Buster could feel Julio's enthusiasm, but he didn't dwell on it. Bruno Mars had always been a big supporter of indie bands, so it wasn't surprising that he'd push One Day Kings into the spotlight as his opening act.
Ronan Cooper.
Buster's gaze drifted back to the stage. The band was still deep in their rehearsal discussion, oblivious to the two reporters moving through the wide-open venue. The lead singer had his back to the audience, his face hidden, stripping away that earlier spark of awe.
Maybe it was just his imagination.
"No, no need," Buster said, shaking his head. "I trust Bruno's taste. Any band he picks has to have something going for them. I'm already looking forward to their performance." It was a polite line, and with that, he reined in his scattered thoughts.
Wyatt, on the other hand, couldn't care less about the opening act. Basic info was enough for him.
Julio felt a twinge of disappointment. He liked Ronan and knew Bruno loved giving underground indie bands a shot at the big time, so he'd nudged a little. But since Buster wasn't biting, Julio didn't push. After a bit more small talk, he flashed a smile, escorted the two reporters out of the Verizon Center, and dove back into the chaos of rehearsal prep.
In the parking lot, Buster nodded goodbye to Wyatt, slid into his car, and tossed his work bag onto the back seat. His hands rested on the steering wheel, ready to start the engine, but he froze, staring into space. His mind went blank—literally.
It was like someone hit pause. No thoughts, no movement, just a foggy moment. Then it passed. Buster blinked, bit his lower lip, and frowned. Something was nagging at him. He reached back, grabbed his bag, and rummaged through it until he found his camera. Flipping to the last photo he'd taken, he stared at the screen.
There it was again—that feeling. Time and light seemed to converge on that figure, like even in a sea of people, you'd spot him effortlessly. He didn't need to shout or flail; his presence alone pulled your eyes in. That radiant, one-of-a-kind charm stuck with you.
Buster thought hard, trying to recall the last time he'd seen someone in person and felt this kind of intensity.
Michael Jackson.
He shook his head fast, a ridiculous grin spreading across his face as he dismissed the idea. Comparing some nobody to the greatest pop star in history? Even thinking it was absurd.
He must've lost it—brain fried, thoughts all jumbled.
Buster gave up on the wild notion and started to put the camera away. But he hesitated, glancing at the screen again. Then, on impulse, he grabbed his laptop, plugged in the camera's memory card, and pulled up the photo. With a few tweaks, he switched it to black and white. His eyes lit up. The monochrome gave it a whole new vibe, a texture he adored. He loved this shot—really loved it.
Sure, the Michael Jackson thing was nuts, but one thing was clear: this photo was special to him.
It had nothing to do with the band's future success. Buster just liked the feel of it, the glow—like it had frozen a perfect moment that time couldn't touch. He could picture it blown up, framed, hanging in his house.
That's the magic of photos.
Someone once said the charm of film cameras was in their scarcity. Every frame mattered, so you had to be deliberate with each click. Then came the long wait, the anticipation, before you finally saw the result. Digital cameras couldn't replicate that. Without the process, people stopped cherishing photos the same way.
Film captured everything—even the botched shots brought you back to the moment you pressed the shutter. With digital, one delete key erased the awkward, messy, shy, or frantic seconds. The power of photos to hold time slipped away. Perfection was fake; those "failed" shots were memories too.
But today, this digital photo brought back that film-like magic for Buster. Especially in black and white, with that grainy texture—he couldn't get enough of it.
He hadn't expected that, twenty years later, this very photo would fetch a million bucks at auction, becoming the defining footnote of his career.
Right now, though, Buster had no clue about its worth. He just liked that he'd caught something—a spark. Then his mind started buzzing, curiosity bubbling up unbidden:
What kind of band was One Day Kings, really?
Sure, opening acts rarely got much hype, but Buster hadn't been lying—he trusted Bruno's knack for picking talent.
Up until now, he hadn't paid them much mind. He'd always figured a singer's work and stage presence would speak for themselves, and he'd wait for their live show to judge. But this photo? It piqued his interest.
What's their style? How do they feel on stage? The songs, the singing? What's the lead's voice like?
A pop idol vibe? A golden-era jazz crew? Maybe bluegrass or folk?
His thoughts ran wild, unstoppable.
After a moment, he opened Facebook and Google, typing "One Day Kings" into the search bar—
The results were thin.
Not surprising, though. Countless underground bands flew under the radar, unknown to most. Only insiders in the indie scene knew them. But that didn't mean their music was weak—far from it. The underground was a treasure trove, and music buffs worldwide hunted for its gems.
So, what now? Drop it?
(End of Chapter)