150-152

Chapter 150: The Official Debut 

“Phew… phew…” 

Deep breaths, one after another, but the pounding of his heart refused to slow down. The tension wasn’t easing up at all. His mind was a mess of wild thoughts, spiraling into a pit of self-doubt that quickly snowballed out of control. 

Ronan glanced down at his trembling fingertips. There was no stopping it, so he gave up trying. He let the nervous energy spread. 

Lifting his head, he saw his restless bandmates in the green room. Ollie was doing nonstop squats in place, Maxim was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, and Cliff stood frozen, staring into space. Even Alice, usually steady, kept switching arms to hold up the camera—a subtle sign of her own anxiety and urgency. 

“Guys.” 

Ronan called out, his voice rising. He wasn’t great at this—rallying the troops was more Cliff’s thing—but tonight, he wanted to step up and share what was on his mind. 

All eyes turned to him, following Alice’s lens. It made him feel a little awkward. 

But he pressed on. 

“Hold on to this nervousness—it’s not a bad thing. We’re tense because we’re excited, because we care. Because we love this, because we’ve poured ourselves into it, that’s why we’re on edge.” Ronan placed a hand over his chest. “We need to feel the power of our hearts beating. That’s the strength that pushes us onto the stage, lets us connect through music, and gets everyone partying with us.” 

“From Full Moon Parties to street gigs, we’ve come this far. Tonight, we’re stepping onto a bigger stage—so let’s get this party going!” 

As he spoke, his voice climbed higher, his bright eyes lighting up his whole being. His grin stretched wide. 

“So, you ready?” 

His gaze landed on Ollie, who blinked, caught off guard, and stammered, “Uh, ready.” 

But that wasn’t the vibe Ronan was going for. He shook his head and roared again, “Are you ready?” 

This time, Ollie got it. He clenched his fists and shouted back with gusto, “Ready!” 

Ronan nodded, satisfied, and thrust his right hand high, fist clenched. “Let’s party!” 

No prompting needed—Ollie was the first to raise his fist. Maxim and Cliff followed in sync, their fists up too, shouting a jagged chorus of “Let’s party!” 

The scattered yells lacked any real punch, which made them all crack up. They exchanged quick glances, then tried again with more force: “Let’s party!” 

That simple phrase worked like magic, pulling the band together. One shout turned into another—“Let’s party! Let’s party! Let’s party!”—and before they knew it, the tension melted away, replaced by a feverish, blood-pumping excitement. 

They were ready! 

… 

Alice’s camera tracked the band as they left the green room, heading toward the stage. In a daze, it felt like stepping back to those Full Moon Party nights. 

Back then, no one expected anything from One Day Kings. No one even knew who they were. But when they hit the stage, magic happened—it became their world, their moment. They shone brighter than anyone could’ve imagined. 

Alice could see Ronan’s nerves in sharp detail: the way he kept pressing his lips together, the constant clenching and unclenching of his hands, the restless hopping that only made his breathing more erratic, the drifting eyes that couldn’t find a focal point. Every little tic screamed how wound up he was. 

A stage this big, a gig this official, a performance this crucial—the layers of pressure had him more on edge than ever. 

But Alice wasn’t worried. She knew that once Ronan stepped onto that stage, the nerves would melt away like snow in sunlight. He’d transform into someone else—someone born for the spotlight, destined to dazzle on that small square of ground. 

And then… the band took the stage. 

As the opening act, there was no grand introduction, no spotlight trailing them. Their job was simple: warm up the crowd. 

By now, the venue was about 80% full, with more people trickling in. Bruno Mars wouldn’t take the stage for another half hour, though, and that long wait could easily turn dull and restless. That’s where the opening act came in—to break the ice. 

Before the main event, it was their job to loosen up the audience, get them warmed up, and ready to dive into the concert vibe. 

Ronan walked onto the stage step by step. No lights, no applause, no cheers—strictly speaking, no one was even looking at them. They might as well have been stagehands. 

It was a stark contrast to the Full Moon Party scene. The air felt a little tight. 

But that made sense. 

At Full Moon Parties, the crowd came to rave. It didn’t matter who was on stage—they’d cheer with wild abandon. Even when One Day Kings played in the weary second half, the audience still danced to their beat. 

Tonight’s concert was different. These people were here for Bruno Mars. A random band popping up out of nowhere? They couldn’t care less. Even if it were a semi-famous act, the crowd wouldn’t necessarily pay attention. 

Ronan didn’t mind. The jittery nerves settled as his feet hit the wooden stage floor. The creak beneath his soles felt warm and familiar, stirring his blood into a slow boil. The performer in him was waking up. 

Before him stretched a whole new world. 

Buzz, buzz, buzz! 

Buzz, buzz, buzz! 

The packed crowd sprawled out in his vision, a sea of people stretching endlessly. Their focus wasn’t on the stage—yet. But as their eyes flickered, some caught the movement in their peripheral vision. A spark of curiosity and anticipation flickered as they sized up what was happening up there. 

Ronan knew it: showtime for the opening act had begun. 

He turned to his bandmates, his eyes asking: Ready? 

They were still rattled, no question. For Cliff and Maxim, seeing a crowd of ten thousand up close for the first time was a gut punch of awe. Even Ollie, who’d peeked at the scene earlier, wasn’t immune. The sheer scale of the buzzing masses made them feel small—like things were slipping out of their grasp, plunging them into an unfamiliar, chaotic unknown. 

Could they really handle a stage like this? 

Chapter 151: Sudden Hiccup 

“Hey, Washington, good evening!” 

Ronan’s voice rang out through the microphone. Truth be told, he had no clue how to kick off an opening act—no experience to lean on here. But the moment was now, no turning back. Plus, the band still hadn’t fully shaken off their nerves.  

So, Ronan took the mic and threw out a quick intro, hoping to snap his bandmates into gear and get the show rolling.  

“Welcome to Bruno Mars’ Love Songs Unraveled concert! Don’t worry, the ticket office didn’t mess up—you’re definitely in the right place.”  

A little joke to lighten the mood. Some of the crowd chuckled, but most didn’t react much. The lukewarm response made his humor feel a bit pathetic. Alice, watching from the sidelines, felt a pang of nerves for him, but it seemed to wake the band up a little.  

Ronan, though? He wasn’t fazed at all. The second his feet hit that stage, he felt invincible—like a superhero under the spotlight, the glow wrapping around him like a cape, giving him the power to own the moment.  

Even now.  

“Whew, clearly you didn’t come to the Verizon Center tonight for a lousy stand-up routine. I might’ve just bombed that—not exactly a strong start.”  

“Before any misunderstandings spiral, I’d rather not have you tying our band’s name to anything weird and tanking the reputation we haven’t even built yet. So, I’ll skip the introductions for now and let the music do the talking—hopefully we can reset the vibe.”  

Ha! 

His witty self-deprecation and easygoing banter struck a chord this time. Laughter rippled through the arena.  

The audience started to catch on—this was the opening act. It wasn’t the familiar Fitz and the Tantrums they might’ve expected, but the die-hard fans already knew the scoop and began whispering to each other. Attention sharpened.  

An opening act’s job is to warm things up, get everyone pumped for Bruno Mars’ big entrance. The crowd could use a little warmup time anyway.  

Onstage, Ronan didn’t waste another second. He glanced back at his bandmates, catching the flicker of focus returning to their eyes. They were still a bit stiff, but once the music started, they’d be fine—he was sure of it. With a quick nod to Ollie, he signaled the start.  

Tap! Tap! 

Ollie crossed his drumsticks, gave two sharp hits, and the beat dropped.  

Boom! Boom! 

The show was on.  

In the crowd, reporter Buster Wayne watched the stage with keen interest, quietly hyped for One Day Kings’ performance. His gaze settled on the lead singer, studying him intently. He couldn’t help but wonder: Would that spontaneous magic from rehearsal day show up again? 

Or had it just been a fluke in his head? And what about the band’s set—could they pull off a concert vibe so different from their street gigs? Would this stage let them shine? Was Bruno’s pick of this band a manager’s push or his own call?  

Knowing the backstory only fueled his anticipation.  

But…  

Buster’s hopes barely took off before crashing hard. He blinked, stunned, then let out a soft chuckle. This was definitely an unexpected twist: 

What’s going on? A mistake right out of the gate? And a pretty amateur one at that—wouldn’t this mess them up? Their image might actually take a weird hit!  

You didn’t need sharp ears or pro-level know-how to tell something was off with the band’s playing. It was obvious—  

The rhythm was out of whack.  

Not everyone could pinpoint the exact issue, but even without naming it, you could feel the melody wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t jarring, just… off, like the harmony wasn’t clicking, landing on your ears in a messy tangle.  

If he had to guess, it was the guitar. The timing didn’t sync with the drums or bass, throwing the whole track off-kilter. The disconnect was almost… comical.  

One measure, then two, and soon the drums and bass got dragged offbeat too. The flaws in the melody grew glaring.  

It wasn’t a disaster—maybe just an eighth of a beat rushed or a quarter lagged. Nothing catastrophic, especially for a live concert where slip-ups happen all the time. To most, it was a tiny hiccup, easy to miss unless you had a keen ear for rhythm.  

The real problem? One mistake piled onto another, then another. Instead of pulling it together, they spiraled deeper into chaos—each slip making it worse, tripping over themselves in a rookie meltdown. The discord started seeping out, impossible to ignore.  

Even non-experts could sense the melody clashing against their eardrums.  

Very… off-key.  

What was happening?  

Buster’s grin widened. This was not how it was supposed to go. So, how would they turn it around? Or was there no saving it—just a full-on trainwreck, torching their whole opening set?  

Buster clocked the glitch, but Ronan caught it even faster.  

A hiccup.  

Years of street gigs had honed his instincts—he whipped his head toward his bandmates, eyes darting to pinpoint the issue. But this was a concert, not a street corner. He didn’t halt the music outright, hoping they’d notice and realign on their own. That’s how it usually went. Not today, though—the mistakes just snowballed, locking them in a vicious cycle.  

It didn’t take long to spot the root.  

It wasn’t that they couldn’t fix it—they didn’t even know they were off. The in-ears!  

Without their in-ear monitors, they couldn’t hear themselves clearly, so they had no clue they were slipping.  

“In-ears!” 

Ronan gestured sharply at Cliff, trying to take control. But on this massive stage, shouting wasn’t cutting it. Deciding to cut their losses before the mess snowballed further, he thrust his right hand up, clenched it in the air, and stopped the music mid-track.  

“In-ears!” 

He signaled Cliff again. This time, Cliff caught on—and so did Ollie.  

They were too wound up, too green. A basic, dumb, but oh-so-common newbie mistake.  

Chapter 152: Turning the Tide 

Before they officially took the stage, a crew member reminded them to wear their in-ear monitors. But the staff didn’t stick around to check, and the band was too caught up in their conversation—minds floating on cloud nine—to really hear it. It went in one ear and out the other. 

Ronan didn’t notice either. He was focused on kicking things off with a quick chat to the crowd, so he hadn’t put his own in-ears on yet. In the rush, he forgot to remind the others. It was a rookie mistake—they just didn’t have the experience. 

The result? When they stepped out, Cliff wasn’t wearing his in-ears at all, and Ollie only had one in his left ear. 

As soon as the performance started, the venue’s acoustics threw them off. The crowd noise wasn’t loud, but the echo from the sound system muddled everything. Without in-ears, they couldn’t rely on their raw hearing to stay on track, and without direct feedback, their rhythm started to slip. One mistake led to another. 

Worse, Ollie and Maxim were just as nervous. In-ears or not, they were off too, adding tiny errors of their own. 

One. Two. Three. The slip-ups piled up. Normally, these would be no big deal—small hiccups they could fix on the fly. But on a concert stage, as rookies, they didn’t even realize something was wrong. The mistakes snowballed, irreparable. 

Ronan let out a wry smile. He wasn’t mad, frustrated, or panicked. They were all nervous and had made a beginner’s blunder—himself included. That was it. 

Still, seven years into the band, and they were still pulling newbie moves? It was kind of ridiculous, and that’s why he smiled—half absurd, half amusing. 

He shot a look at his bandmates to nudge them, then turned back to the crowd. He knew they needed a moment to fix their in-ears and settle their nerves. Without that, the shaky start would only spiral worse—the more they tried to avoid mistakes, the more they’d make. 

So, what now? 

Their first official concert stage, and they’d already flubbed it. How was Ronan supposed to handle this? 

It was a tough spot. 

The band had messed up because they were rookies. And now, the greenest of the green—Ronan—had to step up and save the day? Wasn’t that asking a bit much? 

Yeah, Ronan was freaking out a little. 

He scanned the crowd, but the distance and lighting made it hard to read their faces—just vague outlines, glinting eyes, and hazy expressions. He figured they probably didn’t know what was off. They might’ve sensed something wasn’t right, but pinning it down? Not likely. 

In those confused, blank stares, Ronan could feel their attention slipping. People were pulling out their phones—not to check something specific, just a reflex when focus drifted. A mindless scroll. 

He realized if he didn’t act fast, the crowd would check out completely. They weren’t here for Bruno Mars, and the audience hadn’t come for them. If he let this slide, the warm-up set could crash and burn. 

That couldn’t happen. 

“Phew…” 

Ronan let out a long, deliberate breath into the mic, making sure the rough, raspy sound carried to every corner of the venue. It wasn’t harsh—just a soft, airy gasp, like a whisper in your ear, jolting the senses awake. 

Then he raised both hands above his head and started clapping: 

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. 

A basic, simple 4/4 beat—quarter notes, four beats per measure. Strong, weak, strong, weak, matching the steady thump of a heartbeat. It was slow, deliberate, sinking into your body until you couldn’t help but feel it. 

What’s going on? 

Maxim glanced at Ollie. Cliff was still fumbling with his in-ears, flustered and rushed—they had to pull it together fast. Ollie didn’t have an answer; he just shook his head at Maxim. But instead of asking, he jumped in, joining Ronan. 

Only difference? Ollie used his drumsticks instead of his hands, tapping out the same 4/4 rhythm. 

Maxim was a little annoyed. There was no time to huddle up and talk it out—they just had to trust Ronan’s gut. 

So he let go of his bass and joined in, clapping along with Ronan. 

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. 

The crowd was baffled. It wasn’t that they didn’t get what the band was doing—they just didn’t see the point. Did the band think they were Bruno, hyping the whole place to clap along? No chance. These people weren’t buying it—they weren’t here for them. 

Buster’s eyes flickered with surprise, and yeah, confusion too. He couldn’t figure out what Ronan was up to. Still, he played along, raising his hands to clap with him—more out of pity than anything. Watching the band up there, clapping desperately while the crowd ignored them, felt too pathetic to ignore. 

Buster wasn’t the only one feeling sorry for them. 

Some clapped out of sympathy, others just to join the concert buzz. A scattered smattering of claps broke out—barely a blip in a crowd of ten thousand. Maybe a hundred people, maybe two hundred. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that someone was clapping, and the rest of the audience’s attention snapped back to the stage. Sure, some were mocking, some were scoffing, some were just plain confused—but their eyes were back. 

Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! 

The faint beat echoed through the Verizon Center. Then Ronan leaned into the mic and started singing, almost a cappella: 

“Get out my head… I should be looking ahead…” 

This wasn’t the planned opener. 

Ollie, Cliff, and Maxim swapped quick, startled looks. Even Diego, the sound engineer at the front, and the other staff turned their heads: 

This wasn’t the plan! 

But the original setlist was already out the window. What else could they do? At least Ronan was trying to salvage it—they had to roll with it. 

No clue what was happening, but they’d improvise. Diego nudged the soundboard, boosting Ronan’s mic with a touch of ethereal reverb. His clear voice rippled through the venue, layering over itself in waves. 

(End of Chapter)