Scooter realized how pathetic he looked. He'd lost all his dignity—inside and out. Furious and humiliated, he clenched his fists, his calm and collected demeanor completely gone. His body trembled from the effort, his chest heaving like the bellows of a steam train.
He glared at Cliff's retreating back, itching to hurl some harsh words, but a shred of rationality kept him from sinking even lower. His mind raced, scrambling for a way to salvage some scraps of his pride.
When Cliff rejoined Maxim and Ollie, Ronan signaled them to leave. He lingered for a moment, holding back to cover their exit. His gaze locked onto Scooter, steady and unflinching. A voice deep inside urged him to stop—to face Scooter head-on.
That night with Trastan, he hadn't stood up. He hadn't spoken for himself. He hadn't held his ground or fought back with conviction. The regret, the anger, the frustration—it all lingered, never fading.
What just happened had dragged those memories back to the surface. The emotions surged, raw and burning, impossible to ignore. He knew he had to confront Scooter, just as he needed to confront himself.
Looking at Scooter now, a flood of thoughts swirled in Ronan's mind. He could throw out bold claims, promising they'd make it big. He could mock Scooter, tell him he was nothing. He could do so much more… but what came out was something else entirely.
"Your success and achievements don't give you the right to look down on anyone's dreams. You don't have that authority."
Persistence.
A flicker of resolve glinted in Ronan's eyes. He acknowledged Scooter's business savvy—nothing to do with liking Justin Bieber or not. Scooter knew how to carve out a spot in the market, no question. But that didn't make him infallible, and it sure didn't mean he could trample over others.
Ronan held Scooter's gaze, not with wild shouting or dazzling arguments—just a steady, upright look radiating unshakable belief. In an instant, it made Scooter feel small, like he was the insignificant one.
Scooter hated Ronan's eyes. That soul-deep pride turned his cool confidence and superiority into a joke. Ronan didn't even need words—Scooter could feel his own insecurity and shame creeping in. It was driving him nuts.
It was worse than the humiliation under Cliff's fists.
Scooter's stomach churned, a burning shame lodging in his throat, urging him to gag. His head buzzed with a deafening roar.
"You!" Scooter spat out the word, but no others followed. It was like someone had grabbed his throat. Then he watched Ronan turn and walk away, head high, as if Scooter were the speck of dust. That bone-deep pride was something he couldn't touch.
One Day Kings left, and Scooter never found the chance to speak. He just stood there, watching them go. Rage erupted inside him like a volcano. He kicked at a folding chair nearby, but missed, his foot swinging through empty air.
"Arghhh!"
Why? Because of some nobody band's lead singer? How could someone like that carry a pride and confidence that made him feel so small? It was absurd! Why! That guy had no idea how out of his depth he was—how dare he look down on him?
Worse still—why hadn't he fought back? Why hadn't he attacked? Why hadn't he crushed that guy under his heel and ground him into the dirt? All the rebuttals and counterattacks stuck in his throat, silent. How could he be so weak?
Pathetic!
He should've shown that guy who was really in charge! He should've flexed his real power and authority! He should've calmly turned them into the clowns they were!
Not let himself become the clown!
The anger surged harder—aimed at the band, but even more at himself. Scooter couldn't believe how disgraceful he'd been. This wasn't him at all! The frustration and bitterness spiraled out of control. He roared, three beats too late, before his emotions settled just enough for a critical realization to hit:
The documentary.
Everything that just happened was caught on camera—raw and unfiltered. What now? If that footage got out, his image and reputation could take a hit. It might even drag Justin Bieber's name down with it. Not that Scooter was too worried—his connections could handle a minor PR hiccup like this no problem. But trouble was trouble, and he didn't like it.
"Where is she?"
Only now did Scooter notice the girl filming the documentary was gone. He scanned the bar—no sign of her. He turned and bellowed at his crew.
But they were a step behind even him. Facing his fury, they just blinked at each other, clueless. They didn't even know who he was yelling about, which only fueled his rage.
"The documentary girl! The one filming everything! She's got it all on tape! Where is she? Where'd she go?"
That's when it clicked for them. The girl had slipped away without a sound. "Oh, oh," they mumbled, scrambling like headless flies, spinning in circles around the empty bar. The ridiculous scene snapped Scooter's last thread of sanity.
"Goddamn it!" He couldn't believe it. Fury blazed through him, scorching his insides. A stream of curses exploded out, relentless.
It was unbearable to hear.
His bellowing echoed through the Old Blacksmith Bar like a hairdryer on full blast.
"You idiots! What are you standing around for? Find her! Dig her up from three feet under if you have to! That footage cannot get out! No way!"
"Don't you get what that video means? Are your heads stuffed with straw? You can't see something this obvious without me spoon-feeding you? Even pigs would be more useful—at least they'd contribute something! What do you clowns do besides screw around?"
"Goddamn it!"
"Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Find her! Find her now! If you don't, I swear, you'll wish you were dead—hell will feel like a vacation!"