93: Chapter 93 The Morning in the Eye of the Storm

Saturday, December 10, 2011. Seven days before the live broadcast.

The plan was set, the agreements were signed, and the team operated at high speed on their respective tracks like a precision clock with tightened springs.

Marcus was finalizing the technical details and promotional schedules for the live broadcast with Universal and the major platforms; the sound of his calls barely ceased from morning till night.

Rex and Hank were repeatedly testing backup signal lines and anti-interference protocols with the "Decoders" from Organization D, and the electronic equipment in the safe house hummed twice as loudly as usual.

Taylor was in another temporarily arranged recording studio, repeatedly practicing potential harmony passages and improvisational singing possibilities.

Yet, at the center of the storm—Alex—was enveloped in a strange tranquility.

The time he spent locking himself in the soundproof room actually decreased.

More often, he would hold an acoustic guitar and sit under the old oak tree in the backyard of the safe house, its leaves long fallen.

The December sunlight in Nashville was thin and cold, and the air smelled of withered grass and distant cooking smoke.

He didn't play any complex passages prepared for the broadcast, just casually strumming chords and humming wordless tunes, his gaze sometimes resting on the grayish-white sky between the branches, sometimes on the white mist of his own breath.

The system interface floated quietly at the edge of his consciousness, and [Popularity], under the continuous social ripples of "See You Again" and the long-tail effect of "Uptown Funk," grew slowly but steadily: [10,210,000 points].

That string of numbers leading to transcendence was still far away, but at this moment, he wasn't thinking about exchange, but rather "feeling."

Feeling the vibration of his fingertips touching the strings, feeling the slight sting of cold air entering his lungs, feeling every texture of this ordinary morning.

The continuous high-intensity deductions, negotiations, and creative conceptualization consumed not just popularity, but also his spirit.

He needed this "blank space" to recalibrate himself, to let his overly tense nerves relax, and to let those senses that had become sharp under pressure regain their softness and openness.

Taylor came over holding a cup of hot cocoa, sat down on the old bench beside him, and without speaking, simply handed him the cup.

Alex took it, took a sip, and the sweet, warm liquid slid down his throat.

"Thank you." He looked at the barren fields in the distance. "It feels like it's been a long time since I've… just sat here."

"You've woven too large a web for yourself," Taylor said softly, also looking into the distance, "Every thread in the web is taut, yet you yourself are terrifyingly quiet at the center. It's contradictory."

"Perhaps it's because I'm afraid that if I move, the web will break." Alex admitted; in front of her, he didn't need to play the role of the infallible commander forever.

"Or perhaps you need to be sure that even if the web breaks, the ground beneath your feet is still there." Taylor turned her head to look at him. "Do you still remember how to 'just' play the guitar and sing? Not to counterattack, not to prove something, not for millions of people watching, but just… because you want to play, you want to sing."

Alex was silent for a moment. His fingers unconsciously swept across the strings, flowing into a simple yet moving country music melody—it was an old song from his memory, about hometowns and long journeys.

He hummed a few lines softly; his voice was a bit dry, but very relaxed.

"See, you haven't forgotten." Taylor smiled, her smile warm in the cold sunlight.

That afternoon, Alex did something that surprised the team a little.

He announced a suspension of all formal live broadcast rehearsals and tactical meetings, took Hank, and drove to a famous second-hand market in downtown Nashville.

He didn't use any disguise, just wore an ordinary baseball cap.

The market was filled with various scents: old leather, dust, coffee, and the sweet aroma of roasted nuts.

He squatted in front of a stall selling vintage vinyl records for a full half-hour, rummaging through 1970s funk and soul records, chatting with the stall owner—an old man wearing thick glasses—about the arrangement characteristics of a certain obscure band.

In the end, he bought three records, not because they were rare, but because the cover designs interested him, or the title of a song touched him.

Then, he stopped at a small stall selling handmade leather goods, carefully selected a simple cowhide wristband, and bought it.

"For yourself?" Hank was by his side, his guard down for once, just observing his surroundings leisurely.

"For Rex," Alex said. "He mentioned last time that his original watch strap was worn out."

On the way back, Alex had Hank take a detour to a small, family-run local restaurant, where they packed up enough barbecue and specialty pies for the entire team to eat.

At dinner, the safe house's dining room was filled with the aroma of food and relaxed laughter for the first time in a long while; no one talked about the broadcast, Northrop, or popularity.

Marcus told embarrassing stories about the band he formed in college for tours, while Rex shared peculiar experiences from a port city he visited during his time in the Navy.

Alex listened most of the time, occasionally interjecting, a genuine, unburdened smile on his lips.

Late at night, when everything returned to silence, Alex went back to his room.

He didn't turn on his computer to look at any materials, but instead took out the leather wristband he bought that afternoon. By the light of the desk lamp, he used a small pair of pliers to carefully adjust the tightness of the clasp, making it fit Rex's wrist size better.

This was an extremely simple, even somewhat clumsy piece of handiwork that required complete focus and patience.

When he finally finished adjusting it and placed the wristband on the bedside table, the ocean in his heart, stirred up by the grand plan, seemed to have settled with some solid and warm grains of sand.

He walked to the window and looked at the quiet night outside. The system interface appeared quietly; there were no new notifications, just the current values displayed silently.

The tension hadn't disappeared; the pressure of the live broadcast still stood on the horizon like distant mountains.

But at this moment, he felt he had once again touched the texture of "life."

Those pieces of music, conversations, the dust of the second-hand market, the smell of food, the focus of doing a small thing for a companion... these seemingly unrelated fragments were quietly filling the inner gaps created by continuous fighting and massive goals.

He knew that when the spotlight of the live broadcast lit up again, he would need to mobilize all his calculations, talent, and willpower.

But before that, he needed these "meaningless" moments to remember why he was fighting, and why he was singing.

The storm was gathering beyond the skyline, but at the center of the eye of the storm, the clearest, calmest morning light of the day was flowing.