Chapter 16

William

The energy rolls over me like a wave. Sharp and loud, but not the wildfire we're used to in the west. In LA or London, the crowd roars from the first chord, feeding us like we're gasoline to their blaze. But here in Seoul, it's different. There's a rhythm, a pulse, but it's restrained, like they're still deciding if we're worth burning for. The unknown hangs heavy in the air, and it feels like we're diving headfirst into uncharted waters, chasing a spark we're not sure we'll find.

Killian knows it too. I can feel it in the way he's scanning the crowd, reading them, gauging their pulse. It's what he does best—finding the thread that connects us and pulling until it unravels into something magic.

The opening notes of our usual set rip through the speakers, and the audience surges forward, their excitement a quiet wave compared to what we're used to. But it's enough to work with. Killian steps to the edge of the stage, his voice slicing through the noise—raw, untamed, unrelenting.

"Seoul!" His voice booms, a slight accent curling around the word, and the crowd responds with cheers. He's been working on a few phrases, and he throws them out now, his smile wide and inviting, a practiced charmer who knows exactly what he's doing. The audience softens, their cheers getting louder.

The band zones in, the rhythm flowing as naturally as breathing. Jax's guitar screams, raw and untamed, while Rye's bassline thunders beneath it, deep vibrations pulsing through the floor and straight into my bones. The lights blaze across the crowd, strobing in perfect time with the beat of my drums. I'm locked in, sweat slicking my temples as I pound out the rhythm with everything I've got.

Killian pushes harder, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade, his body language open and magnetic, tugging on that unspoken connection between us and the crowd. Slowly, I feel them start to thaw, their cheers rolling in waves, louder and fuller with each song. It's heady—the heat of the stage lights, the roar of the crowd, the relentless thrum of the music reverberating through my entire body.

This isn't an easy crowd, but we don't hold back. We give it everything. The energy builds, sharp and electric, and the Devil—a mass of bodies and voices—moves as one. Jumping, shouting, hands raised high, they match us beat for beat.

But then, the usual routine shifts. My heart kicks harder against my ribs as the cue for the transition looms closer. I know it's coming, but knowing doesn't stop the adrenaline from spiking. This is where things change. Where I change.

The stage lights dim, plunging the room into darkness. A hush ripples through the crowd, anticipation threading the air. The mood shifts—like a breath being held. This is what we planned, what Jules had envisioned. And now it's happening.

Low, distorted bass notes start to hum through the speakers, crawling along the edges of the silence. It's unsettling, crawling under the skin, seeping into bones. The usual bright energy of a Kill John show evaporates, replaced by something darker, heavier, more sinister.

The drums pick up—my drums—but slower now, a deep, measured thud that echoes like a heartbeat. The sound twists, layered with eerie synths and warped vocals, creating a melody that feels both haunting and alive. Fog spills out across the stage, shrouding it in an ethereal haze.

And then, the shift hits its mark. A single spotlight slices through the haze of smoke, landing square on me. The rest of the stage plunges into darkness, the crowd falling into a curious, murmuring quiet.

For the first time ever, it's just me and the Devil.

The Devil is still, their collective energy pulled taut like a bowstring. Thousands of eyes are locked on me, their breath caught in their throats. They're trying to guess what's coming, to figure out why the drummer—hidden at the back for most of the set—is suddenly center stage.

I grip my sticks tighter, my pulse hammering against my ribs, but my face stays neutral. This moment—it's mine. The spotlight burns down on me, and the heat is nothing compared to the weight of their expectations pressing in from every side.

I lean into it. Into the heavy silence that feels louder than the music we'd been playing just moments ago. I tap out a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sound sharp and clean, cutting through the tension like a knife. One beat. Two. A pause that stretches just long enough to make them lean forward.

My hands move like I'm possessed, the rhythm dark and hypnotic, pulling the crowd into its grip. It's intuitive, visceral—a sound born in my veins. This moment is now mine.

The Devil doesn't know what to do with me yet. I feel it in the crowd, their hesitation, teetering on the edge of chaos. They're unsure, trying to decide if they should follow, if they should give in. The spotlight holds steady as I abandon the drums for the first time. It's a move I never thought I'd make onstage, but tonight is about breaking rules, about unleashing the other side of me.

The track shifts, the beat transforming, almost suffocating in its intensity. On cue, I step forward, the mic heavy in my hand. The opening lines to Kingdom Come spill from my lips, smooth and taunting, wrapping around the crowd like smoke.

The Devil watches, captivated. Recognizing the tune.

The stillness in the room isn't silence anymore—it's anticipation, sharp and electric. The tension builds, crackling in the air like a live wire. Their curiosity shifts into something primal, something hungry. They want more. And I meet it head-on, a wicked grin tugging at my lips. My eyes lock with theirs—almost otherworldly, the kind that feel like they're seeing right through you.

The transition hits, and the room quakes as the bassline to Villain rolls in, deep and thunderous. It's the song that started it all, the one that pulled me out of the shadows and threw me into the light. The audience recognizes it instantly, their energy igniting like a match to gasoline. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, and for the first time tonight, the energy surges.

But I don't let them loose. Not yet.

I hold them on a string, their cheers growing louder, the pressure building as the beat grows heavier, darker. The floor vibrates with the thunder of the bass, every inch of the venue alive with sound. My voice dips low, controlled, as I weave through the opening lines of Villain. The power of it surges through me, intoxicating, as if I have the entire world in my grip.

The crowd is itching to let go. I can see it in the way they lean forward, hands in the air, bodies tense. But I hold. I make them wait, teasing the drop, dragging it out until the tension is nearly unbearable.

And then it happens.

The lights flash blood red, the bass drops, and the hold I had on them shatters. The crowd explodes, their energy erupting like a volcano, the roar so loud it drowns out everything else. I jump to the beat, my movements sharp and wild, and they follow, mimicking me in perfect sync. It's chaos, it's perfection, it's everything.

The rhythm of Villain is a heartbeat now, relentless and consuming. I feel it in my chest, in my bones, as the crowd chants the lyrics with me, their voices rising above the pounding bass. The language barrier doesn't matter—not here, not now. They know the words, they know the beat, and they scream it like it's their own anthem.

The entire venue seems to quake, the floor trembling under the weight of thousands of bodies jumping in unison. It feels like the ground might give way beneath us, but no one cares. No one stops. It's a shared madness, a collective ecstasy, and I've never felt more alive.

Killian rejoins me, seamlessly sliding back into the groove as Villain blends into Tabula Rasa, the fusion of our worlds—his and mine. It's a moment of perfect chaos, and the crowd's wild. They're with us, losing themselves in the transition between the two songs, so different from each other, yet tonight they become one. For the first time, Killian and I stand side by side, battling the crowd, feeding off each other, giving it everything we've got.

Jax and Rye join us, cementing the moment. All of Kill John's energy, all of us front and center, channeling our power straight into the crowd. When the song finishes, the arena erupts, a roar so deafening it shakes my chest. It's the loudest I've heard them all tour, maybe ever. It's like we've just raised the bar to impossible heights.

And we don't stop.

We keep pushing, keep riding the wave of energy, until the show starts to slow down, the ballad's moment coming. But this isn't going to be Angelic Singer. No, this is another one of the last-minute changes we threw in.

Instead of giving them what they expect, I grab the microphone again, and the haunting, melody of Curtain Call fill the air. It's clear that the crowd recognizes it. They fall silent, but not from disinterest. It's like they're trying to absorb every word, every note, searching for the emotion behind it. They connect with it—like they're hearing a song that feels like it was written just for them, the lyrics speaking to something deep inside, like an extension of their own soul.

When the song ends, there's a small tremor of applause starts, slowly building until it crescendos. But before I can fully let the moment settle, I'm already moving on, the next song beginning to take shape. I draw in a breath, feeling the weight of it settle into my chest. This song. The one I've never released. The one I started the night I discovered Villain was going viral and finished in my flat in Ginza. It's a huge risk, laying it bare in front of them when no one's heard it. But it's time. I need to share it—share this piece of me, with them, with everyone here.

And there's one person who deserves to hear it play more than anyone—Jules. It's the one she lingers on the most out of all my songs.

I step closer to the mic, the words coming in my limited Korean, something I've picked up on my travels. Rye looks at me, his eyes wide, clearly shocked, and I can't help the smirk that forms on my lips, but I hold back the laugh—this is no time for that.

I speak slowly, deliberately, feeling the weight of every word as the crowd quiets, leaning in to catch every syllable. The air is thick with anticipation, and I let the silence stretch just enough before I bow my head, offering a simple thank you, my heart full of gratitude. The crowd erupts in applause, their acceptance wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

"Please enjoy this next song," I say in Korean, "I hope you find meaning in it. It's called Do I Have a Purpose."

And then, I nod at Rye, who starts the opening notes on the piano. They're simple, delicate, completely different from anything Kill John has ever played.

It's just the piano and me, the melody flowing from Rye's fingers, soft and introspective.

I start singing, and my voice, much softer than Kill John's sound, but no less full of emotion, cuts through the air. The lyrics spill from me, raw and unpolished, but they feel like they belong here. This song is me, exposed, asking questions that only I can answer.

And then, without thinking, without planning this with the guys, the opening lines of Neoui Uimi, which means "meaning of you", slip from my lips. I sing in Korean, softly, instinctively—like the moment itself called for it.

Because you exist, I exist.

Because I exist, you exist.

The melody is timeless, woven into the childhoods of everyone in this room, into quiet nights, into memories that never fade. I know this because I've heard it in those places—in cafés and side streets, in conversations with locals during my travels. It's a song that lives in the heart of this country, and now, for these fleeting seconds, it lives in mine too.

I feel the steadiness in the arena before I see it, how people close their eyes like they've been transported somewhere else. Voices join in, hesitant at first, then stronger, carrying the song with me. The weight of time itself feels suspended. It's nostalgia and longing, wrapped in a song.

I let the final note linger before opening my eyes.

Silence. A breathless pause. And then—

They explode in a standing ovation. But it's not the roar of excitement from a raucous anthem or a song packed with technical flourishes. Yet here they are, chanting our name.

Without warning, their energy rises again, a wave that crashes even higher. They're shouting for us, but now, the name they chant is different. Louder. More unified. It's "William." My name.

For a second, I just stand there, stunned. Rye looks at me, wide-eyed, his expression a mix of disbelief and awe. I glance back at him, my heart pounding in my chest, and silently mouth to him, "This is insane."

I can see the reaction in him too, the realization that this isn't just a show anymore. It's something we didn't expect but are more than ready to embrace. The crowd is practically shaking with excitement, and we're just getting started.