What's going on?
Ronan's head was full of question marks.
It was obvious the band was stuck in a tough spot. You could smell the hints of trouble in the chaos after tonight's unexpected performance. This was a make-or-break moment for the band's survival, and the split opinions within the group only made it trickier.
But what exactly was happening? What was the specific problem? Ronan hadn't had a chance to sort it out.
Or, to be more precise, he still hadn't fully adjusted to reality. He was too caught up in the joy of seeing again and stepping onto a stage—too busy soaking it in to think things through. For him, there were bigger, more overwhelming things right now.
The happiness hadn't even settled when bitterness and trouble came crashing in, forcing him to steady himself fast and adapt.
But… how was he supposed to respond when he didn't even know what was going on?
Since earlier, Ronan had been dodging any quick comments. One slip, and he might give himself away. Blaming a fever-fogged brain every time wasn't a solid excuse either. He needed to figure out the situation for real—only then could he shake off this helpless, reactive mess.
All eyes were on him now, and Ronan's brows furrowed slightly. He looked troubled, maybe hesitant, but didn't jump in with an opinion.
And there it was!
Seeing Ronan's expression, Cliff got antsy. Words tumbled out rough and raw: "Isn't it obvious enough already?"
"Even if we're willing to keep the tour going, we've got no income. Gas, lodging, daily expenses—how are we supposed to cover that?"
"Okay, fine, we could dig into our own pockets. But let's be real—put all five of our wallets together, and you wouldn't find a single green bill. Even if we begged our way through the tour, what's the point?"
"No one's waiting for our shows. The bars don't care, the drunks don't care, and don't even dream about music producers noticing us. No hope, no meaning, no value—nothing. So what are we holding on for?"
"We'd be shelling out our own cash for a tour with no purpose, no hope, no end, and no payoff. Then what?"
"There's no 'then.'"
"This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Haven't we been through enough in the past five years? Haven't we taken enough hits? Don't forget how we got here—how we started this second journey. We've tried. We've fought. But what's come of it?"
"Otherwise, why do you think Tristan's doing this?"
Cliff's voice cut off mid-rant. His chest heaved wildly, betraying how worked up he was. His flushed face looked ready to burst, and his watery eyes—messy and frantic—darted down to hide his weakness.
Maxim stayed quiet, neck stiff with stubbornness, staring off into the distance. But his tense arms and shoulders gave away the storm inside.
Ollie kept his head down,偷偷 wiping his eyes before turning away in a fluster, leaving just the back of his head visible.
The air went still. Faint frog croaks hummed in the background as the night's noise slowly settled.
Tristan Cuban.
The name flashed through Ronan's mind like lightning, jolting awake the jumbled memories in his foggy brain. Like a key, it strung together scattered pieces, syncing with Cliff's words. The rough outline of the situation started to take shape—at least he wasn't totally in the dark anymore.
One Day King, the band, kicked off back in 2005. It started with three UCLA freshmen: Ronan, Ollie, and Maxim.
At first, it was just a hobby—a little garage band, the kind tons of high school and college kids across North America mess around with. Formed in someone's garage, it was all about having fun, nothing serious.
By their sophomore year, Maxim met Cliff—a junior—through music. By chance, Cliff joined as the guitarist, and that's when the band hit a new groove. They started standing out at campus gigs.
Thanks to Cliff's connections, they landed more performance slots and even caught the eye of an indie record label. The band got serious about going pro, and after some talks, all four agreed to take a break from school. They signed with the label, recorded their debut album, and geared up for a real launch.
But then, life threw a curveball.
In 2008, the global subprime crisis hit, and the label went bust. The album was done, but they couldn't produce or distribute it nationwide. One Day King's debut got axed at the last second.
With no other choice, the band went back to school. They kept performing on the side—bar residencies, corporate gigs, you name it—but that second big break never came. Still, none of them wanted to quit. After graduating, they all took odd jobs to keep the band alive.
Ronan worked at gas stations and convenience stores, even sang for ad jingles. Ollie waited tables and built scaffolding on construction sites.
Cliff dabbled as a real estate agent and spent nearly six months at an ad agency. Maxim taught guitar and saxophone lessons to get by.
The rough patches dragged on, off and on, until last year—2011—when a guy named Tristan Cuban showed up.
Tristan was a fellow UCLA alum, three years ahead of Cliff. He'd graduated early and become a music manager. Through Cliff's intro, Tristan checked out two of One Day King's live shows. After sizing them up, he decided to sign them.
After three years of nothing, the band finally got its second shot.
With Tristan on board, gigs poured in. They opened for small concerts and even played at an NCAA football game. Exposure was stacking up, and they kept racking up stage time.
On one hand, One Day King built a name and experience through commercial gigs. On the other, Tristan worked the labels, hunting for a chance to record a new album.
(End of Chapter)