Thump. Thump! Thump-thump-thump!
His heart slammed against his chest with such force, picking up speed, that his whole ribcage started to ache. It felt like his heart might burst out any second, ready to explode. His eardrums buzzed and roared in sync.
Ronan was nervous… no, really nervous!
Tonight was different from last night, no question.
Last night, everything had been a chaotic blur. Partly because he was still dazed from arriving in this new reality—he'd even thought it was all a dream. Partly because of naive, fearless bravado. He hadn't seen his situation clearly and just charged in on pure adrenaline.
For all those reasons, he hadn't overthought it. He'd stepped onto the stage, and the performance just… happened.
But tonight? Everything was sharp and real. Reason had kicked in, making him fully aware of where he stood. How could he not be nervous?
Sure, he'd been a singer once, but those stage memories were distant, faded. After losing his hearing, the world had shifted completely. Slowly, fear and doubt had crept in. The last time he'd officially performed felt like it'd vanished from his mind.
And then there was this: less than twenty-four hours since last night, and he still wasn't familiar with One Day King's songs. He'd crammed the lyrics and melodies in a last-minute panic, and now he had to wing it. Wasn't this all moving too fast?
What if he went off-key? What if he forgot the words? What if his voice cracked?
What if his performance was a total disaster, a laughingstock?
What if, mid-show, he suddenly couldn't hear or see again?
"Ronan, are you nervous?" Maxim was the first to notice something off and just blurted it out.
Ronan shot him a glare, silently protesting.
But Maxim twisted the knife. "Are you holding your breath?"
Pfft.
Ronan cracked—he hadn't even realized he was. "What if we bomb tonight?"
He was dead serious.
The bandmates tensed up too, exchanging looks, unsure how to respond. They'd been here before.
Once, before a show, Ronan had been so nervous he could barely breathe, which wrecked his voice. With no time to recover, he'd gone on anyway. The result? A trainwreck of a performance—bloody and brutal. The memory was so cringe-worthy they avoided bringing it up.
Was tonight about to be another crash?
Ollie noticed Ronan's face paling, sweat beading at his temples and forehead. He looked rough—Ollie hadn't forgotten that Ronan's fever still hadn't broken. This morning, his temperature was still 38°C (100.4°F). Add in last night's fiasco…
Ollie got worried. He grabbed Ronan's wrist—his palm was clammy with a thin layer of sweat, his pulse racing and erratic. Even his fingertips trembled slightly, uncontrollably. Ollie's frown deepened. "Ronan, your pulse is all over the place."
Ronan pressed his right hand to his chest. Instantly, he felt the wild thudding of his heart, his whole torso heaving with it. It was so intense, so fired up, that his body shook faintly, and an unnatural flush crept up his cheeks.
"Ronan, you sure you're up for this tonight?" Ollie didn't hide his concern, asking with care.
Cliff and Maxim stayed quiet, but Ronan could sense their restless energy—
Two nights ago, they'd already argued about whether a sick Ronan should perform. He'd gone on, then passed out, sparking a blowout between Cliff and Maxim right on stage. Were they about to relive that mess?
"Yeah, I'm ready," Ronan said firmly.
Maxim didn't hold back his doubt. "You sure?" He gave Ronan a quick once-over.
Ronan took a deep breath and nodded hard. "Yeah, I'm sure."
That pounding heart was proof of his boiling blood and surging passion. He was nervous because he cared, antsy because he couldn't wait.
Sure, his mind was blank right now—no ideas, not even the melodies or lyrics sticking. But he didn't hate this feeling. If anything, he kinda liked it. The nerves sharpened his focus, shoving every other worry aside—
Right now, the only thing that mattered was the stage. Just the stage.
A grin bloomed on Ronan's face, pure and real. "Let's smash this stage to bits!"
"…Literally, or figuratively?" Ollie piped up out of nowhere.
The four of them swapped a look. Ronan, Ollie, and Maxim burst out laughing together, while Cliff just stood there, face full of dark lines.
Ollie's quip lightened the tension a bit, though. Then, one by one, they filed out of the break room and headed for the stage.
The bar wasn't a formal venue—its laid-back, friendly vibe meant no host intros or dramatic drumrolls. The band just walked out, stepped up, and took their spots by the pre-set instruments. That was it—showtime.
One Day King was the night's opener, kicking off the evening lineup. The crowd welcomed them with whistles and shouts—not just a polite nod to the first act, but a cheer for the party finally getting started.
Roar! Roar!
Ahh! Ahh!
The scattered noise fired up the bar. You could almost feel the outdoor heat seeping inside. Eyes flicked their way, half-interested. It didn't matter who was playing or how the warm-up went—the audience was hyped anyway, ready after a long wait.
Facing the lively buzz, Ronan's nerves quietly melted away. The moment his feet hit the stage, the moment the cheers rang out, his heartbeat steadied. Not because he'd gone numb, but because his soles felt a deep, honest groundedness—like curling up on the couch at home. A pure sense of safety washed away all the restless clutter in his head.
Then his focus sank into the guitar in his hands. Holding it felt like holding the whole world.
No need to think, no need to hesitate. Standing at the mic, words flowed out naturally. Ronan took control of the rhythm effortlessly, officially announcing the band's big entrance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! Welcome to the Noon Bar. We're One Day King, and tonight, step into our kingdom."