Before they officially took the stage, a crew member reminded them to wear their in-ear monitors. But the staff didn't stick around to check, and the band was too caught up in their conversation—minds floating on cloud nine—to really hear it. It went in one ear and out the other.
Ronan didn't notice either. He was focused on kicking things off with a quick chat to the crowd, so he hadn't put his own in-ears on yet. In the rush, he forgot to remind the others. It was a rookie mistake—they just didn't have the experience.
The result? When they stepped out, Cliff wasn't wearing his in-ears at all, and Ollie only had one in his left ear.
As soon as the performance started, the venue's acoustics threw them off. The crowd noise wasn't loud, but the echo from the sound system muddled everything. Without in-ears, they couldn't rely on their raw hearing to stay on track, and without direct feedback, their rhythm started to slip. One mistake led to another.
Worse, Ollie and Maxim were just as nervous. In-ears or not, they were off too, adding tiny errors of their own.
One. Two. Three. The slip-ups piled up. Normally, these would be no big deal—small hiccups they could fix on the fly. But on a concert stage, as rookies, they didn't even realize something was wrong. The mistakes snowballed, irreparable.
Ronan let out a wry smile. He wasn't mad, frustrated, or panicked. They were all nervous and had made a beginner's blunder—himself included. That was it.
Still, seven years into the band, and they were still pulling newbie moves? It was kind of ridiculous, and that's why he smiled—half absurd, half amusing.
He shot a look at his bandmates to nudge them, then turned back to the crowd. He knew they needed a moment to fix their in-ears and settle their nerves. Without that, the shaky start would only spiral worse—the more they tried to avoid mistakes, the more they'd make.
So, what now?
Their first official concert stage, and they'd already flubbed it. How was Ronan supposed to handle this?
It was a tough spot.
The band had messed up because they were rookies. And now, the greenest of the green—Ronan—had to step up and save the day? Wasn't that asking a bit much?
Yeah, Ronan was freaking out a little.
He scanned the crowd, but the distance and lighting made it hard to read their faces—just vague outlines, glinting eyes, and hazy expressions. He figured they probably didn't know what was off. They might've sensed something wasn't right, but pinning it down? Not likely.
In those confused, blank stares, Ronan could feel their attention slipping. People were pulling out their phones—not to check something specific, just a reflex when focus drifted. A mindless scroll.
He realized if he didn't act fast, the crowd would check out completely. They weren't here for Bruno Mars, and the audience hadn't come for them. If he let this slide, the warm-up set could crash and burn.
That couldn't happen.
"Phew…"
Ronan let out a long, deliberate breath into the mic, making sure the rough, raspy sound carried to every corner of the venue. It wasn't harsh—just a soft, airy gasp, like a whisper in your ear, jolting the senses awake.
Then he raised both hands above his head and started clapping:
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
A basic, simple 4/4 beat—quarter notes, four beats per measure. Strong, weak, strong, weak, matching the steady thump of a heartbeat. It was slow, deliberate, sinking into your body until you couldn't help but feel it.
What's going on?
Maxim glanced at Ollie. Cliff was still fumbling with his in-ears, flustered and rushed—they had to pull it together fast. Ollie didn't have an answer; he just shook his head at Maxim. But instead of asking, he jumped in, joining Ronan.
Only difference? Ollie used his drumsticks instead of his hands, tapping out the same 4/4 rhythm.
Maxim was a little annoyed. There was no time to huddle up and talk it out—they just had to trust Ronan's gut.
So he let go of his bass and joined in, clapping along with Ronan.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
The crowd was baffled. It wasn't that they didn't get what the band was doing—they just didn't see the point. Did the band think they were Bruno, hyping the whole place to clap along? No chance. These people weren't buying it—they weren't here for them.
Buster's eyes flickered with surprise, and yeah, confusion too. He couldn't figure out what Ronan was up to. Still, he played along, raising his hands to clap with him—more out of pity than anything. Watching the band up there, clapping desperately while the crowd ignored them, felt too pathetic to ignore.
Buster wasn't the only one feeling sorry for them.
Some clapped out of sympathy, others just to join the concert buzz. A scattered smattering of claps broke out—barely a blip in a crowd of ten thousand. Maybe a hundred people, maybe two hundred. It didn't matter. What mattered was that someone was clapping, and the rest of the audience's attention snapped back to the stage. Sure, some were mocking, some were scoffing, some were just plain confused—but their eyes were back.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
The faint beat echoed through the Verizon Center. Then Ronan leaned into the mic and started singing, almost a cappella:
"Get out my head… I should be looking ahead…"
This wasn't the planned opener.
Ollie, Cliff, and Maxim swapped quick, startled looks. Even Diego, the sound engineer at the front, and the other staff turned their heads:
This wasn't the plan!
But the original setlist was already out the window. What else could they do? At least Ronan was trying to salvage it—they had to roll with it.
No clue what was happening, but they'd improvise. Diego nudged the soundboard, boosting Ronan's mic with a touch of ethereal reverb. His clear voice rippled through the venue, layering over itself in waves.