Page 61 of Discordant Cultivation

Too tired. Too broken. What’s the point?

“We’re almost ready,” Vale continued, and something in his voice made Kieran’s stomach drop with fresh dread. “Tomorrow I’m bringing someone to film your next performance. Another raw session for your fans. She’ll want to capture the same authenticity as the first video.”

“Who?” His voice came out rough from his restless sleep.

“Eliza. My assistant. She’s filmed projects for me before—she’s very talented, very professional.” Vale moved to crouch beside the mattress. “She thinks this is all artistic collaboration, Kieran. An intensive creative process between producer and artist. That’s what she’ll be filming.”

Kieran’s chest tightened with understanding. “You want me to—to pretend—”

“I want you to perform ‘Temple of Flesh’ with the same honesty you’ve found here.“ Vale’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “Can you do that?”

No. I can’t. I can’t pretend this is normal. I can’t look at someone else and act like I wanted any of this.

But the words wouldn’t come. Because what was the alternative? Tell her the truth? Hope she’d believe him over Vale? Hope she’d help him?

“She doesn’t need to know about the specifics of our process,” Vale continued, voice reasonable as always. “Just that you’ve been pushing yourself creatively. Artists do intense things all the time in pursuit of their craft.”

“I d-don’t know if I can—”

“Then we’ll just have to try harder to get you used to persevering.” Vale’s thumb traced the edge of the collar. “This iswhat professional artists do, Kieran. They perform regardless of their personal state. They don’t let the audience see them break.”

I’m already broken.

But some fragile part of Kieran understood the real threat underneath Vale’s words: if he couldn’t maintain the performance, if he cracked in front of Eliza, then everything that had happened here would have been for nothing. All the endurance, all the pain, all the times his body had betrayed him—wasted. Proof that he couldn’t handle what it took to be a real artist.

And worse—proof that Vale was wrong about him.

I don’t want to disappoint him. God, what’s wrong with me that I don’t want to disappoint him?

“She’ll arrive in the morning,” Vale said, standing. “You’ll shower, eat, and present yourself as a mysterious artist who’s been working intensively on new material. You’ll perform the song. You’ll be brilliant.” His hand touched the collar one more time. “And if you do this successfully, we can move forward. We can start planning a full album and booking interviews, maybe some venues. Everything you’ve worked for.”

Everything I’ve worked for. He makes it sound like I chose this.

But some part of Kieran couldn’t deny that his voice had improved. That the honesty Vale had forced out of him was the same honesty that had made people cry. They cared about what he had to say.

The cost was just... everything else.

“Get some rest,” Vale said, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow you need to be perfect. Eliza can’t see anything but an artist who’s found his voice.”

The door closed. The collar rested against Kieran’s throat like a brand, not a gift.

He tried to imagine standing in front of a stranger tomorrow, singing about temples that betrayed themselves while pretending he’d built his own collapse willingly. Tried to imagine smiling, answering questions about his creative process, acting like Vale was a mentor instead of—

Instead of what? What do I even call this anymore?

Kieran curled onto his side on the mattress, fingers still touching the collar, and tried to remember what wanting to fight back felt like.

18

And he's learning how to love it, how to love the endless pain…

Vale

Vale found Kieran exactly as he'd left him eight hours ago—curled in the fetal position on the mattress, collar still around his throat, looking small and exhausted. The boy's breathing stayed steady but shallow.

Look how you've waited for me. I could wake you with my hands around your throat and watch those eyes fly open, see if you'd fight or freeze.

"Good morning," Vale said, crouching beside the mattress. Kieran's eyes opened slowly, unfocused for a moment before the recognition and wariness hit.