Deep breath. Take a deep breath. Ronan forced himself to inhale sharply, pulling himself back to reality. That's when he saw Ollie take two big steps forward, his arm muscles tensing up as he clenched his fists in anger and excitement. His slightly hoarse voice had lost all its usual cheer.
"What about our last song, then?" Ollie's rage was barely contained, his words squeezing out from deep in his throat.
"Born This Way"—it was their pride, their soul. Ollie genuinely loved this piece Ronan had written. Sure, it was only crafted two days ago, and yeah, their practice time had been short, but he truly believed it was their best performance yet. On that stage, their souls had come together. If even that couldn't move Scooter…
A shiver ran through Ollie for no reason. He couldn't help but recall what Maxim had said earlier: this was the best stage they'd ever had. If even this wasn't enough, what did that mean?
The answer seemed to loom right in front of him, but he didn't dare think too deeply about it.
"Yeah, that last song wasn't bad," Scooter replied, surprising them. You could see Ollie, Cliff, and Maxim relax just a bit for a moment. "If it's that last song, I could sell it. I'm serious—it's your only standout."
Only?
The only standout. Which meant…
Maxim's face turned ashen.
Scooter didn't care one bit. He kept smiling as he delivered his brutal words. "My advice? Stick with the style of that last song and keep pushing. Maybe you'll have a sliver of hope. But don't get me wrong—it's just a tiny, faint sliver."
Even though Maxim didn't turn around, Ronan could feel the tension radiating from him—the way his arm, shoulder, and neck muscles stiffened on the side closest to Ronan. It was like he was fighting every urge to look back, barely holding it together.
Maxim kept telling himself Scooter had no real authority or expertise in music, that his opinion didn't matter, that it was just an outsider flapping his gums. But getting hit with this kind of blow face-to-face? Any comeback felt weak and powerless under the massive gap in status and influence.
Maxim buried his head low and stayed quiet.
But Ronan didn't have time to check on Maxim right now—he was barely holding it together himself. Staring at Scooter's expression, memories flooded his mind uncontrollably. Scooter's face blurred into Trastan's, overlapping in a haze. Then he saw it—the disdain and contempt lurking beneath their smiles, impossible to tell who was who anymore. Was it Scooter's look or Trastan's? The voices in his head kept echoing.
"You perform on a bar stage for, what, thirty people? Forty? And you think the whole world's watching you? It's like high school football players who think they're at the center of the universe, standing on top of Everest. But the reality? They're just a bunch of high school kids!"
Trastan's face flickered in and out through clouds of cigarette smoke, the motel's dim, flickering lights casting cold, cruel shadows across his features. It was like he was mocking Ronan's overconfidence.
"You're the same," he'd said.
"In this world, there are way too many talented young people. The music market's so crowded it can't even breathe. How many gifted folks do you think are out there with no way to break through? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? Who knows—it's countless. One more of you doesn't make a difference, and one less doesn't either. Stop dreaming. You're not as special or amazing as you think."
"Don't think you can change the world just because you can sing a couple of tunes. Wake up already—quit dreaming."
"If you don't face reality, you'll be stuck in place forever, trapped right here. Don't think Peter Pan gets to never grow up without a cost. Captain Hook's always lurking, waiting."
Trastan's words—cold, sharp, cruel, and straight to the point—had slammed into Ronan's chest back then. Even now, just recalling them, the pain cut deep into his bones.
From Trastan in his memories to Scooter in the present, the double blow hit Ronan hard. In an instant, it shattered everything he'd held onto, like he was reliving the agony and despair of being betrayed, abandoned, and given up on all over again. He couldn't tell if it was the soul in his mind trembling or his own soul bruised and battered. All he knew was… he couldn't breathe.
Scooter was still rambling on in front of him. In Ronan's eyes, Trastan's face morphed back into Scooter's.
"I'm giving you some pro advice here. You need some highlights—like that last song—something we can actually sell."
"That one song? With some luck, it might crack the Billboard Top 100. But you might doesn't make an album. You'd need a Top 10 single for that, and from what I saw tonight, there's no value here. You'll never hit the Top 10."
Scooter didn't hold back—he didn't need to in front of One Day Kings—and those words finally pushed Ollie over the edge.
Not Cliff this time, but Ollie.
"Shut up!" Ollie roared at Scooter, letting it all out. "Can't you see what's happening here? That song—'Born This Way'—that's our story. We've got nothing left. We gave it everything. We've got no way back."
"Tell me, what are we supposed to do? Aren't we trying hard enough? Isn't this enough? Tell us—where do we go from here?"
Ollie's voice was tight, cracking with a sob. Normally shy around strangers, he rarely spoke up, but today, his rare fury had taken over. More than that, he hated how Scooter talked about "Born This Way" and the band—with that dismissive tone.
But Scooter? He'd seen this kind of outburst before. It didn't faze him. He stayed calm and unbothered, making Ollie's anger and Cliff's tension look foolish. That powerlessness—it was humiliating their fight, their persistence.
Was it no good? Were they really no good? Were the past three days of burning passion and daring effort just a joke? Were they still not enough?
Was this it—the end? Had they just been too greedy after all?
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