The first hints of autumn were beginning to bleed into the edges of the long, hot Southern California summer. The light in the late afternoon had a softer, more golden quality, and the evenings carried a new, cooler breeze, a subtle promise of change. Inside the studio, a small, intimate room paneled in warm, dark wood, the air was still and focused. This wasn't the sterile, high-tech laboratory where they had deconstructed "How to Save a Life," nor was it the celebratory chaos of the "Youth" session. This was a different kind of space. Vintage microphones stood like solemn sentinels on their stands, and a thick, worn Persian rug absorbed the sound, making the room feel more like a confessional than a recording studio. It was a space for telling the truth.
Alex sat on a stool in the center of the live room, a guitar resting in his lap, but he wasn't playing. He was reflecting, tracing the emotional arc of the past year, a journey that felt more like a decade. His last three songs had been a trilogy of grief, each one a different stage in his personal hell. "Before You Go" had been a raw, open-throated cry of pain and confusion, the sound of the initial, shattering impact. "How to Save a Life" had been a desperate, pleading, what-if, a public eulogy that was as much an interrogation of himself as it was a tribute to his friend. And "Bruises" had been the quiet, resigned acknowledgment of the ache that remained, the sound of learning to live in the new, quieter landscape of his life.
He had documented his grief. He had given it a voice, a melody, a shape. He had shared it with the world, and in doing so, had found a new, unexpected purpose in its resonance. But now, sitting in the quiet of this studio, he felt a different impulse stirring inside him. He was no longer looking to document his grief. He was looking to answer it.
Leo's final words, the ones from the letter that now lived permanently etched on the inside of his skull, had become a constant, quiet hum in the background of his life, a promise he had yet to fully address.
My only sadness is I can't see you becoming the big star we dreamed about.
The words weren't just a memory; they were a directive. A mission. The tributes he had made so far had all been for the past, for the boy who was gone. This next one, this last one, needed to be for the future. It needed to be a promise. A vow.
He closed his eyes, sinking into the vast, silent library of the ghost. He wasn't searching for a sound to match his sadness this time. He was searching for a sound to match his resolve. He sifted through the hooks, the melodies, the half-formed choruses, looking for a vessel strong enough to carry the weight of this new, solemn purpose.
He found it in a song that was both intensely vulnerable and fiercely determined. It wasn't a pop anthem or a mournful ballad. It was something in between. A raw, desperate plea that was also a statement of unwavering intent. The title alone felt like a sign, a perfect, one-word summary of the promise he needed to make. "I'll Be Good."
The lyrics were a perfect fit, a vessel for the complicated, contradictory feelings swirling inside him. They spoke of a bitter past, of a hard-won cynicism, of wielding an iron fist to protect a wounded heart. But they also spoke of a desperate, profound desire to change, to be better, to live a life worthy of the person you had lost.
"My past has tasted bitter for years now, so I wield an iron fist. Grace is just weakness, or so I've been told. I've been cold, I've been merciless… But for you, I'll be good."
This was it. This was the vow. It wasn't a promise to be happy. It was a promise to be worthy. To take the success, the fame, the entire strange, supernatural machinery of his new life, and to wield it not with the ghost's cynical detachment, but with a new, hard-won goodness. For Leo.
He opened his eyes. Finneas was watching him from the control room, his expression patient and questioning.
Alex walked into the control room and sat in the chair next to him, the two of them now co-producers, partners in this new, more deliberate phase of their work. Alex's vision was already fully formed.
"It has to start small and broken," he explained, his voice quiet but certain. "Just a piano, really fragile, almost like the one in 'Bruises.' It has to sound like someone admitting their own weakness. But it has to build. It can't stay in that place. The chorus needs to feel like… like a desperate shout. Like someone trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else that they can change."
He wanted the song to sonically represent the struggle itself. The journey from brokenness to resolve.
Finneas nodded, his fingers already finding a simple, melancholic chord progression on the MIDI keyboard. He understood. This wasn't just about producing a track; it was about scoring a character arc.
The recording process for this song was a battle. It was a grueling, emotionally taxing war fought on the microscopic level of vocal tone and instrumental texture. Unlike the raw, unfiltered grief of his previous tributes, which had poured out of him in a single, messy take, this required a different, more difficult kind of emotional control. He had to channel not just sadness, but determination. Not just regret, but a flicker of fragile hope. He had to be both the broken man of the verses and the determined warrior of the chorus, and he had to make the transition between them feel earned, feel real.
He nailed the verses easily. The quiet, confessional tone was a familiar territory. But he kept hitting a wall on the chorus.
"I'll be good, I'll be good, and I'll love the world, like I should."
He sang it again and again, and each time, something was wrong. The ghost producer in his head was demanding a perfectly controlled, powerful belt, a flawless, radio-ready vocal that demonstrated strength and conviction. But the boy, the one who was actually living this grief, felt the crack in his own voice, the deep, terrifying uncertainty behind the vow. He knew how hard this promise would be to keep, and the perfect, powerful vocal felt like a lie. His takes were either too polished and emotionally sterile, or they were too weak and didn't convey the necessary strength of the promise. He was caught between two conflicting truths.
After the fifth failed attempt, he slumped against the microphone stand in the vocal booth, frustrated and exhausted.
"Cut," he said, his voice flat. "It's not working."
Finneas was silent for a moment in the control room. He leaned into the talkback microphone, his voice a calm, steady presence in Alex's headphones. He didn't offer a technical solution. He offered an emotional one.
"You're singing it like you've already won the fight," Finneas said, his insight as sharp and as true as one of Billie's. "You're singing the end of the story. But that's not what the song is about. The song is about the moment you decide to start fighting. Don't sing it like a promise you've already kept. Sing it like a promise you're terrified you're going to break, but you're making it anyway."
The advice was a key in a lock. It unlocked everything.
Alex took a deep, shuddering breath. He wasn't the triumphant hero. He was the scared kid, standing in the rubble of his own life, making a vow to rebuild, one painful brick at a time.
"Run it again," he said.
He sang it one last time. And this time, it was right.
His voice in the verses was a tender, wounded whisper. It swelled in the pre-chorus, not with power, but with a desperate, rising need. And then, in the chorus, he didn't belt. He didn't soar. He cried out. It was the sound of a promise being ripped from his soul, a sound that was equal parts strength and terror. And on the final line, the final repetition of "I'll be good," his voice cracked, a beautiful, perfect, human flaw that contained the entire, unspoken truth of the song.
It wasn't the sound of victory. It was the sound of a vow being taken. It was the sound of a boy choosing to believe in his own capacity for goodness, even when he felt he least deserved it. It was the sound of a new beginning.