Chapter 16
I want to taste the morning air without you in my lungs…
Kieran
Kieran woke up from his nap on the couch to the sound of Vale’s fingers tapping against his laptop keyboard.
The afternoon light streaming through curtains felt different somehow—charged with possibility that made his stomach flutter with something he refused to name as excitement. Anxiety. Or anticipation. Nothing good.
The only good thing about being trapped with Vale was knowing that if he seized in his sleep, Vale would be there to make sure he didn’t choke on his own tongue.
Because he was always there.
“Did you have a good nap?”
Kieran didn’t answer. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as his mind ran through the endless body checks to see if he had seized in his sleep. His tongue felt fine, no weird fogginess, his muscles didn’t ache, and he hadn’t pissed himself. Probably fine. Just a regular nap.
“I want to show you something.” Vale turned the screen toward him, showing numbers that had climbed again, Kieran couldn’t stop his breath from catching.
3.7 million views on YouTube. Clips on TikTok with millions more.
Instagram posts dissecting every line of his lyrics, people creating their own covers, reaction videos where people cried listening to him sing
“Look at this,” Vale said, scrolling through his email inbox.
“Seventeen different labels wanting meetings. Rolling Stone is asking for an interview. Three venues offering headline slots.” His voice carried that particular satisfaction of someone watching an investment pay off.
“The High Fly Ballroom wants to book you for next month.”
The High Fly Ballrom? Real venues. Real stages where real artists perform.
Kieran’s hands trembled as he reached for the laptop, needing to see the proof upclose. Not because he didn’t believe Vale, but because the scope felt too enormous to process without seeing it properly.
Three comments caught his attention:
This is the most authentic thing I’ve heard in years. Where has this artist been hiding?
The way he performs this song like he’s confessing to a priest—actual chills.
I’ve watched this twenty times and I cry every single time. This is what music should be.
They think I’m talented. They think my music matters.
The realization hit with nauseating clarity.
Not just the numbers—anyone could go viral for fifteen minutes—but the depth of response.
People weren’t just watching; they were connecting.
Feeling something real from words he bled onto paper in moments when surviving another day felt like an accomplishment.
“You’re pleased.”
“I’m not—it’s not—” Kieran closed the laptop. “It doesn’t ch-change anything. This doesn’t change what you d-did to me.”
“What I did was help you access authenticity you couldn’t reach on your own.” Vale’s tone remained patient. “The world is responding to honesty, Kier. To the version of yourself you discovered in that basement.”
Stop calling it discovery. Call it what it was—violation disguised as education.
But even as his mind formed the objection, Kieran’s chest ached with traitorous pride. He wrote something that mattered and performed it with the kind of raw honesty he always knew lived inside him, but never knew how to access. The methods were horrific, but the result...
The result is everything you ever wanted as a musician.
“Does this m-mean—” Kieran stopped himself before finishing the thought, afraid of the answer either way.
“Mean what?”
“Does this m-mean you’ll let m-me go now? You’ve proven what-wh-whatever point you wanted to make. P-people like the song. I can—I can handle the rest from here.”
“Handle what, exactly? The interview requests? The label negotiations? The pressure to recreate this level of vulnerability on command?”
I could learn. I could figure it out. Other artists do.
“I could try.”
“You could fail spectacularly.” Vale stood, moving to the coffee table where Kieran had left the notepad he poured all of his pain and confused feelings into. He bolted up to grab it, but Vale was faster. “Speaking of vulnerability, I found some new material you’ve been working on.”
“N-nothing in there is r-ready yet,” Kieran’s voice came out smaller than intended as Vale flipped through the pages.
“I disagree.” Vale settled back into his chair, running his fingers over the lines on one page. “This part about temples that betray themselves, about not trusting your own design. Nothing to do with recent experiences?”
He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything about you now, including how badly you lie when you’re scared.
But Kieran couldn’t tell him the truth—that every word was about his body being something unreliable.
About his stutter making communication feel like betrayal, his seizures stealing consciousness without warning, the way Vale’s hands taught him to mistrust every sensation.
.. The way he kissed Vale back without permission from his mind.
You turned me into architecture I don’t recognize.
“They’re ju-just lyrics,” Kieran said instead. “M-metaphors.”
“Metaphors.” Vale huffed a laugh through his nose. “Well, I think it’s time we explored those metaphors more fully and see what kind of performance they inspire.”
No. Not yet. I’m not ready for—
But Vale was already standing, notepad tucked under his arm like lesson plans. “Come with me.”
The basement stairs felt different this time. Not unknown territory, but familiar ground that Kieran’s body recognized with Pavlovian certainty. His hands started shaking before they reached the bottom.
At least I know what to expect. Hood, chair, guitar. I can do this. I survived it before.
The relief was immediate and shameful—the structure returning, expectations clarified, the weight of choice lifted from shoulders that carried uncertainty for too many days. Even walking down the stairs felt like coming home to something twisted but comprehensible.
I hate that I feel better already. I hate that knowing what’s coming is easier than guessing.
But when they reached the basement, Kieran’s relief curdled into confusion. The chair was there, positioned differently. But mounted in the stone wall, at shoulder height, was something that definitely wasn’t there before.
A metal hook, screwed into the stone.
Vale moved behind him, close enough that Kieran could feel body heat through his shirt. “Hold out your hands.”
“What?”
“Your hands, Kier. In front of you.”
The metal handcuffs were professional grade, the kind police used, lined with padding for extended wear. They clicked around Kieran’s wrists with finality that made his vision gray around the edges.
This isn’t the same lesson. This isn’t what I prepared for.
“What are you d-doing?” Kieran’s voice cracked as Vale guided him toward the wall, toward the hook that suddenly looked less like hardware and more like something designed for exactly this purpose.
“We’re going to explore what it means to build temples on fault lines,” Vale said as though he were explaining breathing techniques. “What happens when hymns are sung in blood and trust.”
Vale positioned him facing the stone wall, the chain connecting the handcuffs pulled over the hook.
Kieran’s arms were pulled up and forward, forcing him to lean slightly against the cold stone, his back exposed to the room behind him.
The position was awkward, not quite comfortable, not quite painful.
I can’t move. I can’t see him. I can’t protect myself.
“The song talks about worshipping at a shrine of fear,” Vale continued, his voice coming from somewhere behind Kieran, footsteps moving around the basement slowly. “About temples built on fault lines. We’re going to test what happens when your foundation shifts unexpectedly.”
Kieran pressed his forehead against the cold stone, the chain keeping his arms stretched just high enough to make his shoulders ache. “I can’t perform like this. I c-can’t—”
“You’re going to sing,” Vale said, his warm breath against the back of Kieran’s neck.
“And you’re going to keep singing no matter what happens.
This is about endurance and perseverance, Kieran.
About continuing to create even when your body betrays you.
Even when you can’t rely on anything familiar. ”
What is he planning?
“You’ve written something beautiful,” Vale murmured, hands settling on Kieran’s shoulders through his shirt. The touch was warm, almost gentle, but the intent behind it made his skin crawl. “Let’s make sure you can perform it beautifully, too.”
Kieran heard the soft whisper of leather being drawn from fabric—Vale’s belt sliding free from its loops. The sound made every muscle in his body tense against the restraints, metal digging into the bones of his wrists.
“Start singing,” Vale said from somewhere behind him. “From the beginning.”
“I c-can’t remember all the words—”
The first strike came without warning, leather cracking across his shoulders through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Not brutal, but sharp enough to steal his breath—a line of heat that bloomed instantly across his shoulder blades.
He bit down on his inner lip, tasting copper where his teeth broke the skin.
“P-please don’t do this—”
“Try again.” Vale’s fingers stroked across his shoulders, as if to soothe the place he’d struck. “Sing through it. This is what great artists do—they don’t let discomfort stop them from creating.”
Kieran’s voice cracked as he began:
“Built a temple out of skin and bone...“
The words came thin and shaky, but they came.
Another strike, this one lower, across his shoulder blades. The impact sent a shockwave through his ribcage and made his chest seize. The heat was different this time—sharper, layering over the first strike, building into something that radiated outward like ripples in water.