As I walked back into the studio, a rush of adrenaline surged through me. Something had shifted. Mr. Pat's words still burned, sharp as truth, and with them came a weight of responsibility. The room swallowed me again—but I wasn't the same Brandon who had stepped out.
This time, I came back with fire.
Jason, Oliver, and Pete looked up—waiting, uncertain. The coach stood at the front, arms folded, his face unreadable.
Mr. Pat trailed in behind me, shutting the door. He stayed by the wall, silent and watchful.
The guys exchanged glances. Jason raised an eyebrow. Pete's lips tightened like he expected me to fold. Oliver tapped his sticks against his knee, restless.
The coach's eyes cut sharp. His voice was flat. "We don't have all day. Let's hear it."
I swallowed hard, steadying my pulse. No more running. No more excuses.
I lifted my guitar, gave the others a single nod, and began.
With no hesitation nor fear.
