Page 139 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran knew the name Alex Thayer—Vander had mentioned him at the networking event. The initials would fit. But A.T. could be anyone. It could be some random stalker who’d pieced together details from public videos. Or maybe a rival of Vale’s? Did Vale have rivals? He seemed to hate Nox…

The hood sessions weren’t public. No one should know about those except—

Had Vale done this before? With other people?

But that would mean…

Another message appeared:

A.T.

You don’t have to keep pretending this is normal. I can help you.

Help me? Help me do what?

Kieran’s hands shook as he closed the laptop, his heart hammering against his ribs as panic flooded his system. The taste of metal filled his mouth and his left ear began to ring.

No. Not now. I can’t seize now. Vale will ask what’s wrong and I’ll have to tell him and I’ll disappoint him again and—

But even as Kieran tried to calm his breathing, tried to push down the panic with techniques Vale had taught him, his mind kept circling back to those messages. Someone knew. Someone was watching. Someone wanted to “help” him, which meant they thought he needed help, which meant they thought what Vale was doing was wrong.

They don’t understand. They don’t understand that I need this. That I can’t create without it. That this is just what it takes.

The rationalization felt hollow even as Kieran repeated it to himself. Not because he didn’t believe it, he did, but because someone outside their carefully constructed world was trying to reframe his reality, and the intrusion felt violating in ways he couldn’t articulate.

His fingers found his left eye, his thumb and forefinger tugging at his eyelashes with a light stinging pain that made him feel like he could breathe.

Three eyelashes came out between his fingers. He stared at them for a moment before tucking them carefully into the pocket of his pajama pants, collecting the evidence of his own unraveling like it was some kind of twisted inventory.

Vale would notice eventually. Vale always noticed. But for now, Kieran could hide the A.T. messages and the escalating panic and the way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I won’t disappoint him again.

Friday. I’m recording with Jericho on Friday. I’ll record the song, and I’ll show Vale what I’ve learned. Everything will be fine.

The plan felt important, urgent, like if he could just demonstrate how thoroughly he’d absorbed Vale’s education, everything else would make sense. The A.T. messages would be revealed as nothing, the panic would settle, the broken parts of him would align properly within the framework Vale built.

Everything would be fine.

44

Now I embrace the empty space, erase each memory of their face…

Kieran

Three hours in the basement studio left Kieran’s abdomen burning where the TENS unit pads attached. His throat felt like sandpaper, raw from the screaming and desperate vocal runs that the studio version of ‘Library Card’ demanded. His legs still trembled with residual weakness that required Vale’s support to climb the basement stairs.

Almost got it. He said we almost got it.

The words should have felt encouraging, like progress toward something worthwhile. Instead, it just meant more sessions, more lessons, more time attached to electrodes while Vale guided him toward the rage that made him destroy his guitar.

The ice pack against Kieran’s abdomen only provided minimal relief from the burning ache. Vale settled onto the couch beside him, one hand holding the ice pack in place while the other traced patterns on Kieran’s shoulder.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Vale said. “Just breathe. You did incredible work today.”

Kieran nodded, not trusting his voice. Vale’s hands were gentle as they arranged the ice pack more comfortably, and hisvoice carried affection that made the hatred from the basement feel wrong, misplaced.

Because there had been hatred. In the moments when the current was strongest, when his entire torso seized with agony while he tried to maintain rhythm and vocal control, there had been a space in his mind where nothing existed except undiluted hatred for Vale’s voice telling him to breathe through it and focus.