in your dreams — you might still hear his voice, soft and haunting:
“I’ve got sunshine… on a cloudy day.”