"You're not thinking with your head right now, Cliff—you're thinking with your emotions," Maxim shouted, his voice echoing through the valley of their argument. But instead of calming things down, it only made the room louder as he, Ronan, and Cliff yelled over each other.
It wasn't even a real conversation anymore—just each of them venting, trapped in their own heads, unable to break free.
It felt like drowning—sinking slowly, suffocating bit by bit.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Ollie couldn't face it anymore. In agony, he turned to the wall, pressing his forehead against it, hiding his face and his eyes. But the tension in his rigid back betrayed him—he was fighting with every ounce of strength to block out the chaos around him.
"Cliff."
"Cliff!"
"CLIFF!"
Ronan's voice boomed like thunder, deep and commanding, rattling their eardrums with its sheer force. The raw power in his tone rolled out, overwhelming the room, each shout louder than the last, strong-arming the noise into submission.
The lead singer's resonance hit like a sledgehammer, seizing control with an iron grip.
Maxim and Cliff froze, stunned, staring at Ronan in disbelief, like they didn't even recognize him.
But Ollie still didn't turn around. His shoulders curled in tighter, his feet shuffling closer to the wall without him realizing it. It was like he was retreating to a safe harbor—if he couldn't see it, maybe he could escape the mess. Like an ostrich, he buried his head, convincing himself he was safe, even as his vulnerabilities lay bare.
Ronan didn't notice Ollie's retreat. All his focus was on Cliff. Right now, he couldn't spare a thought for the shock in his bandmates' eyes—something more urgent demanded his attention.
His gaze locked onto Cliff, fierce and unyielding, each word hammering down like a nail driven into steel.
"He's nothing! Scooter's a business genius, sure, but he's got no clue about music! His opinion doesn't mean squat. Are you really going to trust Scooter's so-called expertise? Huh? Justin Bieber? Is that how you see our band? Come on, you're smarter than that!"
But Cliff was too far gone to hear it. He just shook his head, yelling back at Ronan. "Then what kind of expert opinion do we need? Tell me! What's it going to take for us to keep going? We've got no commercial value—get that through your head! Even if we've got talent, so what? Music with no value doesn't get picked up by labels, and no audience is buying it!"
"Commercial value might be nothing, but it's the only thing keeping us going!"
Ronan's stance was clear and firm, but in One Day Kings, he'd never been the one calling the shots or making decisions. Sure, he'd taken charge of the moment with sheer force, but Cliff quickly regained his footing, unshaken by Ronan's words.
As Ronan opened his mouth to push back, Cliff cut him off—he wasn't listening anymore. "If that's how it is, then I'll take Scooter's judgment. You know what? I've never been the talented one. It used to be Maxim and Ollie, now it's you—but it's never been me."
"Yeah, Scooter's no music genius, but he knows how this market works, and that's enough. He's got enough pull to decide our fate. Even if he's wrong about the music, what am I supposed to do? What can Maxim and Ollie do?"
"What can I do? Nothing. I can't do a damn thing. So that's it."
Cliff's voice settled into a cold, resigned calm. His eyes, fixed on Ronan, dulled to a lifeless gray. Ronan seemed to sense what was coming next and shook his head, trying to stop him—but this time, he couldn't.
Maybe it was these rollercoaster three days—hope flaring up only to be snuffed out—that finally pushed Cliff to his breaking point.
"I'm done. If this is how it's going to be, then my journey ends here. I'm giving up. I'm officially calling it quits."
Cliff said it plainly, his tone steady but laced with an unshakable resolve—no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Maxim couldn't believe his ears. He lunged forward, reaching for Cliff's collar, but the mattress blocked him. Cliff stepped back half a pace, dodging him. Maxim's eyes blazed with a fury that could've swallowed someone whole. "What? Cliff! What did you just say? Say it again!"
But Cliff didn't waver. Facing Maxim's aggressive demands, he showed no guilt, no retreat. Calmly, he repeated, "You heard me. I'm done. It's over."
"And what about us? What about everything we've fought for? We said we wouldn't give up! What about the band? What about our seven years?" Maxim's anger flared again, dragging them right back to that night three days ago. The fragile illusion of the past few days shattered once more.
Cliff let out a bitter, mocking laugh. "There is no 'us.' There's no band."
"I heard it, and you should've too—Scooter's take on us. The only faint glimmer he mentioned was Ronan! You heard it! Ollie heard it! We're just a bunch of talentless nobodies. So what are we holding onto? What's left to fight for?"
"Nothing!"
"Seven years? Seven years is just an obsession. What are we even clinging to? Do we even know what we're fighting for? Do you? Or you? Or Ollie over there, too scared to face this mess? Do any of you know what these seven years actually mean?"
"Answer me! Give me a reason! Give me something, and I'll stay! I'll keep going! Maxim, you're so damn sure of yourself—well, now's your chance. Give me one reason to stick it out!"
Cliff's emotions broke free, his shouts thundering at Maxim. The calm facade cracked, and the flood of rage showed how much he still cared—
Even now, he cared.
Even in the pit of anger and despair, Cliff still cared.
But this time, Maxim couldn't find his voice. His mouth hung open, staring at Cliff in stunned silence. Despair seeped into his eyes, a painful struggle pulling him down, sinking slowly into an endless abyss.