"Hey, Washington, good evening!"
Ronan's voice rang out through the microphone. Truth be told, he had no clue how to kick off an opening act—no experience to lean on here. But the moment was now, no turning back. Plus, the band still hadn't fully shaken off their nerves.
So, Ronan took the mic and threw out a quick intro, hoping to snap his bandmates into gear and get the show rolling.
"Welcome to Bruno Mars' Love Songs Unraveled concert! Don't worry, the ticket office didn't mess up—you're definitely in the right place."
A little joke to lighten the mood. Some of the crowd chuckled, but most didn't react much. The lukewarm response made his humor feel a bit pathetic. Alice, watching from the sidelines, felt a pang of nerves for him, but it seemed to wake the band up a little.
Ronan, though? He wasn't fazed at all. The second his feet hit that stage, he felt invincible—like a superhero under the spotlight, the glow wrapping around him like a cape, giving him the power to own the moment.
Even now.
"Whew, clearly you didn't come to the Verizon Center tonight for a lousy stand-up routine. I might've just bombed that—not exactly a strong start."
"Before any misunderstandings spiral, I'd rather not have you tying our band's name to anything weird and tanking the reputation we haven't even built yet. So, I'll skip the introductions for now and let the music do the talking—hopefully we can reset the vibe."
Ha!
His witty self-deprecation and easygoing banter struck a chord this time. Laughter rippled through the arena.
The audience started to catch on—this was the opening act. It wasn't the familiar Fitz and the Tantrums they might've expected, but the die-hard fans already knew the scoop and began whispering to each other. Attention sharpened.
An opening act's job is to warm things up, get everyone pumped for Bruno Mars' big entrance. The crowd could use a little warmup time anyway.
Onstage, Ronan didn't waste another second. He glanced back at his bandmates, catching the flicker of focus returning to their eyes. They were still a bit stiff, but once the music started, they'd be fine—he was sure of it. With a quick nod to Ollie, he signaled the start.
Tap! Tap!
Ollie crossed his drumsticks, gave two sharp hits, and the beat dropped.
Boom! Boom!
The show was on.
In the crowd, reporter Buster Wayne watched the stage with keen interest, quietly hyped for One Day Kings' performance. His gaze settled on the lead singer, studying him intently. He couldn't help but wonder: Would that spontaneous magic from rehearsal day show up again?
Or had it just been a fluke in his head? And what about the band's set—could they pull off a concert vibe so different from their street gigs? Would this stage let them shine? Was Bruno's pick of this band a manager's push or his own call?
Knowing the backstory only fueled his anticipation.
But…
Buster's hopes barely took off before crashing hard. He blinked, stunned, then let out a soft chuckle. This was definitely an unexpected twist:
What's going on? A mistake right out of the gate? And a pretty amateur one at that—wouldn't this mess them up? Their image might actually take a weird hit!
You didn't need sharp ears or pro-level know-how to tell something was off with the band's playing. It was obvious—
The rhythm was out of whack.
Not everyone could pinpoint the exact issue, but even without naming it, you could feel the melody wasn't quite right. It wasn't jarring, just… off, like the harmony wasn't clicking, landing on your ears in a messy tangle.
If he had to guess, it was the guitar. The timing didn't sync with the drums or bass, throwing the whole track off-kilter. The disconnect was almost… comical.
One measure, then two, and soon the drums and bass got dragged offbeat too. The flaws in the melody grew glaring.
It wasn't a disaster—maybe just an eighth of a beat rushed or a quarter lagged. Nothing catastrophic, especially for a live concert where slip-ups happen all the time. To most, it was a tiny hiccup, easy to miss unless you had a keen ear for rhythm.
The real problem? One mistake piled onto another, then another. Instead of pulling it together, they spiraled deeper into chaos—each slip making it worse, tripping over themselves in a rookie meltdown. The discord started seeping out, impossible to ignore.
Even non-experts could sense the melody clashing against their eardrums.
Very… off-key.
What was happening?
Buster's grin widened. This was not how it was supposed to go. So, how would they turn it around? Or was there no saving it—just a full-on trainwreck, torching their whole opening set?
Buster clocked the glitch, but Ronan caught it even faster.
A hiccup.
Years of street gigs had honed his instincts—he whipped his head toward his bandmates, eyes darting to pinpoint the issue. But this was a concert, not a street corner. He didn't halt the music outright, hoping they'd notice and realign on their own. That's how it usually went. Not today, though—the mistakes just snowballed, locking them in a vicious cycle.
It didn't take long to spot the root.
It wasn't that they couldn't fix it—they didn't even know they were off. The in-ears!
Without their in-ear monitors, they couldn't hear themselves clearly, so they had no clue they were slipping.
"In-ears!"
Ronan gestured sharply at Cliff, trying to take control. But on this massive stage, shouting wasn't cutting it. Deciding to cut their losses before the mess snowballed further, he thrust his right hand up, clenched it in the air, and stopped the music mid-track.
"In-ears!"
He signaled Cliff again. This time, Cliff caught on—and so did Ollie.
They were too wound up, too green. A basic, dumb, but oh-so-common newbie mistake.