1231-1235

Chapter 1231: Halftime Break

Ahhh, ahhh!

Cheers and shouts reverberated like waves, spilling from the stage to the backstage. At this moment, even the backstage crew paused their busy tasks to witness the August 31st Band receiving their award. With the utmost enthusiasm, they warmly welcomed the band’s triumphant return.

A bustling crowd lined both sides of the backstage area, raising their hands in an impromptu salute to the band members of August 31st.

*Clapping!*

*Cheers!*

*Jumping!*

The fervent excitement swept through like wildfire, so much so that even the audience seated in front of the Staples Center could feel the energy. Heads turned toward the backstage, necks craned with curiosity, eager to glimpse the scene unfolding there—

*What was happening backstage?*

This was something truly novel.

Award shows have long been synonymous with “tradition.”

Formal and solemn, rigid and decorous—this is the grown-ups’ world, a formal occasion where everyone must display their best behavior. Even the increasingly youthful Grammys are no exception. Everything follows a protocol: from attire to words to actions. Everyone unconsciously slips into an invisible cage, presenting a “mature” front.

Over time, those faces started to blend together, becoming monotonous. People quietly concealed their individuality, their edges and colors, their joys and sorrows—all neatly packaged under the guise of public relations. The result? Award shows gradually lost their vitality.

Rules, undoubtedly, have their place. Without rules, chaos ensues. Yet, when rules become shackles, one might forget how to breathe.

This year’s Grammys embodied that reality, especially so—

All because of one unexpected event, an incident that occurred a full week prior.

During the Super Bowl halftime show, the most significant annual spectacle in North American sports, watched by over 100 million viewers, an incident of global proportions took place.

Janet Jackson—the legendary performer and sister of Michael Jackson—was the featured act on the prestigious halftime stage, often dubbed “America’s Spring Festival Gala.”

Janet invited Justin Timberlake, freshly solo from NSYNC, to perform a duet.

At the end of the performance, Justin, without warning, reached for Janet’s left breast and tore away a piece of her leather bodice, exposing her in a shocking, R-rated moment broadcast live across the country.

The Super Bowl’s immense influence caused an uproar.

The incident even prompted an FBI investigation, going down in history as the infamous “Super Bowl Incident.”

Despite both Janet and Justin issuing immediate responses, the truth remained obscured, spiraling into a labyrinth of speculation.

Some claimed it was a publicity stunt by Janet. Others believed it was a planned act rehearsed in advance. Some thought it was purely accidental, while others blamed Justin for a prank gone awry.

Speculation abounded.

But the outcome was clear: Janet faced unofficial blacklisting, her career suffering irreparable damage, while Justin’s career soared, untouched.

As a result, all live broadcasts in the U.S. were mandated to include a delay—ranging from 30 seconds to a full minute—giving networks time to respond to unexpected incidents.

The repercussions lingered.

Fourteen years later, Justin returned to the Super Bowl halftime show in 2018, while Janet faded into obscurity.

When the NFL announced Justin’s return, media scrutiny erupted. Even the league wasn’t spared.

Some outlets questioned whether the NFL had blacklisted Janet Jackson, prompting the league to officially deny the claim.

In interviews, Justin expressed regret, stating he had tried to help revive Janet’s career but to no avail, his words tinged with remorse. Indirectly, this confirmed that the incident had been Justin’s impulsive act—a personal prank with far-reaching consequences.

In 2021, Justin publicly admitted his fault and apologized for the Super Bowl incident.

For over two decades, the “Super Bowl Incident” has left its mark—

And now, in the week leading up to the Grammys, the fallout was palpable across North America.

Contrary to assumptions based on Hollywood’s liberal image, North America remains deeply influenced by its Puritan roots—strict and conservative. In comparison, Europe embraces far greater openness and candor.

Thus, the "Super Bowl Incident" cast a shadow over the Grammys.

CBS announced a five-minute broadcast delay, meaning viewers at home would see events five minutes after they occurred live—a clear indicator of heightened caution.

Initially, the Grammy lineup included Janet Jackson and Luther Vandross for the halftime opening act. But following the scandal, Janet was abruptly removed from the program, absent from the ceremony altogether. The Grammys were forced to rearrange their performance schedule at the last minute.

Ironically, Justin Timberlake remained unscathed, attending tonight’s ceremony without issue.

Against this backdrop, the Grammys felt particularly tense and stifling. CBS maintained a heightened state of alert.

That is, until the August 31st Band made their appearance.

From their red carpet arrival, they exuded a different energy. Their mysterious disappearance afterward only added to the intrigue. Their unrestrained, youthful exuberance shattered the oppressive atmosphere, tearing through the constraints with the force of a hurricane. They captured everyone’s attention and curiosity.

Breaking free from the mold, reclaiming authenticity, and savoring joy—

Involuntarily, uncontrollably, anticipation grew. Curiosity sprouted like a flower through cracks, blooming boldly.

This feeling was long forgotten. Truly, deeply forgotten.

Amid the chaotic buzz of excitement, the first half of the Grammy Awards came to a close, leaving the Staples Center alive with energy.

Curiously, the focus of discussions wasn’t Beyoncé, who had delivered two stellar performances, nor Justin Timberlake, who seemed unaffected by the controversy. Instead, all eyes were on the August 31st Band, whose whereabouts remained a mystery.

And then—

Who would replace Janet Jackson’s canceled halftime act?

“…August 31st Band?” someone in the crowd speculated.

But the idea was quickly dismissed:

“Impossible.”

“They’re not qualified.”

“Would they really make a last-minute change tonight?”

“Speculations are fun, but let’s be realistic.”

“If they’re the replacement, can we trust them not to cause more chaos?”

If not them, then—what were they up to?

Backstage and in the Staples Center, the intermission buzzed with fervor, an unstoppable tide of energy and curiosity.

(End of Chapter)  

Chapter 1232: Don’t Pretend to Be Proper

Noise, commotion, and a bustling crowd filled the air.

During the brief intermission, the Staples Center was abuzz with activity.

But in the blink of an eye, there was no time to relax. The second half of the awards ceremony was ready, and the live broadcast was about to resume.

Wait—something felt off.

The stage hadn’t changed. What was going on?

At the Grammys, performances are undoubtedly the centerpiece of the night. Every stage’s lighting, set design, and overall presentation are meticulously adjusted to deliver a world-class spectacle for the audience.

Among these, the opening acts of both halves are absolute highlights.

This year, Beyoncé opened the first half, showcasing how seriously the Recording Academy took the event. The second half was initially set to open with Janet Jackson teaming up with Luther Vandross, representing the Grammys' celebration of past and present.

However, the unexpected "Super Bowl incident" threw the original plan into chaos. With the situation spiraling into uncertainty, how the Recording Academy would handle the second half’s opening performance became the hottest topic in Hollywood.

It was a hot potato.

Everyone knew this was an opportunity—handled well, it could lead to instant fame. But the immense pressure was undeniable. With only a week to come up with a replacement, failure would be devastating. Sympathy might come, but behind the pity and regret would be schadenfreude and mockery.

Rumors swirled around Hollywood, but none were confirmed.

CBS maintained tight security, keeping everything under wraps. Even on the night of the ceremony, anticipation among the guests reached its peak.

But now?

Typically, intermission is used to set up the stage. Yet, the stage remained completely unchanged—no signs of preparation whatsoever.

A sense of foreboding quietly emerged:

Could it be that the Grammys hadn’t found a suitable replacement? That they were forced to hastily deploy a last-ditch plan, leaving no time to arrange the stage?

Would this turn into a disaster?

In a flash, speculation and unease rippled through the air.

The tension was stifling, suffocating.

The Staples Center felt like a pressure cooker, ready to burst at any moment.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The second half of the broadcast began.

But the stage was still empty. No set, no lights. Stark, raw, and ordinary, it stood there in its unadorned simplicity—

Like a joke.

"Broadcast malfunction" was likely the collective thought in everyone’s mind. Two major live broadcast incidents in one week, following the Super Bowl, would surely go down in North American television history.

The only silver lining was that CBS had implemented a five-minute delay. For now, viewers across the country remained unaware of this disaster.

Gloria’s mind was racing with unanswered questions. The live feed on the Staples Center’s big screens showed the same thing—complete confusion. No one knew what was happening.

Archie glanced at Gloria, certain that she must have the answers.

But Gloria, just as bewildered, spread her hands helplessly. She had no clue.

"Is this normal?"

"I don’t know."

"Could it be a broadcast error?"

"I... don’t know."

Not just them—the audience at the Staples Center’s entrance was equally dumbfounded. No one understood what was happening, let alone how to react.

And then—

Archie’s eyes widened as he stared at the screen, letting out a muffled gasp.

“Ah…”

Gloria instinctively turned to look and froze in place.

Anson?

Who else could it be but Anson Wood?

Inside and outside the Staples Center, shock rippled through the crowd.

What was going on?

On the simple stage, without dazzling lights or the usual blackout-followed-by-spotlight mystery, everything was laid bare, exposing every corner of the stage without any fanfare.

And then, Anson appeared.

Wearing a light blue pinstriped collarless shirt and a pale gray suit with matching pants, he had rolled the jacket sleeves up twice. Paired with white canvas sneakers, his outfit exuded a casual, relaxed vibe.

Carrying a guitar on his back, he looked effortless and carefree, like he had just wandered by the Staples Center, noticed the excitement, and decided to drop in.

Recently, Anson had been performing at a bar in New York, where even a single light and a simple chair created a serene and charming atmosphere.

Here, there were no lights, no chair—only stark minimalism.

Even in the face of such chaos, the lighting technician could have salvaged the scene with a spotlight, focusing attention on Anson and masking the stage’s simplicity, buying the team time to recover.

But even that was absent.

The stage was fully lit, revealing every flaw in its raw state.

It was unbelievable, unimaginable.

The scene was so shocking and unexpected that the audience, both inside and outside the Staples Center, was stunned into silence.

Mouths hung open, eyes glued to the stage, but no one could make sense of it.

So—

Was this the second half’s opening act? Was it a last-minute rescue by Anson and the August 31st Band? Or was Anson here to announce a technical glitch, asking the audience to cooperate and hope for a miracle in the next five minutes?

Or maybe—was this a zombie apocalypse and the Staples Center was the setting for the next Hollywood blockbuster?

The crowd’s imagination ran wild.

Yet, no one knew the truth. Like fools, they stared blankly at Anson.

At this moment, only Anson held the answer.

One step, two steps, three steps.

Anson walked calmly to the microphone. Bathed in the simultaneous chaos and stillness of the room, his lips curved into a faint smile.

“Hello, good evening.”

He greeted them.

No introduction, no explanation. Then Anson lowered his head, retreating into his own world.

He lifted the guitar from his back, cradling it in his arms. His fingers brushed lightly across the strings, sending clear, bright notes reverberating through the air.

Gentle ripples spread across the surface of the collective consciousness.

But instead of diving into a melody, Anson pressed the strings to silence them and looked up with complete focus.

“Ahem.”

He cleared his throat.

“Let’s begin.”

Wait—begin what? What was starting? Where was the rest of the August 31st Band? Why was Anson on stage alone?

One question after another piled up, threatening to overwhelm the Staples Center.

Yet there was no time to process, as Anson had already begun.

No accompaniment. No melody.

Just his voice.

Stripped of all embellishments, raw and pure, it was nothing but his unadulterated voice.

All complexities removed, the performance bared its soul, returning to its most essential form.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 1233: Another Light*

It was Anson.

He stood quietly at the center of the stage. No fancy lights, no backup dancers, no elaborate sets—just simplicity and humility that captured every gaze, rendering it impossible to look away. His natural charisma exuded effortlessly, becoming the undeniable focal point amid the crowd's stunned disbelief.

Heh.  

A faint chuckle emanated from the microphone, teasing yet ambiguous.

Then, Anson spoke.

“Stop making sense.”

There was no need to overthink, no need to seek answers to every question, no need to unravel every mystery, and no need to conform endlessly, fearing exposure.

A single sentence—a jest, a critique, and an attack.

And like a pebble dropped into still water, it sent ripples far and wide.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.  

The entire Staples Center seemed to hum faintly, the audience restless, attempting to decipher Anson’s words and reassure themselves they weren’t the ones he was targeting.

But Anson gave them no chance.

After dropping that line, he took a deep breath and began to sing. A cappella.

His voice, clear and luminous, flowed like a gentle brook, meandering through crisp enunciation. The melody sparkled like sunlight bouncing on water, skipping over mossy stones, dancing with fish, echoing birdsong, and sending soft ripples across the surface. The world seemed to awaken, stirring gently.

“Should I stay? Was there a sign? Or did I miss it?”

A faint sigh, tinged with bitterness, brushed through his words. The melancholy pull was tender yet persistent, sinking into the chest, drawing listeners into the music’s embrace within a heartbeat.

What is this?  

Bewilderment and curiosity spread through the crowd like wildfire, but no one had an answer—

This was something entirely new.

Though the band August 31st had burst onto the scene just a year ago, their album Midnight Summer had already cemented itself as a cultural phenomenon. Fans knew every track by heart. Yet they could say with certainty:

This song wasn’t on the album.

Was Anson performing a classic from another artist, like a tribute to The Beatles’ 40th anniversary? But whose song was this? It didn’t sound familiar—not at all.

Questions piled on, spiraling into confusion. Yet the most astonishing part was how these thoughts dissipated as soon as they arose. The audience was helplessly drawn back into the gravity of Anson’s voice, falling deeper and deeper.

It wasn’t a free fall; it was like drifting weightlessly in the vast expanse of space.

Slowly, gently, bit by bit, they descended into darkness.

The Staples Center was silent except for Anson’s voice. Just his voice—no instruments, no accompaniment, no embellishments.

“Would you reach out to shield me from endless harm?

“When the world falls silent, we see the light. Things we once had, we must someday part with.”

Unconsciously, Archie held his breath, staring at the screen in stunned silence.

That voice—angelic and transcendent, resonated as if carried from beyond the heavens, creating ripples of gentle echoes. It fell softly on the heart, and every pore of his body felt the sorrow and resilience embedded in the melody.

Again and again, it tugged at his heartstrings.

That was Anson. He was the guiding light piercing through Archie’s endless darkness. He was the companion who walked alongside him on life’s arduous journey, the remnant glow of summer that persisted despite pain and despair.

At this moment, it felt like Anson was sharing his story.

Archie’s heart took a sudden blow. Within the lyrics and melody, he saw Anson—and, strangely, he saw himself.

And then—

The most surreal, jaw-dropping moment unfolded.

Stagehands entered mid-performance.

As the audience, already enchanted by Anson’s voice, wondered if the show could plunge any further into chaos, another shock arrived.

What was going on?

The stagehands seemed utterly oblivious to Anson’s presence. They busied themselves setting up chairs, extension cords, and microphones right behind him.

And yet, Anson carried on as if nothing had happened, fully immersed in his performance. Finally, after an entire stanza sung a cappella, his fingers brushed the strings of his guitar.

The chords resonated, igniting the melody.

“If they say, who cares if another light goes out?

Under a sky of a billion stars,

It flickers, and it keeps flickering.”

Archie froze—completely and utterly.

“Who cares if someone’s time runs out,

When we are just drops in the ocean?

We hold on; we hold on tight.”

A shiver raced up from Archie’s feet to the crown of his head, sending chills through his body.

Onscreen, Anson still stood alone, unwavering yet vulnerable, resilient yet fragile. The chaos of the world raged on around him, but he remained unshaken. His voice, brimming with raw passion and unyielding strength, rose above the storm.

“Who cares if another light goes out?

I do.”

In that moment, Archie broke apart, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face—

This was Anson’s response.

Underneath the sprawling cosmos, even the faintest, smallest stars mattered. Without them, the brilliance of this breathtaking vista wouldn’t exist. Each quiet light, shining in the farthest corners, contributed to the beauty of the night sky.

In the vastness of the universe, we are all equally small and insignificant. In the endless river of time, we are all fleeting.

And yet, every light matters.

Without shouting, without dramatic high notes, Anson’s quiet storytelling held a power that surged through the soul—proof that loudness wasn’t strength, and simplicity wasn’t weakness.

“Oh, God.”

Archie stood rooted, utterly broken by the tidal wave of emotions.

Noticing his reaction, Gloria, standing nearby, exhaled deeply, her eyes moist. She, too, felt the overwhelming power of the music. Though she couldn’t fully understand its meaning, the emotions surged within her, swelling like an uncontainable tide.

She turned to Archie, attempting to compose herself. “Are you okay?”

Archie nodded, then shook his head, pointing at the screen and then at himself. “This… it’s for me.”

His words were fragmented and unclear, but Gloria understood.

She froze, quietly staring at Archie. Memories of the events on the red carpet came flooding back, hitting her like a tidal wave.

Her face reflected shock as she turned toward the screen, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions engulfing her.

Onstage, someone else finally joined Anson—

It was… first, the sight of a cello, then a figure stepped into view.

It was Miles.

(End of Chapter)  

(Note: “One More Light” by Linkin Park referenced)

*Chapter 1234: A Style All Its Own*

Quietly, gently, Anson began to sing softly.

It was just a guitar.

No other accompaniment, no embellishments, yet the performance stripped everything down to its essence, pushing the power hidden within the melody and lyrics to its limits, releasing it bit by bit.

When the chorus concluded, Anson didn’t rush into the second verse. His fingers danced lightly across the guitar strings, the notes tinkling with a hesitant charm. Each warm, enchanting sound landed on the audience's hearts, making them flutter and soar alongside the melody.

Then Miles appeared—

Carrying his cello.

The sight was breathtaking.

Cellos, being relatively bulky, aren’t the easiest instruments to transport. Typically, during performances, they’re already set up in place.

What stood out here was that cellos are rarely, if ever, prominently featured on a Grammy stage. Even in grand orchestral performances, with cellos as part of a symphony, the orchestra is often tucked away below the stage or behind the scenes, never the centerpiece.

But here it was, right in front of everyone.

The cello made its entrance, moving laboriously and slowly, like a snail carrying its home.

This scene left a lasting impression.

No one could look away.

Two years ago, Anson, Miles, and their group performed on The Tonight Show, shaking up North America with their innovative approach to music.

Critics dismissed it as a gimmick—one surprise, two moments of novelty, and then mediocrity. It wasn’t deemed a sustainable or noteworthy artistic method.

Not worth mentioning.

But tonight?

Shock, awe, surprise, and delight followed one after another.

The entire Staples Center was completely captivated, swept up in the storm, unable to extricate itself.

Miles carried his cello to a newly arranged spot on the stage, took his seat, and his eyes sparkled with bright intensity.

Ignoring the audience’s curious and bewildered gazes, which were fixed solely on Anson and Miles, Miles adjusted his breathing and looked up at Anson.

Their eyes met.

Miles found the perfect entry point. His bow glided across the cello strings, and the instrument’s rich, mellow tone wove into the gentle stream of the guitar melody.

Two stringed instruments—one bright, one deep; one cheerful, one resonant; one high, one low—intertwined and collided, crafting an entirely new texture.

There was a bittersweet sorrow and longing in the music, yet it carried a stubborn resilience, much like young Forrest Gump in Forrest Gump.

Bruised and timid, bullied by other children, burdened by leg braces due to polio, he was treated as a misfit. Yet, through stumbling persistence, he broke free from those constraints, defiantly and unwaveringly running forward.

Bit by bit, sunlight filled his chest.

Perhaps that’s life.

Full of helplessness, despair, and setbacks. People wander in circles, seeking answers but often find none, trapped within their own cages. Yet they refuse to give up, to surrender, to let go. Clinging tightly to a glimmer of hope, they sprint forward with all their might.

Unbelievably, such a profound and complex emotion unfolded through Anson and Miles’s performance.

Anson looked at Miles.

Miles looked at Anson.

Their gazes locked as the notes from their instruments continued to flow and clash, erupting into a true crescendo.

Before realizing it, the audience’s blood began to boil, their hearts pounding wildly. An indescribable joy and passion surged forth.

Amid the rumbling and intensity, Anson began to sing again.

“Memories of the past, detached from reality, unable to stand; in the kitchen, an empty chair, your place, oh.” (Note 1)

Softly, gently, quietly concealing the sadness.

“You are furious, and rightly so; it’s unfair. Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not there.”

Those who are lost, those who have vanished, seem irretrievable. Like dandelions blown away by the wind, scattered to the corners of the earth.

And then, no one cares anymore.

Archie had been through this countless times.

They existed, yet it was as though they didn’t. They disappeared, and still, no one seemed to care.

They screamed until their voices were hoarse, but their cries remained faint, unable to draw attention.

They were always there, but in the reality of mainstream life, they were like ghosts, entirely ignored.

Just like tonight.

Amid the crowd, no one noticed or cared about his presence. He was there, yet it felt like he wasn’t.

This was why Archie’s friends had all urged him to give up.

Their presence wouldn’t be seen or heard and might even provoke ridicule, adding another scar to their wounds.

But Anson saw them.

Not only saw but understood. Anson truly grasped their faith and perseverance.

“If they say, who would care if one more light goes out in a sky of a million stars? It’s still shining, always shining.”

With just a guitar and a cello, the music drew out the fragility and sorrow hidden within Anson’s voice, deep and surging.

No one knew what Anson had experienced, but Archie believed Anson truly understood their struggles and pain, as well as the nightmares lurking in endless darkness.

The singing wasn’t perfect.

With no embellishments or backing vocals, Anson laid himself bare, exposing every strength and flaw.

In the trembling endings of certain notes, his struggles slipped through. In the transitions between phrases, his vulnerability lingered.

But it was precisely these imperfections that created perfection, like a meteor streaking through the sky, striking Archie’s heart with force.

“Who cares if someone’s time ends? If we’re just a grain of sand in the vast ocean, we hold on, we must hold on.”

Silent yet clamorous.

Small yet grand.

The power of music surged through Anson’s singing.

Archie raised his chin slightly, gazing intently and resolutely at the screen, watching as the stage came alive once more.

Stagehands came and went, boldly setting up equipment before leaving.

This time, they added microphones to Anson’s right and Miles’s left, as well as a keyboard on Miles’s left.

Connor was the first to enter, holding his bass. Slightly tense and nervous, he stepped into the spotlight without hesitation.

Lily followed a moment later, her steps light as she approached the keyboard. Her bright eyes focused on Anson and Miles—she was ready.

“Who cares if one more light goes out? Yes, I care.”

---

Note 1: One More Light by Linkin Park

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1235: Soaring with the Wind

Everything finally unfolded before their eyes, in a way that defied all expectations.

The stage was simple and unadorned, to the point of being almost rudimentary. Yet, this stripped-down presentation eliminated all distractions, focusing attention entirely on the music.

Starting with Anson, then Miles joining in, followed by Connor and Lily—each instrument’s entry was palpable, and the progression of the music revealed the band’s unique charm in its own understated way.

The vocals. The performance. The instruments.

Piece by piece, like assembling a puzzle, the full picture of the stage came into view. It was all about the music—only the music.

A revelation.

The process of artistic creation unfolded before the audience in an experimental and vivid manner. The vitality of the music and the band emerged like flowers blooming, slowly and gracefully.

“Oh, so that’s it.”

Indeed, that was it!

Before the brain could fully process, the shock and awe had already rippled through the depths of the soul. There wasn’t even time to marvel at it—they were completely swept away by the storm.

Then, Anson and Miles exchanged a glance. Both pressed down on their guitar strings simultaneously, silencing the melody.

Almost at the same moment, Connor struck the first note on his bass.

Thrum… hum… hum…  

One vibration, leaving lingering resonance in the air.

Anson, Miles, and Lily exchanged glances again, smiles spreading across their faces.

During practice, Connor had repeatedly stumbled over this very section, struggling endlessly. But now, he executed it flawlessly.

It proved one thing: live performance truly was the ultimate test.

Ahead, the cameras captured the band members’ seamless collaboration in real time. Although the audience couldn’t know the exact meaning behind their smiles, the chemistry in their exchanged glances infused itself into the music, becoming part of the performance. The ripples of emotion danced through the air.

Except for Connor.

Connor had no time to celebrate or cheer. He was wholly immersed—100% focused on his playing.

The fretless bass required absolute concentration and control. Connor carefully tuned into the interplay between the strings and his heartbeat, utterly captivated.

During rehearsals, Connor’s attention had been locked solely on rhythm and technique, his mind consumed with the thought, “Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.” There was no room to savor the melody or lyrics.

But tonight, as the performance began—starting with Anson and then Miles—the emotions they poured into the music quietly struck a chord in Connor’s heart.

He had always felt like an insignificant presence.

In the band, the bass was often overlooked. After leaving New York, Lily and Miles continued their paths in music. Only Connor had retreated, timidly returning to his hometown to work as a supermarket stock clerk, completely giving up on music.

In their shared journey of dreams and music, it had always seemed like he didn’t matter.

But Anson showed him otherwise—not with words, but with actions.

From “Hero” to “Long Live Life” to tonight’s “Another Light,” Anson had created moments for the bass to shine on its own, placing Connor in the spotlight to showcase its unique beauty.

Perhaps people would never fully understand that the bass was the backbone of the band.

But that didn’t matter. In their own way, they continued to shine brightly in the night sky.

Immersion. Focus.

At times gentle, at times powerful, the bass’s deep and subtle tones painted the framework and contours of the melody. Seemingly inconspicuous, it held the audience's attention, pulling the entire Staples Center into the world of the August 31st Band, where they bore witness to a miracle.

The guitar. The cello.

The different string tones wove around the bass, reawakening, intertwining, spiraling, resonating. Like fairies taking flight, scattering stardust across the sky—those minuscule particles lit up the vast expanse with dazzling brilliance, igniting sparks deep within the soul.

An uncontrollable surge of emotion welled up.

Then—

The keyboard joined in, its bright and buoyant notes flowing like a gentle stream, meandering around the bass. The tones leapt, cascaded, and shimmered, pouring forth like liquid silver.

Everything revolved around Connor.

They exchanged glances once more—no words spoken, none needed. The members of the August 31st Band shared a smile, as if reveling in the pure, unfiltered joy of the moment.

It wasn’t happiness or excitement; it was something simpler. The sheer pleasure of the music brought an involuntary curve to their lips, injecting warmth and radiance from their souls into their instruments, transforming it all into resounding notes.

Dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum.  

Faster and faster, the entire world seemed to spin around the stage. Hearts pounded in chests, bursting forth uncontrollably.

Archie froze.

His mind went blank.

He stared dumbfounded at the screen, tears clinging to his lashes, emotions swirling inside him. Sadness and bitterness, pain and darkness pulled at his soul.

Yet at that moment, a surge of adrenaline overcame him. He longed to run—

Through endless deserts, across vast glaciers, deep into dense forests—he just wanted to run.

Like a child, carefree and unburdened, running for no reason, with no destination. As he ran, a smile crept onto his face—pure, unrestrained, and joyful. He laughed freely, openly, happily.

Through pain, they grew. Through hardship, they thrived. And in the end, their hearts blossomed, flowers blooming from the cracks in the stone.

As the music surged, Anson’s voice returned—not with lyrics, but with raw, wordless expression.

He sang with abandon, pouring everything into the sound.

“Oooooh… ahhhhh… oooooh!”

All the pain, the scars, the struggles—they flowed out through the music and the running, laid bare without reserve, exposing the raw, vulnerable self underneath.

And yet, there was no fear.

On the contrary, those scars and vulnerabilities were the very reasons for his strength.

He wouldn’t retreat. He wouldn’t cower. He wouldn’t surrender. Even if it was just a tiny glimmer of light, he would quietly shine in his own corner.

So, dear Archie, and all the wounded souls listening to the August 31st Band—run. Don’t hold back. Just run.

As if it were the end of the world. As if it were the first day of a brand-new life.

“Ahhh… ahhh!”

Climbing higher and higher, energy surged from the depths of the soul, exploding with a shiver-inducing intensity. It was impossible not to be swept up in the music, to run wildly in its world.

Goosebumps rose as screams erupted.

Despite the urge to leap to their feet, the overwhelming power of the music rooted the audience in place, leaving them stunned, watching as their world unraveled.

Inside and out, the Staples Center was consumed by the storm.

No one could escape.

(End of Chapter)