Through the lens, Alice watched Ronan at the heart of the instruments, unintentionally stepping into the "conductor" role. Sure, he was on keyboard duty too, but until it joined the mix, he played the outsider—ears tuned to whether the other three instruments meshed perfectly.
No computer to lean on made it tough. It was all talent—rhythm, flow, musical instinct.
"…Ollie, hold up, you just jumped a quarter beat."
"And… Cliff, you lagged a quarter beat there."
Smack in the middle, Ronan shut his eyes tight, letting his ears catch the melody rippling through the air. He flagged the tiny slip-ups, voice steady but paced slow, firm as ever.
Every gaze locked on him.
For a while now, Ronan had been sharp, pointing out rhythm and flow hiccups. Each call sparked a flurry of debate—every bandmate had their take, agreeing, disagreeing, or tossing out alternatives. They didn't fully trust his ear.
Even Ronan wasn't sold on his own calls—
In his past life, losing his sight had sharpened his hearing to a freaky degree. He'd pick up quirks in sounds like it was nothing. But with no pro feedback or benchmarks, he never knew if he was right.
Now, he finally had a crew to hash it out with.
Every tweak he flagged kicked off a lively back-and-forth. They'd replay it, really listen, zero in on the flaws, weigh in again—and slowly, it dawned on them: Ronan was usually spot-on. He flubbed sometimes, sure, but seven or eight times out of ten? Nailed it. Freaky accuracy.
Unreal!
"Like he's got a sixth sense," Ollie teased.
The guys didn't overthink it. They hadn't clocked how Ronan suddenly "got it" overnight. They chalked it up to "his song, his spark"—inspiration firing, peak form, all guns blazing. Naturally, he'd be dialed into the details, pulling off a clutch performance.
This time, Ollie didn't argue. He just grinned, scratching his head—half-annoyed, half-resigned.
Cliff, though, hesitated. "You sure? I felt solid that time. No mistake on my end. Could it be Ollie's rush threw you off?"
Ronan didn't bulldoze over him. He nodded, open to it, then gestured at Cliff. "Play it solo—let's see."
Cliff didn't push back. With Maxim and Ollie's eyes on him, he dove back into it.
Two eight-beats later, Maxim glanced at Ronan. "You're right."
Ollie tilted his head at Cliff with a smirk. "…That was a full half-beat off." Rubbing salt in the wound.
Cliff heard it too. He shot Ollie a dry, "Ha. Ha. Let's see if you slip up next!"
The "let's mess each other up" vibe cracked Ronan and Maxim up. Ollie rubbed his nose, chuckling too. Then Maxim took charge. "From the chorus, first eight-beat. Ready—five, six, seven…"
Rehearsal fired up again.
Even after a brutal all-nighter, the band didn't miss a beat. Practice roared on, full steam ahead.
New Orleans' sticky, sweltering summer had Alice drenched in sweat—let alone the guys. They looked like they'd been fished out of a lake, cheeks flushed, dripping. But the grind didn't dim their fire or focus. They ran like wound-up machines, so locked in they forgot hunger.
Total work-hard, eat-later mode!
If it weren't for the bacon-cheeseburger scent wafting down the hall, teasing Ronan's stomach, they might've missed lunch entirely. After nearly fifteen hours of high-octane work, the band finally eased up for a bite.
Alice figured lunch would be a breather. Nope—Maxim and Cliff kept hashing out the setlist with machine-like efficiency. Ollie and Ronan? They demolished the table like a tornado, leaving a war zone of spotless plates.
"Is this a Michelin-star joint or what?" Alice gawked.
Post-lunch, the humid heat steamed up, lulling most to sleep. Even well-rested folks might nod off—never mind these all-nighter champs. But the band charged back in like soldiers, laser-focused, hyped like they'd chugged energy drinks.
From sunrise to sunset, then into Saturday's dawn, One Day Kings wrapped thirty-six hours of non-stop grind. Dazed, wobbly, they crashed onto their beds, snagging a fleeting rest.
Alice, filming the whole ride, pushed her limits too. By the end, her knees shook, but her hands stayed steady.
Barely two hours later, Cliff jolted awake, mind on the Full Moon Party's afternoon kickoff. Sleep hadn't settled him.
"Maxim… Maxim!"
Cliff was up, and soon Ollie followed. They tag-teamed to rouse Ronan—took some doing, but they got him. Maxim, though? Dead to the world, a zombie sprawled out, unmovable despite their tugging.
Turning back, they found Ronan slumped against the wall by the door—out cold again.
Ollie roared with laughter. "What, sleeping like a foal now?"
He grabbed Ronan's hand, hauled him to the bathroom, and blasted him with the showerhead. Icy water snapped Ronan awake—instant clarity, top-tier wake-up call.
Groggy, Ronan shook his head hard, wiping water off his face. His bleary eyes took a sec to focus, but as they cleared, Ollie's voice cut through. "Awake yet? Can you stand on your own?"
Ronan blinked, reality sinking in: not a dream. He could still see. He was still part of One Day Kings. The haze faded, and a grin spread across his face, unstoppable.