141-143

Chapter 141: Candlelit Conversation 

“Gotta find some sleep, but I’m hooked on that blue, trying to window-shop a personality, but nothing seems to fit. There’s a girl I kinda know, maybe she’s a cannibal, maybe I’m just a flawed emotional animal. Then a silent turn, sparks fly; but the moment she replies, pillow talk and empty claims. It’s all slowly killing me.” 

Like Oli said, the lyrics are deep—maybe even too deep. Fragmented words stitch together in a strange way, tough to follow, more like disjointed mutterings than a clear thread. 

Ronan didn’t want to tell a story or pen a poem to bottle up feelings. Instead, he aimed to catch fleeting moments in a few stark phrases, sketching the emotions within the melody—one grain of sand, a whole world; one flower, a paradise. 

True kindred spirits would get it. Those with different values, worldviews, or takes on life wouldn’t—and they don’t need to. This song isn’t for them. 

In a way, “Kill Me Slower” is King for a Day’s autobiography— 

Chasing dreams, struggling over and over, never giving up, but never seeing the future either. Walking away to a normal life feels wrong, yet pushing on seems pointless. Trapped in a rut, they’re just… slowly killing themselves. 

“I hate dreams.” 

Taste that line again—also from “Kill Me Slower”—and you might catch the flicker of that conflicted vibe. 

Oli didn’t get Ronan’s lyrics, but listening to the melody, he said “dust got in my eyes”—his excuse as he kept rubbing them. 

Ronan didn’t comment. 

No doubt, “Kill Me Slower” is steeped in bittersweet ache. But Ronan didn’t want to wallow in self-pity or drown in sadness. Like “Get Out of My Head,” he sings sorrow with a bounce, despair with a grin. 

From “Born This Way” to “Get Out of My Head” to “Kill Me Slower,” you can trace the band’s situation and Ronan’s mindset. 

Yeah, King for a Day’s teetering on a cliff, stumbling into a dead-end dark. They spot glimmers of hope but can’t grab hold. Persistence is turning into an obsession, yet Ronan never slumps. He’s learned to find joy in the grind— 

To him, it’s all happiness, a test, an adventure. 

Since waking up on that bar stage, Ronan’s treasured every second of life. He’s learning to embrace his own path, like the “half-glass” theory—always seeing what’s left, not what’s gone. Happiness and hardship go hand in hand. 

That’s why, even with dark lyrics like “Kill Me Slower,” Ronan’s melody stays light and lively. His singing style breathes new life into it. 

“Bruno” picks up on that bittersweet spark in Ronan’s tune—like a guy whose house is burning down but still grins for a family photo, muttering, “This is too rare not to snap a memory,” and bustling around with the camera. 

It’s hard not to smile. 

“…You mean like this?” Following the suggestion, Ronan plays it on the spot, open to feedback, exploring options. 

“Yeah, exactly.” After the tweak, “Bruno” nods approval, a smile tugging at his lips. “Now the emotional punch hits different. If the singer can nail those subtle shifts and really deliver the lyrics’ heart, the audience will feel it for sure.” 

Mid-sentence, he trails off without warning. 

The words cut short, like he’s lost in thought. His gaze drifts, focus scattering, slipping into his own world. 

Ronan’s caught off guard and glances up. Then it hits him—maybe “Kill Me Slower” struck a soft spot. Could that mean this scruffy boxer isn’t Bruno? 

Bruno’s on a rocket ride up right now, all swagger and stride. How could he relate to King for a Day’s slow spiral? A washed-up boxer, though—that fits the vibe better. 

What if this guy’s some 36th-tier actor scraping by impersonating Bruno Mars? Then he’d share plenty with King for a Day, and feeling “Kill Me Slower” so deeply wouldn’t be a stretch. 

But Ronan doesn’t dig into the guy’s expression. He looks away— 

He knows if it were him, he wouldn’t want a stranger peering into his soul, let alone poking around. 

“Bruno” zones out for just a beat—one or two seconds, a tiny pause—then snaps back. No awkwardness, no cover-up, like it was nothing. He picks up right where he left off. 

“Arrangement-wise, what’s your take?” 

Solo folk guitar’s too thin, too bright. It wouldn’t hit the vibe Ronan’s going for. 

Sure, diving into pro-level stuff with a stranger he just met feels off. Plus, it’s music copyright territory—if some jerk swiped the melody and arrangement, filed it first, Ronan’d be stuck eating the loss. 

And he still isn’t sure who this guy really is. Maybe—probably—not Bruno Mars at all. Just a random passerby or a down-on-his-luck street boxer. 

But Ronan’s not sweating it. 

Music’s for everyone to weigh in on—pro or not, deep or shallow. No need for a line in the sand. That’s the beauty of modern tunes. Plus, this guy gets the real feelings tucked in the lyrics and melody. That’s enough to make them kindred spirits. 

Ronan’s happy to open up and share music with anyone, purely for the love of it—joy, sorrow, all of it. Sharing’s the right way to dig music. 

What if he’s wrong about this guy? 

Then it’s a lesson bought. Ronan’s cool taking the risk. 

Chapter 142: A Lively Chat 

“…For the main instruments, I’m planning to use electric guitar and bass. I’m also thinking about adding a double bass—I want the melody to sink low.” 

“But the chorus needs some tweaking. The sound needs to feel fuller, with richer layers, while still keeping the verse’s weight. I’m considering jazz instruments for that.”  

Ronan looked up, turning to the other guy with an open, easy vibe as he shared his thoughts. No holding back—just a genuine dive into the discussion.  

Who knows? Beyond the pros, there’s always hidden talent out there. Plus, he, Ollie, Maxim—they were all amateurs, self-taught, especially him. So Ronan always approached things with a humble attitude.  

The jazz instrument idea? That came from New Orleans.  

Jazz gear has a vibe all its own—lazy yet cozy, elegant yet smooth. The low end, especially, is a treat for the ears. Think trombone, clarinet, double bass, trumpet—stuff like that. They give melodies a velvety texture that’s hard to beat.  

For “Kill Me Slower,” Ronan was chasing a clash of feelings: sadness in the tune, but a laid-back lightness too. Beyond how he sang it, the arrangement mattered. Jazz instruments were perfect—they’d add depth alongside the electric guitar and bass without stealing the spotlight.  

Plus, the chorus repeats over and over, same chords, same lyrics. That can tire listeners out fast—  

Like “Bruno” said, it could get old, especially with an extra four beats tacked on. The monotony of those simple chords would stand out even more. Jazz instruments could sprinkle in some flair, stretching the sound without breaking the song’s core stiffness and numbness.  

“Bruno’s” eyes lit up a bit. Ronan hadn’t spelled out his whole reasoning, but the guy’s reaction said it all—he got it in a flash. Even in the dim light, his gaze sharpened, and the shadows on his face cleared just enough to notice.  

“Jazz instruments are a solid pick. Oboe or trumpet… hmm… maybe try a French horn? Thicker, subtler.” He rambled on, like he was tinkering with his own project. “No, wait—bass trombone’s better. You know, keep the jazz vibe under the radar but still beef up the arrangement’s depth and layers.”  

“Bass trombone?” Ronan mulled it over, a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “Sorry, I don’t know much about it. But I’ll check it out later. Right now, I’m leaning toward a cornet or French horn—their tone’s amazing. Just haven’t had time to hit the studio yet, so I’m not sure how it’ll sound.”  

If he didn’t get it, he owned it. Ronan stayed honest.  

“Bruno” didn’t mind at all, a smile creeping into his eyes. “Cornet’s a good call, but the bass trombone’s velvet feel? Nothing tops it. If it were me, I’d be in the studio tonight, hunting for the right answer—no, the best fit.”  

“Ha, if I could, I’d be there too. Just imagining it’s got me itching to try,” Ronan chuckled, not elaborating, just quirking an eyebrow. “Remember? It’s all slowly killing me.”  

That lyric.  

“Bruno” froze for a second, then caught on. Ronan meant he couldn’t just waltz into a studio whenever. “A guy who can’t? Living at the Hilton? That doesn’t add up.”  

“Someone’s footing the bill,” Ronan said casually. “If they say no, we’re broke. Might start working as pool boys here tomorrow.”  

Pool boy—a term with a wink, like plumbers or repairmen in certain “special” movies. Just younger, fresher meat.  

“Bruno” got it instantly and burst out laughing, a big, raspy sound bouncing around the pool. His hoarse voice couldn’t quite carry it, like something was stuck in his throat. It flared up quick, then faded into a cough.  

“You okay?” Ronan asked, concerned, glancing around. No water in sight—just a giant pool of chlorinated stuff.  

“Bruno” waved him off, signaling he was fine, but caught Ronan’s gaze drifting to the pool. He pieced it together, started to say, “You…”—and choked on his own spit. A coughing fit hit, but the laughter wouldn’t quit. “Hahaha!” He lost it again.  

“You’re a funny guy.”  

“Bruno” said it with a nod. “Now I get why you’re shaping that song this way. Honestly, I’m kinda pumped to hear the final thing. I’ve got ideas in my head, but they might not fit you.”  

Ronan grinned back. “Me too. Can’t wait.”  

A smile rippled through “Bruno’s” eyes. “You deserve your own props. If they won’t cover your hotel, come find me. I might be able to help. You know, in these slow-suicide years, finding some joy? I’d tell ‘em you’re a damn good musician. Even if it’s a slow death, we can stretch it out a little.”  

The way he put it made Ronan chuckle.  

But it also sparked some curiosity.  

In the dark, Ronan studied “Bruno’s” jawline. He still couldn’t be sure who this guy was—the light wasn’t helping. But that last bit? It oozed a quiet confidence, a steady grip on things, not the tone of some washed-up boxer. Unless he was a world-class con artist.  

So who was he? 

Could it really be Bruno?  

In their short chat, Ronan’s guess had flipped back and forth a dozen times. He just didn’t have the “visual” experience to lock it down. But now, calming down, he had a moment to think—and a real shot to test it.  

So… should he give it a go?  

Chapter 143: Sudden Clarity 

“…That’s not necessarily true. Pros might see it differently. You think I’m a solid musician, but some say I’m just wasting my time sticking with it—giving up’s the only real option.” 

Ronan speaks up, having missed too many chances before. This time, he tests the waters by bringing up his own setbacks. 

“Oh?” “Bruno” lets out a quick, surprised sound. “Wasting time? You sure you heard that right? For a piece like what you just played? They’re sure about that?” His face lights up, unguarded—shock, confusion, and all. “Hold on, hold on. Which producer? If it’s country music, maybe… nah, that doesn’t add up either…” 

His body leans forward a bit, uncontrollably drawn in. His gestures spill over with curiosity—and a hint of gossip. 

“Wait, that ‘slow suicide’ you mentioned… oh, got it… yeah, that makes sense. I see it now… huh, this is interesting. Hang on, you still haven’t said—who was it? A producer? Manager? Some critic?” 

In a flash, he’s animated, nodding to himself like he’s cracked a code, piecing it together solo. Then he’s back to digging for dirt, not even waiting for Ronan to answer before spiraling off into his own theories. 

It’s… honestly hilarious. 

Ronan had been a little tense, wondering how to probe this guy. But the barrage of eager questions cracks him up, loosening him up. The name on the tip of his tongue slips out naturally—no more testing, just chatting like buddies. 

“Scooter Braun.” 

“Bruno” pauses, a short “oh” escaping him as he nods, getting it. He mulls it over, then lets out a long, knowing “ooh…” His eyes meet Ronan’s, a shared understanding passing between them. 

No words, just a look—like a quiet agreement, a bit of comfort. 

Ronan’s shoulders shrug up as his lips curve down, a smile glinting in his eyes. “Yep…” he drawls, the stretched syllable hinting at a ton left unsaid, but Scooter’s not worth the breath. 

“Bruno” chuckles. “So, Hilton… Scooter again?” If the audition flops, Scooter dodging the bill wouldn’t be a shock. 

“No, no, no, no.” Ronan waves it off, catching the mix-up. “Scooter was… uh, a few weeks back. This Hilton thing’s for a different audition.” 

He pauses, figuring out how to phrase it. He glances at the guy, then switches gears on a whim. “Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like Bruno Mars?” 

“…” The guy clearly didn’t see that coming. He freezes. 

Ronan scratches his head. “…Or are you actually Bruno Mars?” The awkwardness meter’s off the charts now. Maybe he botched the approach. 

Right here, right now. 

Bruno Mars studies this artist’s eyes and expression with dead seriousness. Clear eyes carry a mix of frustration and gloom, a clumsy vibe tinged with faint hope. “So, do you want me to be Bruno or not?” 

“I, uh… I mean…” Ronan stumbles, then catches up. “Wait, so you are Bruno Mars?” 

It’s a question, but Ronan’s pretty sure now. The guy’s tone and look gave it away. 

This time, Bruno’s 100% certain—this guy’s genuine. He really didn’t recognize him. Those honest eyes don’t lie. 

Looking back at their chat, Bruno finds it even more amusing. “You talked to a maybe-Bruno for almost twenty minutes and asked for pro music advice? I’m not sure if that’s a win or a loss.” 

“Liking music’s always a win. How could it be a loss?” Ronan says with a grin. 

Bruno blinks, a spark flashing in his mind. He sits up, then leans back, sizing Ronan up from a distance. Two weeks of nagging frustration and fog suddenly clear—like the moon breaking through clouds. It makes him wonder— 

Did Ronan say that on purpose? To butter him up? 

But Ronan’s eyes are so bright. Noticing Bruno’s stare, he shoots back a puzzled look, totally unguarded. It’s Bruno who ends up flustered. 

“Even with the slow suicide, you’d still keep going, just for that?” Bruno asks, words tumbling out randomly. 

It’s a leap, but Ronan catches it—Bruno’s talking “Kill Me Slower.” 

Chasing dreams with no future versus a flat, normal life—both are slow suicides. Ronan picked the first. 

Ronan can’t tell what in his words hit Bruno’s sore spot, but he smiles anyway. “We all end up at the same finish line. It’s set the moment we’re born. So why not pick a path that makes you happy on the way?” 

“A path that makes you happy,” Bruno echoes under his breath. He looks up at this stranger he’s just met, and for a split second, it’s like seeing his old self— 

Three years ago, signing with Atlantic Records, he was this pure, this simple. Music brought him joy and pain alike. But time marched on, and that old self got lost somewhere, never found again. 

Now, gearing up for his second album, he’s felt trapped, clueless why—until tonight’s hint. Bruno starts missing that “old him,” when everything was still so straightforward. 

“Hold onto this moment. Don’t forget tonight’s you,” Bruno says out of nowhere, words jumbled like he’s drunk. Paired with his scruffy boxer getup and late-night pool wandering, it’s convincing. 

Ronan catches the sadness and loneliness in Bruno’s voice, but he doesn’t get it. Bruno’s got it all—first album a smash, touring the stage, second album hyped to the max. Why’s he down? 

(End of Chapter)