When they first met, Henry Clark saw the cold-faced Edith Parker clutching a wine bottle at his doorstep and thought he was there to collect a debt.

But instead, he said, “I’m forming a band to enter a competition, and we need a lead singer who can play guitar.”

Henry Clark: Well, might as well be debt collection.

But in the end, he agreed—he didn’t want to miss out on such a genius bassist.

——Later——

Edith Parker: Henry Clark is like a bullseye to me.

Henry Clark: (suddenly enlightened) He likes me.

Edith Parker: We can be friends.

Henry Clark: Got it, lip-friendship. I mean, I’m straight, but I don’t mind kissing you.

Edith Parker: (deep breath)

Henry Clark: He’s so in love with me.

——-——

During the competition, no one had high hopes for this new band—even the staff were gossiping backstage.

“The bassist is good-looking, sure, but you can’t eat with your face. I heard the drummer’s got such a bad temper he almost started a fight on stage, the keyboardist is some ex-banker who got fired, and the lead singer is popular but a jerk, even got kicked out of his last band. With a ragtag group like this, can they win?”

And yet, the four of them were standing right behind them.

Grace Bennett: “Let’s get this straight—I resigned, I wasn’t fired, and it was investment banking, not regular banking…”

William Harris: “What the hell are you barking about! How is my temper bad!”

Henry Clark: “Out of that whole rant, only the first four words were worth hearing. Someone as perfect as me—if you’re trash-talking me, you’re either my deeply closeted admirer or a reincarnated violin—no taste at all.”

Staff: (awkward) (cold sweat) (speechless)

Edith Parker said coolly, “Excuse us, the ragtag band needs to get on stage.”

[Mental state clearly unstable · self-strategy · top]

[Looks stable but actually crazy · loves without knowing · bottom]

Lead singer x bassist/lead singer

Chapter 1: Shut Out

[That kid on bass is 100% going to be famous.]

David Morgan later suspected that this message was pure jinx. Because less than three seconds after receiving it, the livehouse was suddenly plunged into darkness, and the performance came to an abrupt halt. The recent heat and frenzy were instantly sucked into a black hole—dead silence, everyone’s emotions stuck in a vacuum.

“Shit? Power outage?”

That voice shattered the shell of silence, and a wave of noisy chatter erupted.

It wasn’t just the power that was cut—it was clearly the future of this new band, David Morgan thought.

“The wristband lights are out too, so are these tickets void now? Will things resume when the power’s back?”

“What if it doesn’t come back? There are only three votes in the prelims, and I still need to vote for my favorite band!”

“If it doesn’t come back, then no revote. Tough luck for them.”

For live shows, atmosphere is everything. Once the spark is snuffed out and the mood breaks, not even a god can save it.

What’s more, all the votes that decide victory or defeat had just been reset to zero.

Talk about bad luck.

The closed-off livehouse had become a stuffy, dark black box, complaints piling on top of each other like trampling feet, making everyone even more irritable.

In the message, “that kid on bass” was still standing on stage. Compared to his two teammates, he looked as calm as an outsider, one hand on the neck of his bass, the other casually resting on the mic stand, his fingers even lightly tapping out a rhythm.

Some flashlight beams flickered from the side of the stage—probably staff checking for the cause of the outage. The weak, narrow beams swept around, landing on the musicians, not quite illuminating their faces, but even the blurred outline of his figure stood out.

With talent and looks like that, it’s hard not to get famous—just like Henry Clark back then.

Too bad his luck was terrible, hit by an act of God. Couldn’t even make it past the prelims—the band was doomed.

Suddenly, the hand resting on the mic stand lifted slightly, and he gestured toward the bustling crowd below—half a wave, half an ambiguous sign.

And his target… seemed to be right next to David Morgan.

While listening to the live show earlier, a thought had flashed through his mind—this guy was quiet, but his hands and his eyes seemed to speak.

It made David Morgan recall the first time he met him, five days ago.

That day, he’d gone to the post office to pick up a letter. On the way, he got a call, so he bantered on the phone while driving back to the tattoo shop.

“Not a debt collector, but he’s found your doorstep…”

Almost at his destination, he squeezed his car into a spot at the alley entrance, opened the envelope for a quick look, felt his heart sink, stuffed it back in without a word, and hid it in the center console drawer.

To avoid suspicion, he exaggerated his tone more than usual: “Sounds like you’ve run into a stalker!”

Getting out of the car, a sweet aroma hit his nose.

“Whoa, these roasted sweet potatoes smell amazing.”