Page 66 of Discordant Cultivation

As he moved into the second verse, his voice grew stronger, his arms wrapped around himself protectively—or as protectively as someone holding a guitar could manage. The instrument became part of his body language, a shield and a burden at once.

Beautiful boy. Show them what I made you.

The pre-chorus built with desperate intensity. Kieran stopped moving entirely, frozen in the center of the space, every muscle tense, his voice climbing.

Then the chorus ripped out of him:

"I'm a heretic in my own cathedral,

Worshipping at the shrine of fear,

Every prayer's a betrayal, every tear is insincere;

How can I let you love me when I don't trust my own design?

This temple that I'm living in was never meant to house divine…"

His movements became erratic, hands gesturing helplessly at the air like trying to catch something that kept slipping away.

By the third verse, Kieran worked himself into something approaching a trance-like state. He pressed his forehead against the wall, his voice took on a heat reserved for rock vocals in some areas as the words poured out of him.

In the final chorus. Kieran's voice soared and shattered simultaneously. During the lines about maybe love meaning letting someone see the cracks in your design, his eyes found the camera lens and held it—direct, devastating eye contact that felt like watching someone's soul being flayed open.

The outro was whispered, contemplative, Kieran finally still as his voice dropped to something barely audible:

"So I'll unlock the heavy doors,

Let the light touch the floor;

Of this temple made of fear and shame,

And maybe learn to love my name."

The final note faded to silence as he pulled the strap of the guitar over his head and held the instrument by the neck, still staring into the camera. He collapsed into the chair at the room's center, letting his guitar drop as his lower lip began to quiver.

Vale sat breathless, unable to find words for the perfection he witnessed—

Then Kieran's expression changed.

"I don't feel good," Kieran whispered, his eyes wide as he moved his gaze from the camera to Vale. There was a fear in his eyes, like Death himself had manifested in the room and was tapping his watch.

His eyes rolled up and to the left, fixed on nonexistent points in space. His body went rigid in the chair, his back arching and hands curling inward toward his chest as the tonic phase of a seizure took hold.

"Stop recording!" Vale commanded, already moving toward Kieran. "Eliza, stop the camera and help me get him on the floor!"

Vale caught Kieran's stiff body, scooping him from the chair as he dropped to the ground, cradling his head as the clonic phase of the seizure began: full body spasms, eyes still fixed, drool bubbling out of the corner of his mouth as small grunts accompanied each devastating rhythmic jerk.

And as Vale cradled Kieran's seizing form, something unexpected crashed through the pounding in his ears.

It wasn’t fear for his project. It wasn’t even concern about his methods being exposed. Nor was it about losing the artist or the voice or the beautiful broken instrument he'd been creating.

It was pure, unbridled terror.

Terror at the thought of losing this specific boy.

Kieran.

Don't leave me. Christ, don't you dare leave me.