"Some will win, some will lose, some were born to sing the blues."
Softly, Ronan murmured into the mic, "Born to sing the blues." Such a simple phrase, yet so beautiful. Just letting the syllables roll off his tongue was enough to send a faint shiver through him.
Bathed in caramel-colored light, he could feel the heat of it searing his skin. Sweat trickled down after belting his heart out, a little itchy, but his heaving chest and overheated brain couldn't quite react. His heart trembled faintly too.
He needed a moment to catch his breath—the lingering fever was chipping away at his fired-up willpower.
Clap.
Clap-clap.
Scattered applause broke out, faint and uneven. In the big, noisy bar, it sounded thin, almost pitiful, even a little jarring.
But Ronan's ears perked up. He followed the sound and spotted a bearded guy by the bar clapping for him.
The man didn't seem to care about anyone else's stares—just clapped away on his own. His eyes were hidden in shadow, unreadable, but Ronan could feel the approval and praise in his gaze. That steady, unwavering applause was the real proof.
Clap-clap!
Clap-clap!
Bit by bit, a few more joined in. Glancing around at each other, the clapping grew, and soon most of the crowd jumped in without holding back. Someone even whistled, another tossed out a playful jab. The messy, up-and-down noise felt rough and rude, but it was real—honest. Genuine appreciation bubbled up, heating the bar's vibe.
Even the bartender joined in.
The patrons quietly tilted their chins up, like they were looking up at a stage, listening closely. Their eyes—some clear, some clouded—shared a flicker of focus.
Everyone had their own story, but tonight, those different stories found a common thread. Like the song said, "For a smile, they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on." Right now, they were finding those same smiles in each other.
That was enough.
And just for that, they were happy to give their applause.
Standing before the mic, Ronan's voice caught in his throat. He loved moments like this—not just for the heartfelt claps, but for the emotion and connection shining in their eyes. At least while the melody played, they were all side-by-side companions.
He'd dreamed of this countless times, but reality turned out even better—happier—than he'd imagined. The feeling surged in his chest.
Sure, there were only twenty-three people. It wasn't even a proper gig, and the sparse applause didn't exactly roar. But to Ronan, it was precious. His nose tingled as he greedily took in the humble scene, etching it deep into his heart.
He could see. He could still stand on a stage and sing his soul out. He'd even earned applause. It all felt so good it didn't seem real.
"Thank you. Thank you for listening to me sing."
Ronan meant it. Every word.
From the shadows, Ollie tilted his chin up, watching Ronan's broad back. That body, frail from fever, stood tall and strong now, radiating a quiet resolve and determination. Something in his vibe had shifted, almost imperceptibly.
That purity reminded Ollie of when he and Ronan first met.
Through the crowd, Ollie spotted Cliff and Maxim in the shadows. The distance blurred their faces, but he could still sense the spark lighting up in them again. A smile crept into his own eyes.
Then he saw Sam charging forward in big strides. Cliff and Maxim, caught off guard, couldn't stop him. The move broke the tension, and Ollie's face flashed with panic. He jumped up and rushed to meet him.
Ronan, Cliff, and Maxim reacted too, converging on Sam from both sides.
But Sam wasn't planning a face-off. He veered left into a hallway leading to the kitchen and back door.
That move screamed trouble—Sam clearly had no intention of talking. The four bandmates exchanged a quick glance, no time to strategize, and filed into the hallway after him, racing to catch up.
Trailing behind, Maxim gave Ronan a small nod and muttered, "Great performance."
Now wasn't the time to chat, though. Ronan flashed him a quick grin of thanks and hurried on.
Sam shoved the back door open and stepped out of the bar, the band following into the parking lot.
"Sam…"
Cliff, fastest on his feet, called out first, trying to salvage things. But Sam didn't give him a chance, raising a hand to cut him off.
Out in the parking lot, away from the bar, cool moonlight spilled down. The hot blood in their veins chilled, and a shiver of unease crept up. That bad feeling was turning real—Ronan and Ollie's efforts hadn't swayed Sam.
"Sam, we promise… we can come back tomorrow…" Cliff made one last plea, his voice heavy and strained.
Sam interrupted again. "I'm not interested in promises. You know, even with a contract, I decide who performs. I've paid you, but I don't want you on my stage—that's my call. I don't care about some encore. I care about my customers."
"But the customers liked us." Ronan spoke up. He felt he had to fight for the band—he loved that stage too much not to.
Sam paused, studying Ronan closely. Under the moonlight, his expression turned playful, then softened into a smile. "True. They did like you—I mean that last song. So, I've changed my mind. Tomorrow, same time, you come back and play again. Same pay, but I'm docking tonight's dinner and drinks."
Wait—what?
An encore?
"What do you think?" Sam asked, not getting an answer right away.
"Absolutely, no problem—deal!" Cliff jumped in, voice bursting with joy he couldn't hide, spilling over everywhere.
(End of Chapter)