Faintly, Ronan could dredge up a blurry memory of that morning in his mind.
He'd been the first to notice Tristan had bailed without a word.
That day, he'd woken up groggy, head heavy and feet unsteady, stumbling to Tristan's room to knock on the door and call him for breakfast. He knocked for ages with no answer—until a cleaning worker showed up instead.
"That room's been checked out."
That's what the worker said. Ronan thought it was a joke at first, or maybe a mix-up with the motel's records. He even cracked a laugh with the cleaner, though his head was spinning and his body burned with fever. Then the memory just blurred out.
But it wasn't a joke.
The band soon found Tristan's room completely emptied out. He'd taken off with all their tour earnings and vanished without a trace.
No one could reach him—not by personal phone, not by office line. Emails, location tracking—everything sank into silence, like he'd evaporated. At least, the band couldn't find a single clue. They were left floundering in confusion.
It was so sudden, so bizarre, that their heads swam with questions they couldn't answer. Together, they rejected the idea of being "ditched and abandoned." They even cooked up excuses for Tristan.
Maybe he'd been kidnapped—New Orleans' crime rate was no secret. Maybe he'd had an accident, stuck in a hospital or stranded in some wilderness waiting for help…
Maybe he just needed space to clear his head and rethink the band's future. Maybe he'd run into an emergency he had to handle himself. Maybe a record label interview in New Orleans had popped up, and he'd gone to lock it down…
Stuff like that.
They scrambled for a solid explanation—one that covered why he'd left, packed up his bags and cash so neatly, even checked out, and why he'd cut all contact. Anything to cling to the last shred of hope for their struggling band.
Even knowing their guesses were flimsy and full of holes, they forced themselves to buy into those shaky "maybes."
But they didn't have to wait long. Two days ago, a lawyer's letter arrived, popping all their self-deluding dream bubbles. The cold, brutal truth hit them head-on—no explanation, no discussion, no wiggle room—just a final verdict.
Science says grief has five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
The band slid right into stage two: anger.
You could feel it radiating off everyone, especially Cliff and Maxim. They bristled like porcupines, lashing out as much to attack as to shield themselves. They knew it wasn't their teammates' fault, but the negativity still ran wild—they needed an outlet.
Ronan wasn't immune either. So when Cliff dropped Tristan's name, it jolted his memory awake. Deception, betrayal, abandonment, dismissal—those raw wounds still bled. He could still see it clear as day: the cleaning worker opening the door to that room.
A messy bed, empty of life. Signs of someone having been there lingered, but no one remained. A half-drunk beer sat on the table, sheets and pillows strewn across the carpet in chaos. The luggage was gone, and the warmth and presence had faded away.
That image—so real, so sharp—burned into his memory. So that's what being abandoned felt like.
But what should he do about it?
Ronan was stumped.
He still hadn't shaken off the daze of shifting identities and timelines. Now he had to tackle this massive, tangled mess. The only thought in his head was: I just tasted the stage tonight, barely got my dreams off the ground—am I already at a dead end?
Was there no way out?
He looked up at his teammates—strangers yet familiar. Cliff's fury, Maxim's stubbornness, Ollie's gloom. No one spoke. A heavy silence hung over them, but you could still feel the storm of emotions churning inside. Negativity was eating away at their reason… and their hope. Yet, the sight of them eased Ronan's chest a little.
His mood didn't sink—it started to lift.
Anger meant they cared.
Sadness meant it mattered.
That tiny flame of hope deep inside hadn't gone out. That's why frustration and regret could so easily take over. They weren't ready to give up—not even when logic screamed at them, not even after weighing all the pros and cons. The reluctance and unwillingness still gnawed at them.
"We should finish the tour."
Ronan spoke up.
Cliff's head snapped up, his sharp gaze slamming into Ronan, anger flaring again. "Are you nuts?"
"Maybe," Ronan said, not firing back like Maxim might've. Instead, he grinned, his eyes bright with a firm nod.
Cliff choked on his words, the rest of his rant stalling out.
Ronan went on, "You're right about everything. No one's waiting for our shows. No one cares about our music. So is there even a point in keeping going?"
"But we've made it this far, haven't we? From full of hope to battered and bruised to staring death in the face—we've still held on. We've done everything to keep this band alive. Not just one or two of us, but all four, sticking together, pushing forward as a team."
"Are we really going to give up here?"
His words came steady, not loud or dramatic, but the light in his eyes gave them a quiet strength. They fell like golden sunlight over a mountain stream, warming the moss, weeds, and smooth stones as the water flowed. The reflection chased away the cold shadows lurking in the corners.
Ollie's head jerked up, his eager eyes locking on Ronan. His heart thumped with a sudden spark.
"I know—I get it. Maybe this last stretch is pointless. Maybe these final five gigs have nothing worth looking forward to. Maybe we'll even have to pay a price. But… is that price really such a big deal?"
"Is it worth denying all our persistence and effort just because Tristan bailed? Does his approval really carry that much weight? Are we okay with letting his dropout erase everything we've fought for—no regrets, no second thoughts? Are you guys that sure of yourselves?"
"Honestly, I'm not."
That's what Ronan said.
(End of Chapter)