`Ollie clenched his fists, barely holding back the urge to storm forward and swing at Scooter. Scooter could mock their music or sneer at their talent—that didn't matter. It was just an opinion, even if they didn't agree with it. They could accept it as a perspective on art, even when it stung. They'd still respect Scooter's right to say it.
But Scooter couldn't insult their persistence and their dreams.
They genuinely loved music from the bottom of their hearts. They didn't even dare to hope for dazzling, glorious success. All they wanted was to stand on a stage and sing. If just one person in the audience listened intently, it'd prove their effort meant something—that their dreams had warmth and meaning.
If it weren't for that passion, the band wouldn't have lasted seven years. If it weren't for that love, they would've given up during countless moments that begged for surrender. If it weren't for that pure, simple drive, Cliff and Maxim wouldn't still struggle to let go, even knowing full well that "giving up is the rational choice."
Didn't they know how harsh reality could be? Didn't they see how fleeting dreams were? Didn't they understand life's struggles? Didn't they realize that chasing fantasies beyond their reach wouldn't fill their stomachs and might even trap them in endless trouble?
Of course they did.
Was Scooter the only genius in the world? Was he the only one who could see life for what it was?
No, of course not! Their persistence, their hard work, their dreams—all of it came from love. All they wanted was to keep singing, and they did it simply because they chose to.
But Scooter's eyes dripped with disdain, as if they were nothing more than spit dirtying his shoe—fools daring to dream beyond their worth. Their very existence was dust, their stupidity a punchline.
Ollie hated Scooter. He hated that smug, holier-than-thou face, those cold, venomous words that reeked of arrogance, and that self-righteous, know-it-all attitude most of all.
Yet to Scooter, Ollie's fury was just the tantrum of a kitten. He didn't even bother raising an eyebrow.
"I've seen tons of musicians—trust me, way more than you could ever imagine," Scooter said with a smirk, like he was taunting frogs stuck at the bottom of a well, crowned kings for a day. The world he'd seen was far beyond what a "high school football team" could grasp. They didn't even know their place. "I can tell who's got a shot at making it and who doesn't. Star quality? It's something you're born with."
He threw their own song title back at them—"in-the-blood"—and the mockery thickened.
"Too bad for you guys, you're the ones who don't have it."
"Maybe—I mean maybe—if you copy-paste the spark from your last song, you might scrape by with a sliver of hope. But that's a big maybe. Go home. That's my real advice. Face your limits and accept what you're capable of. That's what you should do. Give up."
And just like that, Scooter handed down a death sentence on One Day Kings, the same way Trastan once had.
Time and space blurred together. From Scooter to Trastan, from a roadside motel to the Old Blacksmith Bar, moments and places tangled in Ronan's mind. Familiar words and attitudes crashed in, scrambling his grip on reality versus memory.
"Give up. You're not cut out for this." Trastan had said it too, back then. Then he'd turned, walked to the parking lot, and driven off, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and a shell-shocked Ronan standing there.
That was the night Trastan left.
Ronan Cooper had been there, watching Trastan gear up to walk away. He couldn't stop him. Instead, he'd been hit by a storm of Trastan's brutal words, tearing through every belief and shred of resolve he'd clung to.
That same night, Ronan Cooper fell into a feverish haze, drifting between sleep and waking, trapped in a chaotic limbo of memory and reality. He couldn't break free, couldn't fully wake up—just wandered like a ghost through loneliness and despair.
Then Ronan stepped up, spinning onto the stage.
Turns out, Ronan wasn't the first to notice Trastan's disappearance the next morning. The night before, he'd seen the betrayal with his own eyes but couldn't stop it. After that, the memory just… vanished. Until now.
In a daze, everything snapped into focus. So many pivotal moments finally made sense. And yet, it all blurred again as the same scene played out before him. Trastan's and Scooter's faces overlapped, indistinguishable.
"No. No! I said no!"
It was Cliff's voice.
Maxim was trying to hold Cliff back, but he couldn't manage it. An unbelievable force erupted from Cliff's small frame. His roar exploded like thunder, yanking Ronan out of his mental spiral. The foggy memories cleared in an instant. Then he saw Cliff shove Maxim off with raw strength, completely losing control.
Thud. Thud.
Cliff stormed forward with big, furious strides. Maxim's tugging threw him off balance, and he stumbled, propelled by momentum he couldn't rein in. The aggressive move triggered a chain reaction. Scooter's buddies instantly tensed, stepping in front of him like bodyguards, braced for a fight. The air grew heavy, electric with tension. What started as a clash of wills teetered on the edge of physical blows. The room bristled with hostility, oxygen igniting.
"Shut up!"
Cliff didn't even seem to notice the shift. His eyes locked on Scooter. "I need you to shut up! What do you know? You think you get me? You think you get our band? What gives you the right to say we don't have what it takes? Who do you think you are, deciding someone's fate with a single word? Do you know why we started this? Do you know what we've held onto? You don't know a damn thing."
"Do you even understand music? Do you get what a dream is? Do you have any clue what real art is about? Marketing and creating are two different worlds. You snag a little success and start playing godfather! You don't even know what you're talking about!"
"What gives you the right to stand there judging us? What makes you think you can spout off about our music? Who the hell are you? Justin-freaking-Bieber?"
"Pfft!"
Cliff lost it.