Something felt off—way off. This wasn't the scene they'd imagined walking into the bar. Scooter's expression and tone were weird, unsettling even.
Ronan stole a quick glance at Alice from the corner of his eye. Her brows were furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. But whatever was going on, Alice couldn't help them now. The opportunity was right there in front of the band—they had to grab it with their own hands.
But Cliff…
"Cliff!" Ronan stepped forward, calling out his name, trying to throw him a lifeline. He was half a beat too late.
"Yes," Cliff answered Scooter's question, turning to Ronan a moment later with a reassuring look: Don't worry, I've got this.
Before Ronan could react, Cliff pivoted back, words spilling out. "Yes, of course, we're always open to feedback—arms wide open. We've been touring for years; we can take any critique you've got. No problem. Just lay it out straight."
His rambling betrayed the tension in his voice. Maxim, Ollie, and Ronan exchanged a glance. They all sensed something was wrong, but what could they do? Would they handle it any better than Cliff? Could they turn this awkward mess around?
They didn't have answers.
So they stayed quiet, eyes shifting back to Scooter, waiting anxiously for the verdict—like fish on a chopping block, powerless and exposed. That summed up the vibe perfectly.
Scooter seemed to revel in it. A smirk played on his lips, glinting in his eyes. He stepped forward, arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture, owning the room like the star of the show. "Since you're asking for it, let's cut to the chase and talk straight."
"One sentence: You're not good enough. Not yet, at least." Scooter dropped the bomb—no frills, no long-winded explanation, just the raw truth, delivered as promised.
Cliff's eyes flickered with panic. His hands fidgeted—crossing his chest one second, propping up his chin the next. "…What's that supposed to mean?"
Scooter kept smiling. "Summer camp gigs are one thing, bar shows are another. But what we're talking about now? That's a whole different game. You know we're discussing record production here—sales, markets, survival. What you just performed? I can't sell that. I don't see the commercial value."
I don't see the commercial value.
Such a simple, heavy line. It flipped the script entirely—from an artist's perspective to a businessman's. The shift in angle created an unarguable trap, effortlessly shoving One Day Kings into a bottomless pit.
Ronan's brows knit together slightly. It wasn't just Scooter's words—something else nagged at him.
He'd heard that line before, hadn't he? It felt familiar, tugging at the edges of his mind, but he couldn't place it. Where had it come from?
"Summer camp gigs?" Cliff's voice echoed through the bar, his rising tone dripping with disbelief. His face lit up with agitation. "You didn't see our show? You didn't hear the crowd cheering? The place was packed—going wild! The audience's reaction was the best compliment we could get! We put on an incredible performance. If you missed it, I get it, you wouldn't know—"
"No!" Scooter cut him off, his soft tone carrying an unshakable firmness. Cliff froze mid-sentence. "We didn't miss your show. We know what went down. But you need to face reality. Truth is, your music isn't good enough."
Boom!
Boom, boom!
Just like that, Scooter dropped the hammer—no dodging, no softening the blow. A straight shot that slammed into the band.
It wasn't just Cliff. Maxim and Ollie felt it too—
Your music isn't good enough. A gut punch that the band at its core, wiping out all their effort and persistence. No talent, no inspiration, no work worth a damn. In the world of art, that meant no future. Without commercial value, even if they got dolled up and packaged as a product, they'd just be another assembly-line knockoff.
So why did it have to be One Day Kings? If it's just a generic product, anyone could fill the slot—any posable Barbie doll would do better. There were countless options more suitable than them.
And who'd even bother packaging One Day Kings anyway?
That same blow landed square on Ronan too.
Tristan.
It hit him—"I don't see the value"—those words came from Tristan.
Ronan's face froze in stunned shock. His focus on Scooter blurred, thoughts spiraling into chaos. The déjà vu was overwhelming. Memories surged up, eating away at his mind, tearing apart his attention on Scooter and Cliff with brutal force. He slipped into a daze—
"You're not a genius. You're not. None of them are. You shouldn't be dreaming. Wake up! Wake up!"
Tristan!
The memory sharpened. That twisted, snarling face in his head—it was Tristan, their manager. The one who'd betrayed and ditched them. His gaping mouth, red-faced and spitting fury, roared at Ronan—or rather, at Ronan Cooper.
When was this? What memory was it? How did it happen? What was going on back then? Where were the other three bandmates? Did they know about this confrontation between Tristan and Ronan? Why had Tristan lashed out like that?
"Wake up!" Tristan bared his teeth, gleaming white. "You should know 'dreams' and 'fantasies' are the same damn word—and neither belongs to you!"
"Dreams don't put food on the table. This stuff? It's just an excuse to dodge reality, pretending you're some Peter Pan who'll never grow up. Running from everything real, refusing to mature, refusing the truth! Wake up—you can't live in a Obama's gotcha there too. Dreams don't feed you—they're delusions keeping you from reality!"
Tristan's face loomed larger in his vision, magnified to the max. Ronan could almost feel the hot, tobacco-stained breath scorching his cheek.
He couldn't breathe—"Ronan Cooper" couldn't breathe. But now, Ronan felt it too, viscerally, as if he were living it himself. That trembling fear from the depths of his soul clamped tight around his throat. Like drowning, the world started to blur.
Reality and illusion tangled, truth and lies indistinguishable. Memory and the present crashed together.