Chapter 68: New Year in Silence
Thursday, December 31, 2015 – 11:30 PM
The outside world was at war with silence.
Through the walls of his rented canyon house, Michael could hear the distant echo of premature fireworks exploding over Los Angeles. He heard the distant roar of parties in the hills, the sound of an entire city preparing to scream in unison.
But inside his house, the air was still.
Michael sat in his chair, in the gloom of his professional studio. There were no lights on, save for the bluish glow of his Yamaha monitors and the small LEDs of his equipment, blinking like an artificial constellation.
His phone, left face down on the desk, vibrated every few seconds. "The Island" group chat was on fire.
Jake had sent him three blurry videos from a pool party at a house, shouting something unintelligible about "women and tequila." Sam was stuck at a family dinner, sending sarcastic memes about his drunk uncles. Leo and Nate were at a quiet gathering at Leo's house, listening to vinyls.
Everyone had invited him. Jake had begged him to come. "It's New Year's, Zombie! You have to celebrate! You're the king of the week!"
But Michael had declined.
"I'm tired," he told them. "I have to work."
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
After the sensory overload of the Observatory concert—the noise, the sweat, the screaming, the physical contact with a thousand people—his social battery was completely drained. He needed to recalibrate. He needed silence to process that his life, as he knew it, had changed forever.
He wasn't working intensely. Ableton was open, yes, but he wasn't creating anything new.
He had the 'Beamer Boy' project loaded. He hit play.
The Modest Mouse guitar sample, processed and melancholic, filled the room at low volume.
Michael closed his eyes, nodding his head slowly to the beat. He moved the mouse and adjusted the hi-hat volume one decibel down. Then he turned it back up. He wasn't mixing; he was meditating.
He let himself be carried away by the music, allowing himself a moment of pure reflection.
He thought about February. About the fifteen-year-old boy who woke up in a strange bed, terrified, orphaned, and alone in a wrong universe. He remembered the cold of his dead parents' house. He remembered the desperation of counting pennies to buy a toy microphone.
And now, he looked around. He had a twenty-thousand-dollar studio. He had half a million dollars in liquid assets and cryptocurrencies. He had a career. He had fans tattooing his lyrics.
He had gone from being a castaway to being the captain of the ship in just ten months.
He felt at peace. The loneliness of this night wasn't a punishment, as it had been on his birthday. Tonight, loneliness was a luxury. It was a choice.
He stopped the music. The silence returned, comfortable and heavy.
He looked at the clock on his computer. 11:35 PM.
Fifteen minutes left until 2015, the strangest and most painful year of his life, ended forever.
He felt strangely grateful to this cursed year. It had broken him, yes. But it had also rebuilt him into something stronger.
He decided he didn't want to spend the last few minutes in complete isolation. He wanted to share this moment of calm, not with the noise of a party, but with the only other "family" that understood his journey.
He picked up his phone. Opened Instagram.
It was time to say goodbye to the year.
Thursday, December 31, 2015 – 11:48 PM
Michael looked at his phone screen. Instagram was open. His thumb hovered over the camera icon.
He hadn't planned this. It was supposed to be a night of total disconnection. But the silence of the house, though peaceful, was starting to feel a little too heavy as midnight approached.
He realized he didn't want to be completely alone when the clock struck twelve. But he didn't want the fake noise of a party either.
He wanted to be with his people.
He pressed the button. "Go Live".
The screen flickered and showed his face illuminated by the blue light of the monitors. He was wearing his black hoodie, hair a bit messy. Behind him, the studio looked dark and professional.
"Checking connection..."
"You are live."
Almost instantly, the viewer counter started spinning.
It didn't stop. It seemed like all his fans—the sad kids, the insomniacs, the ones hiding in bathrooms during family dinners—were awake and online.
Michael leaned back in his chair, raising his coffee cup (which now had a splash of cheap whiskey) toward the camera.
"Happy New Year everyone," he said, his voice calm and deep. "If you're here, I guess you weren't invited to the party of the year either."
The chat exploded in a cascade of black hearts and crying emojis.
"MIKE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" "I'm hiding in my room, my uncles are fighting downstairs." "Thanks for going live, I felt lonely." "KING DEMIURGE!"
Michael smiled, reading the messages. "You are not alone," he said. "We are all here, in the digital void."
He turned toward his computer. "I was working on something. Nothing serious. Just... playing."
He pointed to the Ableton screen.
"Want to hear what 2016 sounds like?"
The chat became a blur of "YES" and "FIRE".
Michael hit the spacebar.
The instrumental of 'Beamer Boy' began to play.
It wasn't dark like 'Paris'. It wasn't ethereal like 'Drugs'. It was a half-time trap beat, with a grunge and nostalgic guitar riff repeating. It had an optimistic bounce, but with that undercurrent of melancholy that was his signature.
He let it play for thirty seconds, nodding his head to the rhythm.
'I wanna a Z3, that's a two-seater...'
He murmured over the beat, not really singing, just marking the flow.
He stopped the music.
"That's what's coming," he said, looking back at the camera. "It's called 'Beamer Boy'. It's for night driving."
The chat was analyzing the snippet instantly.
"Sounds different. More rock." "I need that song RN." "GENIUS!"
Michael took a sip of his drink and started answering questions flying by.
One comment repeated several times: "Where are the boys? Where is Jake?"
Michael laughed. "The gang is scattered. Jake... well, Jake is probably drunk in a ditch somewhere in the hills right now. Or winning a beer pong tournament. The others are surviving their families."
The connection with the chat felt intimate. It was a hundred thousand people, but it felt like he was talking to a friend in the dark.
It was the perfect party. No noise, no shoving. Just the tribe gathered around the digital fire.
Thursday, December 31, 2015 – 11:52 PM
The atmosphere in the live stream changed subtly. After the excitement for the new music and merch, the chat started filling with recent memories.
The fans who had been at the Saturday show, or who had seen the viral videos, started spamming the chat.
"THE OBSERVATORY WAS INSANE!" "I almost got my nose broken in the 'Paris' mosh pit!" "That jump! You flew, brother!" "When is the next show? Come to New York!" "CHICAGO!" "LONDON!"
Michael read the wall of text rising rapidly. He laughed, rubbing a hand over his neck, where he still felt a slight stiffness.
"Easy, easy," he said, leaning closer to his phone microphone. "Yes, there will be more shows. Definitely. My team... well, Karl, is on it. We are closing dates right now. I'll announce the schedule soon."
He took another sip of his coffee and whiskey mix. His expression became a bit more serious, but with a glint of humor in his eyes.
"But I'm going to be honest with you," he said, lowering his voice as if telling them a state secret. "The 26th was crazy. It was the best night of my life. I felt like Superman up there. Adrenaline is a very strong drug."
He paused, letting the chat react.
"But..." he continued, grimacing, "the next day I was dead. Literally."
The chat filled with skull and laughing emojis.
"I'm not joking. I woke up Sunday and couldn't speak. I was completely hoarse. I sounded like Batman with laryngitis."
Michael touched his chest, remembering the pain.
"And my body... God. I couldn't even get out of bed. Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt. My calves, my back... I think I dislocated a pinky toe and didn't even notice until Monday."
He leaned back in the chair, looking at the studio ceiling for a second.
"I realized something important," he said, looking back at the camera. "I'm sixteen, but I have the physical fitness of an eighty-year-old who smokes two packs a day."
He laughed at himself.
"I can't keep doing shows like that if I'm going to break every time. If I'm going to give you 100% on stage, if I'm going to jump off two-meter monitors... I need not to die the next day."
He raised his cup in an ironic toast.
"So... that's my big New Year's resolution. I need to exercise. I'm going to join a gym next week. I'm going to start running or something. I don't know. But I have to get in shape."
The chat erupted in a mix of support and affectionate teasing.
"GYM ARC!" "Mike is gonna get jacked!" "Don't become a fitness boy, you'll lose the sad vibe lol" "We need you strong for the tour!"
Michael read the comments, feeling a genuine warmth. They weren't judging him for admitting weakness. They were encouraging him.
"Don't worry," said Michael. "I'm not going to become a bodybuilder. I just want to be able to sing three songs in a row without needing an oxygen tank."
He looked at the clock in the corner of his screen.
11:55 PM.
Five minutes left.
The confession was over. The connection was made. It was time to say goodbye to the year.
Thursday, December 31, 2015 – 11:55 PM
Michael looked at the live viewer counter. There were still thousands of people connected, a community of insomniacs and loners hanging on his words.
"Okay, people," said Michael. "Five minutes left. Go hug someone, or your dog, or your pillow. Make noise, but take care. Thank you for this year."
He paused, looking at the camera with a sincerity he rarely showed.
"See you in 2016. It's going to be our year."
He cut the broadcast. His phone screen went black.
The silence returned to the house suddenly, as if someone had closed a heavy door against a storm.
Michael left the phone on the table. He sighed, releasing the tension of the social performance.
He turned off his MacBook monitor. The studio was left in gloom, illuminated only by the orange light of the street lamps entering through the window and the small LEDs of his equipment, blinking like eyes in the dark.
He opened his desk drawer. He took out his kit: the bag of weed, the grinder, and the papers.
With slow and ceremonial movements, he began to grind the flower. The metallic sound of the grinder was the only noise in the room.
He poured the contents into the paper. His fingers, which at the beginning of the year hurt from the guitar, were now agile and precise. He rolled the perfect joint, sealing it carefully.
He looked at the digital clock on his audio interface.
11:59 PM.
He got up and walked to the window. In the distance, over the Los Angeles skyline, he saw the first flash. A red rocket went up and exploded. Then a green one.
12:00 AM.
The distant rumble of fireworks and car horns arrived through the glass, a dull roar of alien celebration.
Michael put the joint in his mouth. He clicked his lighter. The flame illuminated his face for an instant.
He inhaled deeply. The hot smoke filled his lungs. He held it for a moment and then released it, a gray cloud that swirled against the cold window glass.
"Happy New Year," he whispered.
He went back to his desk, but didn't turn on the screen. He put on his Sennheiser headphones. He didn't want to analyze music. He didn't want to produce. He wanted to feel.
He connected his phone and searched his personal library.
He chose a song. It wasn't rap. It was 'Let It Happen' by Tame Impala, released that same year.
He hit play. The psychedelic synths and processed drums filled his head.
He leaned back in the chair, smoking in the dark, letting the music take him.
His mind, liberated by the weed and exhaustion, floated toward the future.
He thought of Ethereum. Of the 437,500 coins sleeping in his digital wallet. In 2016, the price would start to move. The long game was on.
He thought of 'Runaway'. The piano note resonated in his memory. Someday. Someday he would have the power to play it.
He thought of Harris, of Karl, of Leo, Sam, Nate, and Jake. His team. His army.
The song reached its rhythm change, that repetitive and scratched loop that sounded like a broken record.
'It's gonna feel so good...'
Michael closed his eyes. The gentle euphoria of the weed enveloped him, heavy and warm.
The year 2015 had been the year of survival. He had arrived broken, scared, and poor.
The year 2016 would be the year of conquest.
He finished the joint and left it in the ashtray. He took off the headphones, letting the music continue playing softly around his neck.
He got up, legs heavy but steady. He walked down the dark hallway to his room.
He didn't bother changing clothes. He collapsed onto the bed, dressed, sinking into the mattress.
The outside world kept screaming and celebrating. But in his room, there was peace.
He fell asleep instantly, dreamless, ready to wake up in the year the world would know his name.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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