Li Mu might've been an amateur musician in his past life, but decades of obsessive fandom had honed his ear. Most garage bands at least tried to carve an identity. These rich kids? They were glorified karaoke machines with price tags.
"Advice?" He shrugged at Zhang Kexuan's defensive glare. "Pick a lane. Punk? Grunge? Blues? Commit. Or just play weddings—your gear's shiny enough for bridezillas."
The drummer bristled, cymbal stands rattling. "Says the kid with one fucking song!"
Li Mu eyed the untouched $10,000 crash cymbals. "You're like a chef with truffles serving instant noodles."
In the Booth
The Martin D-28's rosewood hummed under Li Mu's fingers. Zebra, Zebra's opening arpeggio spilled through monitors, raw and haunting.
Zhang's smirk died at the first verse:
"Zebra, zebra, don't close your eyes
Let me trace the scars you hide
Your city's gates won't open for me
So I wander these borrowed streets…"
By the bridge, the bassist's jaw hung slack. The drummer—Mr. Five-Unused-Cymbals—stared at his sticks like they'd betrayed him.
Playback
Static crackled as the track ended. Chen Wan dabbed her eyes. Zhang's throat bobbed, memories of his own cringe-worthy Mom, Take Me Home lyrics resurfacing—the song his mother had roasted as "rich boy whining."
"Demo's done." Li Mu unplugged the Martin. "Burn it raw. No polish needed."
Zhang blocked the exit. "You… got more?"
The question hung—a white flag from royalty to street busker.
Li Mu grinned. "Depends. You buying tracks or humility?"