Action, 131.
The atmosphere in the shop was calm, filled with the distinctive scent of varnished pine and a gentle warmth that seemed to radiate from the soft yellow light bulbs. Outside, the cool afternoon breeze whispered faintly against the windows.
Ziggy was still holding the guitar he had just played, his fingers resting delicately on the strings, as if afraid to disperse the final vibration of the melody. The door creaked softly as it opened, revealing Damián and Mason returning from their conversation outside.
The first wore a calm expression, even a spark of excitement in his eyes, while the second carried a defiant grin that contrasted with the shop's tranquil atmosphere. Camille remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on something beyond the immediate scene.
A bit further away, Étienne was absentmindedly flipping through a catalog on one of the shelves, oblivious to the dynamic unfolding. Ziggy, now near a display stand, was crouched down, eyes locked on a guitar that gleamed under the lights.
Damián approached Ziggy, a warm smile on his face. "Hey, Ziggy! Mason told me you've been wanting to sing. That's awesome!" He picked up a nearby guitar and quickly tuned a few strings. "I've been working on a few songs and thought you might be interested. Mind if I show you a little?"
Ziggy lifted his eyes from the guitar he'd been examining, a shy smile lighting up his face. "Really? Wow, thanks! That means a lot." There was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes, now fixed on the guitar in Damián's hands.
Damián strummed a folk guitar, a warm sound filling the room. His voice, though soft, carried a sharp intensity:
"Fame is gasoline, and music... well, music's the match that lights the urge to burn. You hear a song and, for three minutes, you live inside a borrowed dream. You feel it?"
Damián locked eyes with Ziggy, whose jaw tightened slightly.
"And when the song ends? We repeat. Over and over. Because no one ever taught us to say 'I'm scared' or 'I'm sorry'... but a song does that for us, without asking permission."
He paused briefly.
"Why? Because we're terrible at truly connecting — at the level that actually matters."
Camille squeezed her elbows tightly, arms crossed in a defensive gesture. Damián's words had clearly hit her. Slowly and thoughtfully, Ziggy turned the camera, capturing the glow of the lights reflecting on the guitar tuners.
Damián gently tapped the body of the guitar, the sound vibrating softly.
"That's why artists have power, Ziggy. They turn shame into lyrics, loneliness into melody. And people pay for it. Not because they're foolish... but because sometimes it's easier to cry to a stranger's voice than admit we're bleeding inside."
Ziggy narrowed his eyes, absorbed in Damián's words, his mind racing.
(Mason, with a mocking grin, improvised a theatrical scene, awkwardly lying across two stools as if they were an improvised chaise lounge.)
"In short," Mason began, snapping his fingers in the air with flair, "what our depth-drenched poet here means is that songs are like tear tissues for the lonely. Lovely, isn't it? But what about the good part? The part where you buy a yacht with your streaming revenue?"
He paused, winking.
"Cash and jewels, please! That's the true melody of the capitalist soul!"
A burst of laughter echoed through the shop. Camille and Étienne exchanged amused glances and laughed, caught up in Mason's sarcasm. Even Damián cracked a smile despite the serious tone of his earlier speech.
Ziggy's eyes narrowed, locked on Mason. A cold anger coursed through him. I want to kick this guy out. The thought surged with quiet urgency.
With a subtle tilt of her head, Camille cut through the moment with a direct voice:
"Mason's joking, but he's not wrong. There's no poetry if there's no food on the table."
Camille continued, surprising everyone with her voice — soft but firm:
"It's like... wearing an artist costume. The more famous you are, the heavier the fabric gets."
Her eyes then met Ziggy's, carrying the weight of silent experience.
"Then you have to decide if you're gonna suffocate in the shine or rip the seams just to breathe."
Ziggy's eyes widened — Camille's unexpected analogy hit like a lightning bolt. Étienne, who'd been watching the scene with a quiet smile, muttered a sincere "damn," impressed by the depth of her words.
Damián adjusted the guitar in his lap with almost ceremonial care. Its perfect tuning hinted at what was to come. His steady fingers rested on the strings, waiting for the right moment. His gaze swept across the room — direct, laced with a subtle provocation dancing in the corners of his eyes — but also an undeniable seriousness, a quiet resolve.
Ziggy, leaning against a shelf full of keyboards, discreetly turned his camera lens toward Damián. The small red light indicated the recording had started.
The first plucked note from Damián echoed through the quiet space. His voice — low, melodic, and laced with urgency — filled the room:
"If I were an Alpha...
Even just for a day...
I'd roll outta bed in the morning..."
♪ G
♪ Em
♪ C
♪ D
The melody was captivating, but the lyrics...
"…If I were an alpha, I think I could understand…"
♪ C
♪ G
♪ Am
♪ D
Camille's eyes widened, her hand instinctively covering her mouth. A mix of shock and hesitant laughter sparkled in her gaze, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.
Étienne, who had been about to comment on the earlier conversation, froze mid-gesture. The catalog remained open in his hands, but his eyes were fixed on Damián — his expression caught between a disbelieving "is this really happening?" and an eager curiosity to hear more.
Ziggy felt a wave of surprise ripple through him — and it wasn't just because of the song itself. It was Damián's choice, the way he sang those words. With almost surgical precision, laced with subtle sarcasm yet, paradoxically, infused with genuine emotion. The irony of the moment was palpable, like acid eating away at the sweetness of the melody.
Damián kept singing, his voice flowing with a hypnotic cadence. Every line carried weight, a veiled critique. As the final note faded, he lifted his gaze, an enigmatic smile on his lips.
"So? What did you think?"
Camille took a deep breath, as if resurfacing from underwater. She knew that performance, with its razor-sharp irony, was the kind of thing that could trigger explosive reactions if presented outside that intimate, inner circle.
Damián let out a short, nearly imperceptible sigh before speaking with studied lightness:
"Bravo! An anthem… of gender revolutions and emotional oversharing, perhaps?"
Camille shook her head, an amused smile on her lips.
"You should actually record that. Seriously."
Damián smiled back, but his eyes drifted away from Ziggy.
"Oh… that wasn't to help Ziggy."
And then, with the same confidence and ease, Damián played the opening chords of four more unmistakable songs — massive hits from a reality only he and Mason seemed to know.
The instrument store briefly transformed into a stage from a parallel universe, where those melodies were anthems beloved by millions. Camille and Étienne's reactions ranged from amused shock to disbelief to a glimmer of nostalgic recognition, while Ziggy watched, trying to absorb the strangeness of it all — and Damián's undeniable performance.
Ziggy was still talking with Damián about influences, and styles, shyly sharing names and sounds he secretly loved. It was a rare kind of conversation — intimate, creative, judgment-free. Damián listened intently. Camille had drawn closer too, clearly interested.
Until…
Mason raised one hand with the grace of an artist awaiting the spotlight.
"Sorry to interrupt this emotional jam session... but Ziggy, I want to sing something for you too."
Ziggy froze. His jaw tensed. His eyes tried to stay polite.
But inside, the thought screamed:
"I can't believe this plastic plant, with its artificial shine, thinks it can photosynthesize."
It was poetic. And venomous.
Mason, oblivious to the tension, walked theatrically toward the exposed keyboard.
"Someone turn this on for me? It'll be quick. I promise I won't turn it into a full-blown musical... yet."
Étienne, already smiling, went to the keyboard and turned it on with a light touch.
"Give him his pitch," he said, winking at Camille.
Camille stepped closer, curious.
Mason placed his fingers on the keys and began to play the opening chords — with unexpected seriousness.
♪ Am
♪ F
♪ Dm
♪ E
Mason began to sing — his voice restrained, melodic, almost trembling:
"The world was on fire and
No one could save me but you…"
♪ Am
♪ F
♪ C
♪ G
"It's strange what desire
Make foolish people do…"
Ziggy forced a smile. The camera in his jacket was still recording, but he barely noticed.
Camille and Étienne were completely drawn in. Mason's tone was vulnerable — and that surprised them.
Damián, arms crossed, watched. No sarcasm — just listening, and analyzing.
Mason continued, his eyes fixed on a distant spot in the store — as if singing to a past no one else there knew:
"What a wicked game you played
To make me feel this way…"
♪ Em
♪ C
♪ G
♪ D
"What a wicked thing to do
To let me dream of you…"
The final note lingered in the air.
Silence.
Étienne was the first to speak, barely a whisper:
"Mason… you sang like someone broke your heart."
Mason blinked slowly, his gaze steady and direct. His voice came out low, unembellished:
"That's what we get to say with songs, darling."
He stood up, brushing a hand across the keyboard like closing a book of memories.
"Maybe once or twice I broke it myself."
He said it looking at Camille and Étienne.
"See? I'm not all sweetness. I've had my heart broken. And crushed."
Then he looked at Ziggy, offering his best smile as he added:
"My hopes have been on the floor before."
Silence.
Camille hugged her arms tighter. Étienne looked down.
Ziggy, for a moment, didn't know if he hated Mason more — or less — right then.
It felt like a sponsored livestream: Rich, Young & Chaotic Day.
Without warning, the live stream began.
Full screen.
Close-up of Damián, tuning his guitar with near-meditative focus. His eyes locked in, face serious. The lighting was warm, soft, almost cinematic — but there were no filters. No captions. Just reality. Raw, intimate, live.
Across the city, an intern at the production company where Ziggy freelanced happened to click on the notification. Within seconds, his eyes were glued to the screen.
And he wasn't the only one.
2.1k watching.
3.7k.
10.2k.
25k.
120k.
400k.
700k.
1 million.
The comments exploded in a cascade:
"Are they even real??"
"WTF IS DAMIÁN SINGING AN IRONIC SONG ABOUT ALPHA MALES???"
"Mason's song BROKE ME (>_<.) "
"Is this a reality show? A doc? Fiction? A performance? I NEED TO KNOW"
"This vibe is like EUPHORIA meets FLEABAG, but make it folk."
"Where's the Spotify link for all of this??"
"Who's the real main character? Ziggy? Damián? Mason with his charming villain face???"
1.5 million. 1.8.
2 MILLION LIVE.
Trending topic #1.
Celebrities started commenting.
Influencers posted reactions.
Forums lit up with live theories.
Music blogs asked who was producing "the secret project of the year."
But no one knew anything.
Not even Ziggy.
Especially not Ziggy.
Inside the shop, he was still holding the guitar. Camera in the pompom. Recording.
But now, broadcasting to the whole world.
And everything was about to spiral out of control.
On the large central screen, the livestream continued steadily.
Mason at the keyboard, singing with almost theatrical dedication. The image was clear, the audio perfect — like it had been rehearsed. But there were no cuts. It was live.
Andrews stood, hands in his pockets, brow furrowed. Around him were three experts: a systems mathematician, a neural dynamics engineer, and a predictive behavior analyst. All fully focused.
Dr. Nara, the small-eyed scientist, leaned forward, pressing one headphone against her ear.
"His resolution metric is flawless."
The mathematician, Ravik, smiled.
"He doesn't look like someone who'd be carrying a destructive algorithm in his pocket. He just looks like a pretty boy singing about lost love."
Another of the scientists, Keller, added casually:
"Well... he is pretty."
They all turned to look at the screen.
Andrews kept his eyes on it, but replied in a cold, even tone:
"Too pretty…"
Ravik turned to Andrews.
"So it's really him? The one behind the quantum marker sequences?"
Andrews took a deep breath.
"Yes. He's the boy."
Julien's portable screen buzzed on the table next to his bed — next to an ashtray and a glass of melted ice. He lazily reached for the device and unlocked it.
TOP TRENDS OF THE DAY:
#RichYoungDays
#MasonSinging
#DamiánForPresident
He clicked. The video started instantly — Mason at the keyboard. A dramatic cut. A close-up of Ziggy's tear-filled eyes.
Julien's eyes widened.
Pause.
He rewound. Pinched to Zoom.
"Son of a bitch…" he whispered, a sharp smile forming.
He got up, walked into the living room, flopped onto the couch, grabbed his phone, and called immediately.
Call – Zeki Wilson
Declined.
Seconds later, he tried again.
Declined.
Julien exhaled, annoyed, and started typing:
Message to Zeki:
"I've got a surprise for you. You'll thank me on your knees."
No reply.
Two minutes later:
"I found him. Mason. And he's glowing. Singing. Come see."
A few more minutes passed.
Then Julien typed again — this time with a glint of mischief:
"Also... I miss you. Do you still pay for that?"
Ten minutes later, the screen lit up:
INCOMING CALL: Zeki Wilson
Julien answered with a smug smile.
"Zeki. Babe. I just dropped you into one hell of a livestream. Mason's live. Singing somewhere."
On the other end, silence.
Then Zeki responded, his voice cold:
"Are you sure?"
Julien sent the link.
"Positive. And you'll want to watch it till the end."
Zeki hung up. Stared at the livestream link glowing on his phone screen.
Mason — smiling. Singing.
As if the world hadn't blown up two months ago.
The memory returned vividly.
That night.
The alarm sirens.
Shattered glass.
Chaos in the Wilson mansion hallways.
Priceless vehicles and motorcycles were destroyed.
And Mason... gone.
For days, Can-Bey — Mason's older brother — believed he had been kidnapped.
He waited for a call. A ransom demand. Any sign.
But nothing came.
The absence turned into doubt.
Doubt into anger.
Anger into blame.
Can-Bey began throwing accusations:
"Weren't you with him?"
"Are you hiding something, Zeki?"
Zeki remembered it all.
The pressure.
The accusations.
And now, Mason appeared — on a livestream.
Singing to millions.
Glowing, like nothing ever happened.
Zeki ran a hand over his face. Grabbed his phone.
His finger hovered over the message icon.
To: Can-Bey
Text: "I think I found Mason. He's in a livestream right now. See for yourself."
[Link attached.]
But… he didn't send it.
He just stared at the screen, frozen.
What if Mason, by reappearing, flipped everything on him?
What if he said Zeki had pushed him away?
That Zeki had known something?
Had covered something up?
Truth had no owner — only consequences.
Zeki took a deep breath. Deleted the message.
Closed the phone.
Leaned back in the chair. The leather creaked under his tense body.
After a few minutes of silence, he picked up another phone — a private line.
Call: JULIEN
"Zeki, did you watch the live?" Julien's voice came through, teasing.
"I did." (pause)
"The deal. I'm transferring it now. Double." (another pause)
"And you don't breathe a word to Can-Bey. Not a thing. To anyone."
Julien was silent on the other end. A rare silence.
Then he replied, almost amused:
"Got it. Buried with flair, as always."
Zeki hung up without replying.
Then sat there.
The dark office.
The livestream still open on another tab.
Mason, laughing and chatting with the others.
But all Zeki could think was:
He wished Mason were dead.