Page 96 of Discordant Cultivation

“Vale, c-can you—” Kieran started to ask, but Vale went completely still beside him.

The change was immediate and terrifying—Vale’s entire body language shifted from relaxed to something stiff and alert as he squeezed Kieran’s hand painfully.

Across the room, someone’s voice rose above the ambient conversation—sharp, dismissive, cutting through the polite murmur. Kieran couldn’t make out words, but the tone carried entitlement and cruelty, the type of public rudeness that paused other conversations and sent eyes darting away in secondhand embarrassment.

A server hurried past their position at the bar, her face flushed with barely suppressed tears.

“Eyes forward,” Vale said softly, but it was in that tone that made Kieran feel sick. That tone he was only used to hearing in the basement. “Don’t move. Stay here.”

Kieran forced himself to stare straight ahead, every muscle locked in compliance while his peripheral vision tried to catchwhatever had triggered Vale’s sudden tension. Behind him, he could hear Vale moving, speaking in low urgent tones that sounded angry.

Minutes passed. Maybe five, maybe twenty—time was elastic when fear made everything hyperfocused. When Kieran finally dared to look around, Vale was gone.

He left me. He actually left me alone.

The realization hit with stunning force. For the first time in months, Vale wasn’t monitoring his every breath or controlling his every movement.

He could run.

The bartender was right there, wiping down the bar, close enough that Kieran could reach out and tap his shoulder. And somewhere in the back of Kieran’s mind, a half-remembered social media post surfaced:If you need help at a bar, ask for an angel shot.

A code word. A way to signal distress without making a scene.

His mouth opened. The words were right there, ready to tumble out and change everything.

But what if it was just a social media myth? What if this bartender had never heard of it? What if there was a different code word and asking for the wrong thing just made him look stupid or unstable?

And even if it worked—even if the bartender understood and called the police—what then? Vale would come back to find him gone. Or worse, find him mid-confession, and then he would find himself on the other end of whatever Hell existed for people who earned Vale’s angry voice.

The bartender moved further down the bar, the moment slipping away like water through Kieran’s gauze-wrapped fingers.

The panic started slowly, then accelerated as the reality of his situation crystallized. Without Vale’s steady presence, the roombecame too bright, too loud, too full of strangers who saw him as entertainment rather than person.

A woman in all white took the small stage—Flake, the artist Vale had talked about. Her dress and platform heels gleaming white like fresh snow. Her voice rose in pretty melody that should have been beautiful but sounded discordant against Kieran’s rising hysteria. Too high, straining at the top of her register just like Vale had said.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Where is he?

“Hey.” Vander appeared beside him like salvation, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the bar. He hooked his arm around Kieran’s elbow and pulled him from the barstool. “I know a place for panic attacks. Come on.”

Kieran nodded frantically, following Vander away from the stage where Flake’s voice soared in keys that were all wrong, toward whatever refuge Vander was offering from the overwhelming chaos of existing without Vale.

29

Now he sits in shadows, writing letters to the void; About the beauty found in anguish, about being so destroyed…

Kieran

The green room Vander led him to was quiet with thick walls muffling the party noise to something manageable. Kieran sank into a leather chair, breathing without the weight of the entire party watching him exist.

“Here.” Vander handed him the vodka bottle, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

“I don’t s-smoke,” Kieran said, accepting the alcohol.

“Smart. I should quit, but...” Vander shrugged, lighting up. “You actually sing, I just scream into microphones sometimes. Different priorities.”

The vodka burned going down but left a warmth that chased away the anxiety clawing through his chest. Kieran glanced toward the door every few seconds, expecting Vale to appear with that expression that meant his temporary freedom was over.

“Relax,” Vander said, tracking his restless energy. “These events always start with producers and managers glued to their artists’ asses. But as the night goes on and the alcohol kicks in, they wander off to do their own networking. All the artists endup together, shit-talking our handlers.” He took a long drag. “We’re just starting early.”