Since Hugo was now unemployed and didn't seem likely to receive a new script offer anytime soon, he couldn't wait to head downtown. Just thinking about restarting his life as a band musician made his blood race — excitement bubbled inside him, impossible to contain.
Joseph, seeing Hugo finally pull himself together and temporarily put Uma's matter behind him, didn't try to dampen his enthusiasm. Although, in Joseph's opinion, a band could never be an actor's main career.
When Hugo arrived at Al's Bar, it was only six in the evening. Dusk had just fallen, the sky tinted with a faint, glowing navy blue — like a piece of unpolished jade. The street, shrouded in dim light, looked gritty and rushed; flickering neon signs, the growing number of prostitutes, and the loitering punks leaning on corners all painted a hazy portrait of this rough neighborhood.
Hugo wore a dark-blue hoodie with the hood pulled up, his guitar strapped across his back. The scuffed soles of his old sneakers scraped softly against the pavement. He blended perfectly into the slum street not an outsider at all. No one paid him any attention; even those who did noticed the guitar and assumed he was a regular at Al's Bar, not worth bothering.
Pushing open the battered wooden door that looked like it could fall off at any time, he was greeted by the warm amber glow of the lights inside. Though the décor carried a worn-out Western saloon vibe — perfectly in tune with the street outside — it somehow felt cozy, a sharp contrast to the chill beyond the door.
By now, the bar was already half-full. Near the entrance, two pool tables were surrounded by onlookers; farther back, a group of youngsters were laughing and throwing darts.
The scene was very different from the Rock Night Hugo had attended before. The stage that once stood behind the bar had been dismantled and replaced with a jukebox, a pinball machine, and another pool table, making the interior feel much more spacious.
Hugo glanced around. He spotted a few people carrying instruments, but walking up to strangers uninvited didn't seem wise. Instead, he went straight to the bar, found an empty seat, took off his guitar, and placed it beside his feet.
He snapped his fingers, signaling for a beer but when he saw the bartender, his hand froze mid-air, and a smile crept across his face.
"I didn't know Al's Bar couldn't afford to hire a professional bartender."
The man in front of him was none other than Green Hill, the owner of Al's Bar. Green was wiping a glass with a white cloth, smiling cheerfully.
"The economic crisis always catches people off guard, doesn't it?" he said.
The "crisis" he referred to had ended two years ago, and Hugo couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"Well, I just hope this bartender knows what he's doing," Hugo teased with a grin.
Green shrugged, deadpan. "At least I can make a decent Long Island Iced Tea."
"Then… I'll stick with a beer," Hugo replied, his tone mock-serious.
Green thought about it for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "That, I can guarantee."
He walked to the side, turned on the tap, filled a glass, and handed it to Hugo. "On the house."
"Thanks," Hugo said, raising the glass in a small toast of appreciation.
His eyes wandered to a dartboard on the side wall, its surface covered by a few pinned-up newspapers, already riddled with holes from darts.
"What's this? Some new decoration?" he asked, gesturing with his glass.
Green glanced back and chuckled. "Just a little protest. Whenever our guests disagree with a headline, they throw darts at it. During the Rodney King incident last year, the photos of those four cops were especially popular."
Hugo burst out laughing and gave Green a thumbs-up. The creativity of it was priceless.
Then, a shout came from across the room: "Hey, bartender!" Both Hugo and Green turned their heads.
A woman was waving from the other side of the counter — curvy, confident. Even the thick turtleneck sweater couldn't hide her shape. Her long black hair carried a hint of exotic charm, yet her face was unexpectedly cute rather than sultry, her curious eyes observing the scene with interest.
Hugo and Green exchanged glances, and Hugo noticed the sparkle in Green's eyes. He couldn't help but smile knowingly.
"You don't mind, do you?" Green murmured.
"Oh, not at all — please," Hugo said quickly, gesturing gallantly with his free hand.
Green let out a dramatic sigh of relief. "Phew, one strong competitor down," he quipped before heading toward the woman. Hugo chuckled quietly into his beer.
Taking another big gulp, Hugo's gaze drifted back to the dartboard, curious about the latest "cursed" headline everyone had been throwing darts at.
When he leaned closer for a look, his smile froze.
The papers pinned there were none other than old editions of the National Enquirer the same ones that had run stories questioning Hugo's celebrity reputation. The newspapers were already shredded, full of dart holes.
Hugo looked back at Green, still flirting at the far end of the bar, and couldn't help but grin. Knowing someone was on your side — even someone you'd only met once was a damn good feeling.
"Hey, hey, hey! Look who we've got here!"
A voice came from behind. Before Hugo could turn around, a hand clapped him on the shoulder. He glanced over his right shoulder — no one.
Then he turned the other way and nearly jumped back as a familiar, energetic face filled his vision.
It was Julio Pedro César Casa, beaming with excitement.
"Hugo! Where've you been? You disappeared for ages! I was just telling my friends the other day, when are you finally coming back?"
"What, you missed me?" Hugo teased, squinting at Pedro with playful suspicion.
He didn't expect Pedro to answer so bluntly.
"Yes, I did," Pedro said without hesitation.
Hugo choked mid-sip, coughing violently. Pedro laughed and patted his shoulder.
"What, don't tell me you missed me too?"
Hugo thumped his chest to steady his breath. "Ha! What's there to miss? Besides your endless bragging and tall tales, I can't recall you having any real strengths."
That jab hit Pedro right where it hurt. "Hey, man! I've told you before — I'm a damn good bass player. I mean it!"
At the mention of his craft, Pedro's joking demeanor disappeared; he suddenly looked serious.
"Sure, I can't play guitar as well as you, and my songwriting isn't at your level… but when it comes to bass? I've got absolute confidence."
Hugo leaned back a little, studying him. The last time they met, the spotlight had been on Hugo's duel with Neil Anderson, so Pedro hadn't stood out much. Hugo's impression of him was that of a proud young man but it was the kind of pride born from passion for music.
At first, Pedro had been critical of him, almost confrontational, but once Hugo proved his skill, Pedro dropped his guard and began engaging in real musical discussions. It was clear this was someone burning with a pure, relentless love for music.
Beyond that, though, Hugo knew almost nothing about him.
Catching Hugo's scrutinizing look, Pedro's pride flared again.
"Ha! I can see that skeptical look. Let me show you what I can do!"
When he spoke of something he excelled at, his eyes lit up with confidence. Then, with a smirk, he added mockingly, "Though I doubt you even know how to appreciate a good bass line."
Despite its visual similarity to an electric guitar, the bass was a completely different instrument. Hugo firmly believed that no band with a bad bassist could ever be considered good.
In his view, a great band wasn't about one star performer — it was about every member playing their part in harmony. That was the essence of a band: teamwork, not ego.
This philosophy clashed with the mainstream attitude at the time, where most bands overemphasized the lead guitar and treated the bassist as an afterthought.
In truth, the bass and the guitar served entirely different purposes. The bass handled the low frequencies and rhythm, forming the bridge between the guitar and the drums — the glue that held everything together.
That meant a bassist had to be more than just a background player; he needed a strong grasp of harmony, rhythm, and arrangement — effectively acting as the band's connector and interpreter.
On one hand, the bassist kept time alongside the drummer; on the other, he complemented the melodic harmonies of the guitar and keyboard. It was a demanding role — one that required precision, discipline, and intuition.
Hugo wasn't particularly skilled with the bass himself. His musical talent lay mainly in the guitar, and to some extent, the piano — beyond that, he was hopeless.
He knew, however, that mastering the bass was far from easy. It might seem simple to start, but the thicker strings required stronger fingers, and real bassists avoided using picks whenever possible, relying instead on the fingertips to pluck and separate chords. That's what gave bass its depth and soul.
This made technical improvement much harder but a truly great bassist could create a mesmerizing melody entirely on their own, without the need for accompaniment.
Because of his years of composing, Hugo understood the bass more from an arranger's point of view: not as a solo instrument, but as the heartbeat that tied a song and the whole band together.
So when faced with Pedro's provocation, Hugo didn't argue. He just smiled and said,
"All right then, blow me away."
..
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