Page 108 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale’s smile was involuntary at the overt reference to Two Suns Studio. Kieran wasn’t just performing his trauma—he was weaponizing it, turning his violations into missiles aimed directly at their source.

Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

The second verse shifted dynamics, Jericho taking the lead while Kieran’s guitar provided intricate accompaniment. When he rejoined her vocally, his voice rose into its higher register—crystalline notes that soared above her grounded alto with heartbreaking beauty.

"Minotaur-metaphor for everything that’s twisted in the industry;

Where innocence gets listed as commodity, predator-pedagogy—”

The performance was building toward something explosive, both artists moving with increasing urgency. After the final chorus, they launched into a rondo of overlapping vocals that created layers of meaning—accusations and responses weaving together until it became impossible to tell who was singing which truth.

Jericho began tapping her microphone against her palm for percussion, each strike creating a sharp crack that punctuatedtheir voices. Vale’s attention sharpened—something dark spattering with each impact.

Blood.

Kieran swung the guitar to his back like he’d performed the movement a thousand times, the strap settling perfectly across his torso. His glare swept the crowd—finding Nox with laser focus before finally landing on Vale himself.

The look that passed between them was electric, complex—hurt and defiance and what Vale recognized as gratitude, all twisted together into an expression that made Vale’s pulse spike with pride.

Kieran’s hand disappeared into his pants pocket, emerging with something small and glinting. Before Vale could process what he was seeing, his palm slammed against his chest in rhythm with Jericho’s microphone percussion.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as blood bloomed across the white gauze, spreading in patterns that looked like abstract art painted in crimson. Kieran’s hand came away red, glass shards still clutched in his fingers, and he struck again, then again, each impact creating new puncture wounds that bled freely down his torso.

No.

The word formed in Vale’s mind with absolute horror, his hand clenching at his side hard enough for nails to bite into palms. This wasn’t his work. This wasn’t his controlled methods, his calculated lessons in the relationship between pain and art. This was Kieran choosing his own violation, directing his own breaking, making himself bleed without Vale’s permission or guidance.

He’s hurting himself. Without me. He’s taking control of his own destruction and I can’t—

Vale’s jaw ached. His whole body had gone rigid, fight-or-flight screaming at him to move, to intervene, to reclaim what was being stolen from him in front of hundreds of witnesses.

But even as horror flooded his system, Vale couldn’t deny the terrible beauty of what he was witnessing. The blood spreading across white gauze created patterns that looked like wings—like Icarus falling, like an angel’s descent, like every mythology reference in Kieran’s lyrics made visceral and real. The crowd was mesmerized.

I should stop this. I should pull him off that stage and make him understand that his pain belongs to me, that I’m the one who decides when and how he bleeds.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Because the performance was transcendent, and stopping it would be like stopping a symphony mid-crescendo, like interrupting a masterpiece in the moment of its completion.

My beautiful boy. You’ve learned to make art from suffering so well that you don’t need me anymore to access it. And that terrifies me more than anything.

The song ended with both performers breathing hard, blood decorating their white bandages like battle wounds. For a moment, the room was absolutely silent.

Then Kieran swayed slightly, his face twitching repeatedly like he was grimacing with only half his face.

No. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

But Jericho was already moving, her hand finding Kieran’s arm as she guided him off the small stage before the seizure could escalate into something more visible. Her movement was so smooth, so protective, that most of the audience probably assumed it was part of the performance.

Vale’s phone kept recording as the crowd erupted in applause, but his attention remained fixed on the side of the stage whereJericho supported Kieran’s weight, keeping him upright while his consciousness seemed to flicker in and out.

Vale moved toward them through the crowd, already mapping the fastest route to get Kieran somewhere safe. He grabbed the arm Jericho held.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Where is your dressing room?” Vale demanded.

She nodded and walked ahead of them.

Vale guided Kieran down the hallway toward Jericho’s dressing room, one hand steady on his elbow, the other spread across the small of his back.