But Kiri shoves his brother’s arm away, glaring at me. “Don’t get fuckingself-righteouswith me. The only reason you’re notwith heris because she doesn’twant you.You’re not respecting her parents’ wishes. Fuck off,Saint Rafe.”
That’s when I snap and lunge. Rithy’s right in front, hands on my shoulders, trying to get me to focus on him, but all I do is look over his shoulder at Kiri’s smug fucking face. Ronan’s grip tightens on him.
“Shut the fuck up.” Ronan shouts into Kiri’s ear, then he looks at me, calm steel. “And you, sit back down before you break something else. Is this who we are now? One breath away from a punch-up at every turn? Jesus Christ, guys.”
I ignore him. “She’stwenty-two, Kiri. She’sKasia’s fucking sister. That should be enough.”
TheRåvindgirls freeze, wide-eyed. Freja whispers something to Ronan, and he nods for them to go. They scatter, boots hustling offstage, the silence they leave behind louder than any amp.
Rithy’s voice shakes, not from fear, but from disappointment. He turns back to me, arms still wide, still trying to play interference, then looks at Kiri.
“Trust you to turn it into a fucking soap opera. Move on, block and delete the kid’s number, and find another one. Simple.”
Kiri tears free again, eyes hard. “It’s my goddamn life, and I don’t have to tiptoe around his little tantrums. He’s the joke. It’s not myproblem what happened between them. Natalia doesn’t care what her parents think and I like her.”
I laugh once, bitter. “Of course you do. You’d chase anyone who looks at you twice if it meant you didn’t have to look at yourself. What do you even talk about?Cartoonsand her favorite fuckingcoloring book?”
That’s when Ronan locks onto Kiri fully, holding him back from unleashing everything “Stop, fuck’s sake! Both of you!”
Kiri’s breathing hard, jaw clenched. Rithy’s glare could cut metal. He points a finger in his face. “Say another word,” he warns his brother, “and I swear, I’ll even help him beat your ass. Rafe, go, take a breather, then we have a fucking rehearsal to finish.”
I throw my hands up, shaking, and head for the side exit. The loading-bay door groans as it opens, spilling cold air into the heat of the stage. Outside, Seoul is a neon lake against snow. I press my palms to the metal railing, trying to breathe. My hand’s still trembling. All I can see is Kasia’s face. The way she looked the last time I saw her, empty, hollowed out, broken.
Behind me, through the half-open door, Rithy’s voice drifts out, dry and exhausted.
“Brilliant start to tour rehearsals, everyone.”
I laugh once, humorless, breath fogging in the night air.
Yeah. Brilliant.
The crowd in Seoul is a blur of light and noise.I should feel electric, first shows always do that but the second we roll the teaser for the new album, the opening notes ofConnaught on Mayfairhit, the air changes. Every chord feels heavier than it should, like the keys are made of stone instead of ivory. My voice hits the first line fine, the second with a crack, and by the third my throat just closes up.
I can’t breathe through it. I can’t sing through it.
Rithy looks over mid-verse, eyes wide, guitar still going. Ronan’s foot falters on the kick drum. Kiri mouthswhat the fuck?I shake my head, step back from the mic. The crowd’s a living pulse of confusion and sympathy, cheers rising like they can will me through it. But I can’t.Not this one.
I bow my head, manage a half-smile, mutter something about the sound mix, whatever lie buys me an exit with some dignity and I’m gone, out the side, the air hitting me like a slap.
Backstage is silent. My heart’s still hammering, my hands shaking like I’ve been hit. Rithy finds me first, towel around his neck, grin trying to hide concern. “Well, that was dramatic.”
Ronan swats him. “You all right?” I must look a sight, truly a man worth pitying.
I nod, but it’s a lie. My voice still won’t work, words stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. “Just needed a minute,” I manage.
The rest of the set goes fine. I go back out, finish strong, play the older stuff. The crowd loves it, they eat up the emotion like it’s art and not collapse. I do my job, I smile, I bow.
By the time we’re off, it’s already everywhere, videos, edits, captions about howObelus breaks down mid-song.Raw emotion. Pure art.The comments blur together into the same idea.Who hurt him? We ride at dawn.Later, in the hotel, the others are still arguing over me like I’m not in the room.
Rithy says, “What’s the point of writing songs you can’t sing?”
Ronan cuts in, “He’ll manage. Next tour’s a long way off.”
Rithy rolls his eyes. “No one coddled me this much when I was going through it.”
All three of us answer in perfect unison. “We did.”
It makes me laugh and for a second, it feels almost normal.
