The hotel lobby was quiet yet spacious, buzzing with people coming and going—a lively, busy scene. Outside, thick clouds stacked up layer upon layer, casting a somber hush over the city. Washington's upright, dignified vibe seemed baked into the land itself. It made you miss the grace of New Orleans or the glitz of Vegas, where vibrant colors burst out against the summer heat.
"Ronan, what if we've already missed the reporter? Did you not pin down an exact spot with him? Just 'hotel lobby'?"
Cliff's hushed voice couldn't hide his nerves. His mouth was grilling Ronan, but his eyes were darting around, scanning every figure passing through, hunting for anyone who might look like a journalist. His body had twisted a full 72 degrees, practically turning into a human pretzel.
Ronan had to tell him—for the seventh time—"Yes." But he skipped the rest of the explanation. Cliff didn't really want an answer anyway; it was just a reflex, a way to ease the tension and jitters.
In Ronan's opinion, it wasn't working.
A quick glance at the lobby's international clocks—showing times across different regions—caught his eye. North America was split into West, Central, and East. Right now, it was 3:02 p.m. Eastern, just two minutes past their phone-agreed interview time.
Ronan didn't see it as late. This was a last-minute call to set up, so things were bound to be hectic. Toss in D.C. traffic, and a 15-minute buffer was totally reasonable.
"Ronan, turn around for a sec."
Maxim's voice came from behind. Ronan swiveled, puzzled, only to find Maxim staring at him… fixing his hair. Ronan's head filled with question marks. "Uh?"
Maxim didn't reply, just kept fussing with his locks. Upstairs, he'd already spent 30 minutes on his hair—Ollie had cracked that he'd used half a tub of wax, enough to withstand a typhoon. And now he was at it again?
"Wait, you're not…" Ronan trailed off, hardly believing his guess.
"Don't blink," Maxim cut in. "Eyes wide—there, perfect." He was using Ronan's pupils as a mirror.
Slowly, very slowly, Ronan rolled his eyes upward, giving Maxim a dramatic white-eyed stare.
Maxim didn't care. Satisfied, he patted Ronan's shoulder. "Thanks." Then he turned to rib Ollie. "You're glued to that phone again. Sure the screen's still intact? Your fiery gaze hasn't cracked it yet?"
Ollie, totally lost in his game, didn't even twitch.
"He's here!"
Cliff's taut voice hissed beside them, his hand smacking Ronan's arm over and over. The slaps were light, like a feather-powered waterwheel—more annoying than forceful. "Is that him? It's gotta be him! He looks like a reporter! Oh—he saw us!"
Before he could finish, Cliff realized he'd given them away. He spun around, pretending nothing happened, frantically winking at Ronan and Maxim. "Don't look, don't look, or we're busted!"
Ronan just found it hilarious. He glanced over anyway, only to see Cliff's "reporter" stroll right past the lobby toward the elevators. Cliff was still yanking his arm, silently begging him to look away with wild, exaggerated faces.
"He's gone," Ronan said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
Cliff didn't get it. "Huh?"
"He's gone," Ronan repeated. Cliff whipped around, staring blankly as the guy vanished into the elevator. "This is D.C.—tons of reporters around. But even if he was one, doesn't mean he's here for us."
Right then—
"Sorry I'm late. I hate D.C.—the traffic's as bad as New York's, absolute garbage." The voice hit before the person appeared, not from where Ronan and Cliff were looking, but circling around from the other side, landing square in front of them.
The reporter… was pretty average. Ash-gray polo shirt, black cargo pants, a small black shoulder bag slung over his left side. In a crowd, he'd barely stand out. The only thing unusual was his face.
His skin was a patchwork of red and black, weathered from years under the sun, with faint white outlines around his eyes—probably from sunglasses. You could tell he spent a lot of time outdoors.
Wyatt caught the band's stares, scanning each of the four before pulling a cardholder from his pocket. He handed out business cards one by one, then locked onto Ronan for a proper intro. "Wyatt Garcia, Rolling Stone reporter."
He didn't say more, but his eyes screamed it: I'm not a scammer.
Ronan, though, studied the card, rubbing it between his fingers, reading every word like it was a treasure map. His slow, deliberate vibe sent a clear message: Cards can be faked.
Wyatt nearly blew a gasket, a curse teetering on his tongue. But Ronan beat him to it. "Sorry for doubting you—forgive my rudeness. We're just floored. We've never done a magazine interview, and our first one's with Rolling Stone? It feels like a dream. Even now, we can't believe it."
An apology first, then a humble fanboy moment.
Wyatt's temper fizzled out. Looking into Ronan's bright eyes, he paused, then got it—Ronan was messing with him.
As a Rolling Stone reporter, Wyatt was used to breezing through chats with big shots like Bruno Mars, who treated him with respect. Getting questioned over the phone had thrown him off, and now this young band was poking fun at him.
Calming down, Wyatt sized Ronan up again, his gaze sharpening.
He'd only caught a fleeting glimpse at the Verizon Center last time—no real impression. But today, face-to-face, it all clicked. Twitter snippets, YouTube clips, scraps of sparse info—all those bits and pieces came together into the guy standing here. It felt like a first meeting, yet somehow like they'd known each other forever.