Page 25 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran

Breakfast sat in Kieran’s stomach like wet cement, every bite forced down under Vale’s watchful eyes. The eggs had been perfect—fluffy, seasoned with herbs he couldn’t name—but they might as well have been cardboard for all he tasted them. His body ran on three hours of broken sleep and pure adrenaline, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped his fork twice.

Think. There has to be a way out.

But every escape scenario crumbled under basic scrutiny. The windows were sealed. The doors were locked. Even if he somehow overpowered Vale—which seemed laughable—he was miles from anywhere, with no phone, no money, no idea which direction led to civilization.

“You’re not eating,” Vale observed from across the kitchen table.

“I’m full.”

“You’ve had four bites.” Vale’s tone remained conversational, but something sharp lurked underneath. “Proper nutrition is essential for managing your condition. We discussed this.”

We didn’t discuss anything. You talked, I bled.

Kieran forced another forkful of eggs into his mouth, chewing mechanically while Vale watched. The morning sun streaming through the kitchen windows felt like mockery—such a beautiful day outside this beautiful prison.

“Better,” Vale said when Kieran’s plate was half empty. “We’ll work on your appetite. Stress suppresses hunger, but you’ll adjust.”

Adjust. Like this is my new normal.

“I need to ask you something,” Vale continued, setting down his coffee. “About your creative process.”

Kieran’s shoulders tensed. Nothing good came from Vale’s questions.

“When you write songs, how does it happen? Is it methodical? Do you sit down with intention and craft each line?”

The question felt like a trap, but Kieran couldn’t see the teeth yet. He pushed eggs around his plate, buying time to think through the safest answer.

“I asked you a question, Kier.”

That nickname. Every time Vale used it, something inside Kieran recoiled like touching a hot stove.

“It depends,” Kieran said carefully.

“On what?”

“On the song. S-sometimes I’ll work on lyrics for days. Som-metimes—”

“Sometimes what?” Vale leaned forward, interested in a way that made Kieran’s skin crawl. “Tell me about the other times.”

Kieran’s throat felt tight. The truth was embarrassing. It made him sound like some mystical idiot who waited for inspiration to strike instead of approaching music like a craft.

Vale stood and moved around the table. “You’re overthinking your answer. That means you’re trying to give me what you think I want to hear instead of the truth.”

“I’m not—”

Vale’s hand settled on the back of Kieran’s neck. “Tell me the truth, Kieran. How do your best songs come to you?”

“They just come t-to me!” The words tumbled out in a rush, desperate to avoid whatever consequence silence would bring. “Some…sometimes it’s just a line that gets st-stuck in my head, or a m-melody I hear in the shower, or a rhythm f-from listening to my footsteps and they build from there and I c-can’t control when it happens, it just happens!”

Vale’s fingers traced small circles against his nape. “They just come to you. Like gifts.”

“Y-yeah. I guess.”

“Beautiful.” Vale’s grip shifted, became something possessive rather than threatening. “That’s exactly what I hoped to hear. Come with me.”

“Where?”