Chapter 32
But the audience was watching now, they couldn't look away; From the spectacle of genius in its beautiful decay…
Vale
Vale returned to the green room with Kieran’s new guitar after finalizing logistics with the event coordinator and placed it against the wall.
Fifteen minutes until Thorn and Jericho took the stage—plenty of time for final preparations to have the maximum impact as the last performance of the night.
The mini lesson before Jericho’s return left Kieran raw and vulnerable—exactly where he needed to be for the performance. Now Vale just needed to ensure that wound stayed open until they took the stage.
The scene inside had transformed. Jericho looked nothing like the gimmicky pop performer who’d taken the stage earlier in the evening—back when Kieran had still been at the bar, before everything with Vander and Nox had unraveled.
Her hair was slicked back, severe and dark, no jewelry except the natural gleam of sweat on her collarbone.
Her makeup was wrecked with intention—mascara and eyeliner smeared down her cheeks in patterns that looked like tears but read like war paint.
The white Flake dress was gone, replaced by baggy cargo pants and Kieran’s ruined suit jacket hanging open over gauze-wrapped breasts that created stark geometric lines across her torso. She’d transformed herself into someone who understood the wounded aesthetic on an instinctual level.
But what stopped Vale in the doorway was Jericho on her knees, picking up glass shards from the floor—small, glittering pieces from the vodka bottle Nox had shattered during his assault.
She collected them one by one, dropping each piece into a bar napkin on the ground while studying a sheet of paper covered in Kieran’s handwriting.
“Don’t worry about that,” Vale said, keeping his tone light even as he assessed the situation. “I’ll have venue staff come clean the room properly.”
“Of course,” she said, folding the napkin with its collection of glass and tucking it into her cargo pants pocket. Her attention returned to Kieran, who sat on the couch with his notebook, making final adjustments to lyrics with shaking hands.
Vale’s eyes narrowed, instinct prickling at his neck, but before he could pursue the thought, Jericho was moving to Kieran’s side.
“Try this for the second verse,” Jericho said, humming a counter-melody that wove around Kieran’s primary tune like smoke around fire.
Kieran’s voice joined hers tentatively, then with growing confidence as their tones found each other.
His posture changed—shoulders relaxing as the collaboration seemed to provide temporary relief from the emotional rawness still evident in his flushed cheeks.
“This part w-works better if w-we trade the l-lead,” Kieran said, voice hoarse but gaining strength. “Like a c-conversation.”
“Yes!” Jericho’s enthusiasm was genuine, excitement at performing something meaningful instead of manufactured pop confection. “This is what music is supposed to feel like. Collaborative and honest. Not some producer telling me to hit notes that don’t exist in my range.”
They worked through the arrangement with whispered intensity, building something intimate and devastating. The white wrappings on both of them created visual symmetry, like matching survivors of the same beautiful disaster.
A soft knock interrupted their preparation. “Five minutes,” came a voice from outside the door.
Vale pushed off from the wall, moving toward them. “It’s time.”
Kieran’s gaze found his immediately, his eyes wide and beginning to well with tears again. The boy was right on the edge—vulnerable enough to access authentic emotion, but stable enough to deliver a flawless performance.
Exactly where you need to be, sweetheart.
Kieran stood, reaching for the Martin D-41 that leaned against the wall where Vale had placed it and slung the strap over his chest so the body of the guitar rested on his back like a traveling minstrel.
They moved through the venue in a small procession, Jericho leading with a confident stride. Kieran walked between them, his shoulders hunched, still looking like someone who might shatter if handled roughly. Vale brought up the rear, scanning the crowd for potential threats.
There. Nox stood near the bar, an ice pack pressed against his broken nose, watching their approach with a malevolent focus. Blood had dried on his shirt collar, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. Assessing whether Vale’s protection extended beyond the green room.
Keep watching, you piece of shit. Let me know if you need another lesson.
Alex Thayer lurked near the far wall, keeping his distance but maintaining visual contact like a satellite in an unstable orbit. His presence felt less immediately threatening than Nox’s, but Vale made note of his position anyway. Two potential disruptions. Manageable, as long as I stay alert.
The crowd around the small stage had swelled, curiosity and anticipation thickening the air.
Word must have spread that something unusual was happening—the mysterious viral sensation Thorn was about to perform with an unknown collaborator in what appeared to be a completely improvised aesthetic presentation.
Kieran paused at the edge of the staging area, fingers working over guitar tunings with nervous precision. The Martin gleamed under stage lights, its rosewood body catching gold and amber from the overhead spots.
Now. One final adjustment to ensure he stays in the right headspace.
Vale leaned close, his lips brushing Kieran’s ear as he whispered, “Don’t look too fuckable up there. I can’t save you from this whole room.”
Kieran’s response was immediate and perfect—tears gathering in those dark eyes, but his jaw set with determination. The glare he shot Vale carried hurt and defiance, but underneath both was the unmistakable look of someone who understood exactly what was expected of him.
The nod he gave was small, barely perceptible, but it confirmed what Vale already knew: his beautiful boy was ready to bleed his fresh wounds into something that would haunt everyone who witnessed it.
Show them, sweetheart. Show them what real authenticity looks like when it stops protecting itself.
Apprehension coiled in Vale’s chest as he watched Kieran approach the microphone, bare feet silent against the small stage’s polished surface.
The crowd’s energy shifted, conversations dying as the crowd recognized that something significant was about to happen.
Phones appeared throughout the audience—producers, artists, executives all positioned to capture whatever came next.
Vale pulled out his own phone, his thumb hovering over the record button.
Kieran stood center stage, eyes cast downward, his guitar settling against his hip.
Jericho perched on a stool to his left, microphone cradled in her palms, her own gaze fixed on the floor like they were sharing some private moment of preparation.
They look like they’re praying. Or confessing.
The silence stretched, anticipation building until it felt almost unbearable.
Then their voices began—not words but pure sound, harmonized humming that rose from their chests like smoke from altar fires.
Haunting and mournful, the kind of vocalization that bypassed conscious thought and went straight to something primal.
Jericho’s alto provided the foundation, rich and grounded, while Kieran’s voice floated above it. He was restraining his range, keeping his voice in a register that complemented rather than overshadowed his partner. The generosity of the choice made Vale’s heart flutter with unexpected pride.
The humming lilted higher, both voices finding harmony without visible effort, then settled back into something that sounded like grief given melody. When they finally opened their eyes to find the microphones, the transition was seamless.
Kieran’s fingers found the guitar strings, establishing a simple progression in F# that felt both familiar and entirely new. The sharp intake of breath before he began singing was audible through the microphone—not a mistake but a choice, letting the audience hear the cost of beginning.
"They call him Daedalus, master craftsman of the game,
Says he builds the wings that’ll carry you to fame.
But I seen him push Icarus out that window frame…”
Jericho joined him for the back half of each rhyme, her voice weaving through his with instinctive ease despite having learned the song less than an hour ago.
When Kieran continued solo, his enunciation became razor-sharp, cutting through the room and between the crowd like knives thrown at them from the stage:
"He’s a sick, prick,
Cannibal-parasitic, blood compellin’;
Eatin’ first-borns like Kronos full of scorn.
Daedalus in the labyrinth,
Wearin’ minotaur horns...”
Vale’s gaze flicked to Nox, whose face had gone white with recognition. The broken nose only made his expression more grotesque—shock mixing with rage as he understood exactly who the Daedalus references were targeting.
How does it feel to be exposed, you piece of shit? How does it feel to have your methods turned into art that everyone will remember, even if they don’t know who the words are about?
Both performers lifted their eyes to the crowd for the staccato chorus, voices joining in perfect unison:
"Oh, the wax can’t hold when two suns burn so bright,
and he planned it all along—
Daedalus in the labyrinth,
Singing his predator song.”
Vale’s smile was involuntary at the overt reference to Two Suns Studio. Kieran wasn’t just performing his trauma—he was weaponizing it, turning his violations into missiles aimed directly at their source.
Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.