Chapter 5: Stepping Out
The rain had stopped, leaving the city slick and shimmering under streetlights. Kael stood at his window, the air sharp with the scent of wet asphalt and the faint bitterness of coffee from a nearby stall. A distant bassline thumped from a passing car, blending with the clatter of a tram. His phone sat heavy in his pocket, LexRhythm's message still unanswered, a quiet dare he couldn't ignore. He'd sent the DM yesterday, half-expecting no reply, but now the weight of possibility pressed against his ribs.
He turned back to his room, the guitar resting on his bed, its strings glinting faintly. The notebook beside it was open to a new page, scribbled with lyrics that felt too raw to share. Ghost Notes had hit two hundred listens, the comments a mix of praise and critique, but Kael hadn't posted since. Doubt gnawed at him—not about the music, but about what came next. LexRhythm's comment, "DM me if you're serious," echoed in his head, stirring memories of chances he'd let slip. The art contest he'd never entered. The coding project he'd scrapped when it got hard. Each time, he'd told himself it didn't matter. This time, it did.
His phone buzzed—Mira, as relentless as ever. "You ghosting LexRhythm? Don't be a coward. Meet him or I'll drag you myself." Kael snorted, but his palms were clammy. Lex had replied an hour after Kael's DM, suggesting a meet-up at a small studio downtown. "No pressure, just vibe," the message read, but Kael felt the pressure all the same. He typed back to Mira: "Not ghosting. Just… thinking." Her response was immediate: "Think less. Go."
Kael exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He grabbed his jacket, the leather worn soft, and slipped on his sneakers, the soles scuffed from years of aimless walks. Before leaving, he glanced at the guitar, tempted to play one more time, to anchor himself. Instead, he shoved his notebook into his bag, the weight of it grounding. He wasn't just meeting LexRhythm—he was stepping into something bigger, something he couldn't name yet.
The hallway was quiet, his mom already gone for her evening shift. A sticky note on the fridge read, "Leftovers in the oven. Be safe." Her handwriting, neat and familiar, tugged at him. He hadn't told her about Lex, about the music taking root in his life. Part of him wanted her to know, to see this wasn't another phase. But the fear of her quiet skepticism held him back.
Outside, the city pulsed. Neon signs flickered, casting pink and blue glows on the wet pavement. A street vendor flipped skewers, the sizzle cutting through the hum of voices. Kael walked, his breath visible in the cool air, his steps syncing with the faint rhythm of a busker strumming nearby. The man's voice was rough but earnest, singing about lost love to a handful of passersby. Kael paused, dropping a coin into the open guitar case. The busker nodded, and Kael felt a strange kinship—a shared language he was only beginning to speak.
The studio was a ten-minute walk, tucked between a noodle shop and a thrift store. Its sign, "PulseVibe Studio," glowed faintly, the glass door streaked with rain. Kael's heart pounded, his fingers twitching as he pushed it open. The air inside was warm, smelling of wood polish and faint cigarette smoke. A receptionist glanced up, her piercings glinting. "You Kael?" she asked, chewing gum.
"Yeah," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Lex is in the back. Second door." She jerked her thumb toward a hallway.
Kael nodded, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. The hallway was lined with posters—indie bands, old jazz legends, a faded Veyl flyer that made his stomach lurch. He stopped at the second door, hesitating. His mind flashed to the art contest he'd bailed on, the email he'd deleted because "What's the point?" This wasn't that. He wasn't that kid anymore. He knocked.
"Come in," a voice called, low and relaxed.
Kael stepped inside. LexRhythm—Lex—was younger than he'd expected, maybe thirty, with a shaved head and a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. He sat at a mixing board, headphones around his neck, a laptop open to a waveform. The room was small, cluttered with mics, cables, and a worn couch. Lex looked up, his eyes sharp but warm.
"Kael, right?" Lex stood, offering a hand. "Heard your stuff. It's got soul."
Kael shook his hand, his grip firmer than he felt. "Thanks. I'm… still figuring it out."
Lex grinned, leaning against the desk. "That's the best part. Messy's where the good stuff hides." He gestured to the couch. "Sit. Tell me what you're chasing."
Kael sat, his bag heavy on his lap. The question caught him off guard. What was he chasing? Veyl's shadow? His own voice? The feeling of being heard? He thought of the busker, the rain, the comment about bleeding through the mic. "I want to make something real," he said finally, the words spilling out. "Something that hits like…" He paused, almost saying Veyl, but caught himself. "Like it matters."
Lex nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's a start. Let's hear what you've got."
Kael froze, his throat dry. He hadn't brought his guitar, hadn't prepared. But Lex's gaze was steady, not judging. Kael pulled out his notebook, the pages creased, and opened to his latest lyrics. His voice shook as he read them aloud, half-singing, the melody rough but honest. Lex listened, tapping a pen against his knee, his face giving nothing away.
When Kael finished, the silence was deafening. Then Lex leaned forward, his voice low. "You've got something, kid. It's raw, but it's there. You willing to work for it?"
Kael's chest tightened, not with doubt but with something fiercer—hunger. "Yeah," he said, and for the first time, he believed it.
To be continued…
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