John Mark's arrival carried weight—not just for himself, but for Bruno too. A simple sentence and a smiling expression were enough to make that clear.
Ollie and Maxim's first instinct was to look at Ronan, almost unable to believe their ears. Compared to their meeting with Scooter, this was night and day—pure heaven versus total hell. It felt too good, too happy, to be real.
Of course, John was just the tour manager, not a producer or agent like Scooter, but his praise still hit hard.
"Is this just polite small talk?"
Ollie and Maxim's eyes flickered with that hesitation, a mix of hope and doubt swirling in their gazes.
Ronan didn't have an answer either. He could sense the sincerity in John's words and trusted they were genuine. But he still had doubts about their performance—did they really deserve this kind of praise?
In that split second, their exchanged glances said so much, yet nothing clear came through.
"Thanks, thank you so much. And thanks for the email you sent us," Cliff chimed in. He was the band's social ace, stepping up when the others faltered. It was polite but crucial, and his earnest words lifted John's smile higher.
After all, John was the one who'd invited One Day Kings to open the show—he deserved some credit.
John smiled lightly, skipping further pleasantries. He stepped aside, gesturing to a stranger behind him. "And one more thing—Mr. Shuke insisted on meeting you in person."
Mr. Shuke?
Could it be Bruno's manager, Aaron Bay-Schuke?
Back when Bruno hit a career slump after leaving Motown, he floundered for three quiet years—no gigs, no opportunities. Then this big-shot manager spotted his talent, brokered a deal with Atlantic Records, and paved the way for Bruno's rise.
"Mr. Shuke is just the fancy title on my business card. Call me Aaron."
The man stepping forward had a flat buzz cut, a low voice, and a scruffy beard—unkempt in a way that stood out. His thick, curly black hair and wild, Crayon Shin-chan eyebrows screamed Jewish heritage. He didn't look like a music manager—more like a Wall Street venture capitalist.
No surprise, this was Aaron Bay-Schuke.
Aaron approached with a warm smile. Cliff and Maxim hurried to meet him, while Ronan and Ollie hung back, trading looks—
"Is that the manager?"
"How should I know? But it seems like it."
"What's a manager doing here?"
"Buddy, I'm as clueless as you are, okay?"
Amid their confusion and banter, Aaron's voice cut through. "So, this must be the lead singer, Ronan, right? Your performance tonight left a lasting impression on us."
Ronan was mid-eye-roll at Ollie when he got called out. No time to grumble about how fast the small talk wrapped up—he turned to Aaron. "That's not great, is it? I mean, Bruno's the star tonight. Our set's probably better off forgotten quick."
Well…
"Haha." Aaron seemed to love Ronan's deadpan quip—though Ronan wasn't joking. Still, it landed well. "No worries, my memory's sharp. I can handle both stages, no problem," Aaron replied, matching it with a dry, German-precision comeback.
Cold joke versus cold joke.
Ronan cracked a bright laugh. "Sounds like your CPU's got plenty of RAM."
Ollie didn't find it funny and was about to roast Ronan, but then he caught Cliff's pained, I-want-to-die expression and snorted instead.
Aaron grinned wide. "I've got to say, tonight's show was full of energy and life. I felt the stage come alive—that kind of charisma is a rare gift for any performer. It's a blessing from above. You're meant for the stage."
Ronan was floored. After John, now Aaron was piling on high praise too? Was this some post-opener ritual?
Or just social fluff—like how Scooter's meeting was an audition, but this was just a friendly chat with no stakes, so they tossed compliments freely? Should he even take it seriously?
He glanced at his bandmates for a clue, but they'd all gone robot-mode. Even Cliff, the small-talk champ, looked like he'd glitched out. Clearly, they weren't up for this either—Scooter's shadow lingered, leaving them unsure how to handle John and Aaron's words.
Ronan's eyes slid back to Aaron, Ollie's voice echoing in his head: You're worth it.
"Sorry, we're kind of a mess," Ronan said after a beat, a smile tugging at his lips. If he didn't know how to respond, he'd just be real. "It's been forever since we last got praise from pros—maybe the first time ever. We don't know how to act, and yeah, we're fumbling. Hope we don't come off too rude or over-the-top."
That raw, honest reaction caught Aaron off guard. He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes, then nodded lightly. "No need to overthink it—just take it as it comes. If pros haven't praised you before, it doesn't mean you're not good. It just means you haven't been noticed yet."
Aaron spoke so slowly, so steadily—like he had everything under control. It calmed the listener's nerves, though it didn't quite fit the entertainment world's constant party vibe. Especially now, amid the concert's chaos, Aaron felt like a monk wandering into a spider's den—oddly out of place, almost comical.
But that very style made his words hit hard, drawing the band's full attention.
In Aaron's hands, any situation seemed to lose its problems. He always carried himself with grace. "Trust me, you'll hear plenty more praise like this in the future. Because you deserve it."