Page 63 of Discordant Cultivation

The doorbell's chime echoed through the house. Vale's pulse quickened with anticipation. Everything was in place—the basement prepared, the lighting tested, Kieran properly costumed for his role as the tortured artist.

"That's Eliza," Vale announced, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from Kieran's pants. "Remember—you're Thorn, the mysterious artist who's finally ready to share his vision with the world."

They made their way to the front door, Kieran moving carefully in his gauze wrappings, Vale's hand resting on his shoulder. He adjusted Kieran's posture, pushing his shoulders back and his chin up.

"Eliza," Vale said, opening the door with his warmest smile. "Perfect timing."

"Vale, hi!" Her enthusiasm was immediate, her bright blue eyes filled with excitement as she practically bounced inside, her red ponytail swishing as she did. "I can't thank you enough for giving me another chance after all this time working together—" She stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening as she took in Kieran's appearance.

There it is. The exact reaction I wanted.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "You're him. You're actually him." She turned to Vale, practically vibrating with excitement. "I couldn’t believe it when you said you were working with Thorn. I've watched that video maybe fifty times."

Kieran shifted uncomfortably, but he kept his head up and his shoulders back. Vale's smile deepened.

Good boy.

"Eliza, meet Thorn," he said, his hand tightening on Kieran's shoulder. "Thorn, this is Eliza Long, the cinematographer I told you about."

"I—hi," Kieran managed. "Nice to m-meet you."

Eliza beamed. "The honor's all mine. That performance—god, the raw emotion. I've never seen anything like it." She hefted her camera bag. "I brought everything we discussed. Multiple angles, Steadicam work for intimacy and tracking. This is going to be incredible."

Vale guided them toward the basement entrance. Kieran's breathing changed as they approached the stairs.

"The song we're filming today is even more powerful than 'PoisonSaviors,'" Vale explained as they descended. "Thorn was just telling me he envisions a lot of movement during the performance. Pacing, almost like he can't contain the energy."

"Restless movement." Eliza nodded. "I can work with that."

The basement looked different with Eliza's equipment scattered around—professional but artistic chaos that transformed the space. She moved quickly, testing angles and adjusting lights to capture the stone walls' texture and the acoustic panels' geometric patterns.

"Lighting's tricky down here," she murmured, more to herself than to them. "But that rawness—that's what made the first video so compelling. Like we're seeing something we're not supposed to see."

If only you knew how accurate that assessment is.

Vale watched Kieran take in the transformed space, the way his shoulders tensed at familiar surroundings now invaded by a stranger's equipment. But he was adapting, learning to wear his discomfort like another costume piece.

"Ready when you are," Eliza announced, practically swallowed whole by the Steadicam rig attached to her torso. "Just do whatever feels natural, Thorn. I'll follow your lead."

Vale settled into his observer's position, invisible behind Eliza's equipment setup. From here he could see both performances—Kieran's carefully controlled act for the camera, and Eliza's excitement at capturing something she believed was pure creative expression.

Show her what I made you. Show her exactly what beautiful destruction looks like.

The first attempt was proficient but emotionally vacant. Kieran moved through the basement space like he was made of wood, hitting every note while missing every meaning. Vale's jaw tightened with each perfectly executed but soulless line.

"That was beautiful," Eliza said, clicking the camera off. "But maybe we could try it again? I want to make sure I caught all the movement."

The second attempt was no better. Nor the third. By the seventh take, Vale's hands were clenched at his sides as hewatched Kieran perform his own lyrics like a karaoke version of authentic emotion. The pacing was there—restless movement around the space like a caged animal—but it was choreographed anxiety rather than genuine desperation.

Where is the boy who collapsed in my arms? Where is the voice that cracked with real terror?

"One more time," Vale said, still patient but strain creeping in around the edges. "I think you can go deeper, Thorn."

Take twelve.

Fifteen.

Twenty.