Page 55 of Discordant Cultivation

“I want to show you something.” Vale turned the screen toward him, showing numbers that had climbed again, Kieran couldn’t stop his breath from catching. 3.7 million views onYouTube. Clips on TikTok with millions more. Instagram posts dissecting every line of his lyrics, people creating their own covers, reaction videos where people cried listening to him sing

“Look at this,” Vale said, scrolling through his email inbox. “Seventeen different labels wanting meetings. Rolling Stone is asking for an interview. Three venues offering headline slots.” His voice carried that particular satisfaction of someone watching an investment pay off. “The High Fly Ballroom wants to book you for next month.”

The High Fly Ballrom? Real venues. Real stages where real artists perform.

Kieran’s hands trembled as he reached for the laptop, needing to see the proof upclose. Not because he didn’t believe Vale, but because the scope felt too enormous to process without seeing it properly.

Three comments caught his attention:

This is the most authentic thing I’ve heard in years. Where has this artist been hiding?

The way he performs this song like he’s confessing to a priest—actual chills.

I’ve watched this twenty times and I cry every single time. This is what music should be.

They think I’m talented. They think my music matters.

The realization hit with nauseating clarity. Not just the numbers—anyone could go viral for fifteen minutes—but the depth of response. People weren’t just watching; they wereconnecting. Feeling something real from words he bled onto paper in moments when surviving another day felt like an accomplishment.

“You’re pleased.”

“I’m not—it’s not—” Kieran closed the laptop. “It doesn’t ch-change anything. This doesn’t change what you d-did to me.”

“What I did was help you access authenticity you couldn’t reach on your own.” Vale’s tone remained patient. “The world is responding to honesty, Kier. To the version of yourself you discovered in that basement.”

Stop calling it discovery. Call it what it was—violation disguised as education.

But even as his mind formed the objection, Kieran’s chest ached with traitorous pride. He wrote something that mattered and performed it with the kind of raw honesty he always knew lived inside him, but never knew how to access. The methods were horrific, but the result...

The result is everything you ever wanted as a musician.

“Does this m-mean—” Kieran stopped himself before finishing the thought, afraid of the answer either way.

“Mean what?”

“Does this m-mean you’ll let m-me go now? You’ve proven what-wh-whatever point you wanted to make. P-people like the song. I can—I can handle the rest from here.”

“Handle what, exactly? The interview requests? The label negotiations? The pressure to recreate this level of vulnerability on command?”

I could learn. I could figure it out. Other artists do.

“I could try.”

“You could fail spectacularly.” Vale stood, moving to the coffee table where Kieran had left the notepad he poured all of his pain and confused feelings into. He bolted up to grab it, but Vale was faster. “Speaking of vulnerability, I found some new material you’ve been working on.”

“N-nothing in there is r-ready yet,” Kieran’s voice came out smaller than intended as Vale flipped through the pages.

“I disagree.” Vale settled back into his chair, running his fingers over the lines on one page. “This part about temples that betray themselves, about not trusting your own design. Nothing to do with recent experiences?”

He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything about you now, including how badly you lie when you’re scared.

But Kieran couldn’t tell him the truth—that every word was about his body being something unreliable. About his stutter making communication feel like betrayal, his seizures stealing consciousness without warning, the way Vale’s hands taught him to mistrust every sensation... The way he kissed Vale back without permission from his mind.

You turned me into architecture I don’t recognize.

“They’re ju-just lyrics,” Kieran said instead. “M-metaphors.”

“Metaphors.” Vale huffed a laugh through his nose. “Well, I think it’s time we explored those metaphors more fully and see what kind of performance they inspire.”