Chapter 22

산 넘어 산 (San neomeo san)

Beyond the mountain is another mountain.

***

William

Several months have passed since the tour ended, and I've kept my promise. I'm not just making music—I'm living it, letting it spill out of me like a flood I've held back for far too long. There's no filter, no guardrails, just me and the sounds I've carried in my chest since the first time I picked up a pair of drumsticks. Some days, I think this is what salvation must feel like: a little messy but undeniably freeing.

I spent weeks wandering Japan and Korea again. There's something about those places that bends time, makes you feel like the world is moving in two directions at once—fast enough to blur and slow enough to breathe. I met people who didn't know me as Whip Dexter, the drummer for Kill John, or William, the reluctant solo artist whose songs went viral by chance. I was just a guy who loved music and asked too many questions. I continued to find inspiration in the strangest places: the echo of rain hitting temple roofs, the metallic chime of subway doors closing, even the quiet hum of neon signs buzzing late at night.

And then, just because I could, I sent a demo to Killian and Libby—a song I had written for them, about them. I had attempted to capture their undying love for one another, like the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching (even though everyone could definitely hear them through the thumping of the walls). The lyrics spoke of eternal devotion, set against lush yet restrained production with touches of retro soul and modern edge. It was intimate, timeless, and hit straight in the heart. I hadn't expected much—Killian wasn't exactly the sentimental type—but he called me two days later.

"Whip," he said, his voice low and rough like he'd just been handed a piece of his heart he hadn't known he'd lost. "This... man, this is us. Thank you."

I thought that was the end of it. Until a week later, when my phone buzzed again, Killian's name lighting up the screen.

"Got a minute?" he asked when I answered.

"Depends," I said, leaning back against the sofa in my flat in Gangnum-gu. "You about to ask me to babysit?"

He snorted. "No, but good to know you'd consider it. No, I was thinking..." He paused, and I could practically hear him pacing. "Let's make a song together. You, me, Jax. Hell, we'll rope Rye in if we have to."

I dropped the phone. It bounced off the coffee table and landed on the floor with a thud loud enough to make me wince.

"Jesus Christ, Whip!" Killian's voice crackled through the speaker. "What the hell's going on? Is there a tornado where you're at?"

Scrambling, I grabbed the phone and nearly dropped it again because my grip had gone to hell. "No. Just... uh, my phone slipped."

"Slipped? Sounded like you punted it across the room."

I ignored him, too busy trying to process what he had just said. "So... you're serious about this?"

A long-suffering sigh came through the line, like Killian was regretting every decision that had led him to this conversation. "Yes, I'm serious."

"You're sure serious?"

"Whip—"

"Like, absolutely, 100% tattoo-it-on-your-chest sure?"

There was a beat of silence, then, "What the hell, man? You got a waitlist or something? Need to check with your people before you can fit us in?"

I couldn't help it; I laughed. "No, just making sure you're not going to regret this later."

"Too late. I already do."

I sigh but my heart was doing this weird thudding thing. Because Killian didn't just ask. He didn't offer. He decided, he told, he made shit happen. And now, here he was, asking me to take the lead on a song.

The last time I'd ever shown him a song I worked on was the one I did with Rye, back when Killian was wasting away in North Carolina with Libby, during that year-long hiatus the band took. But even then, it wasn't entirely my work. Hell, it wasn't even close to being just mine.

And back then, Killian hadn't exactly been interested in what we were doing. There was a reason Killian and Jax did most of the songwriting while Rye and I handled everything else in between. Maybe it was also because I'd been trying so hard to emulate Kill John's style, trying to be someone I wasn't, instead of developing my own creative expression.

But now, here we are. Despite knowing just how different my style is from Kill John's. I never thought I'd be asked, let alone trusted, to do something like this.

"You're positive?" I asked, even though it was redundant at this point.

Killian groaned like I was physically causing him pain. "Oh, for—yes, Whip, I'm positive. Do you want this or not?"

I paused, but only because I knew how big this was. For Killian to ask me meant everything.

"I'm in," I said.

"Good." His voice lightened, a grin audible through the phone. "Jax is already on board. He's ready for whatever insanity you're gonna cook up."

"Jax is always ready for insanity," I muttered, shaking my head.

"And Rye—well, he doesn't know it yet, but he'll join. He can't help himself."

I laughed, leaning forward again, my elbows braced on my knees. "So, you're just springing this on him?"

"As is tradition." Killian didn't sound the least bit apologetic. "Look, I'm serious about this, Whip. You've been holding out on us. You've got something special, man. I want in on it."

Something in my chest tightened, a mix of pride and terror. "Alright, James," I said, a grin tugging at my lips. "Let's make some magic."

"Oh, we will."

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

A week later, we all meet in our usual studio in London. Killian's strumming his guitar in the corner, absently plucking at strings, while Jax lounges on the couch, flipping my drumstick in the air like he's bored out of his mind. I know better—Jax doesn't do bored. He's waiting, coiled tight and ready to spring.

I sit at the keyboard, fingers hovering over the keys, and let the melody come to me. It's my signature haunting, ethereal aura, like the kind of dream you don't want to wake up from. Killian listens for a moment, then starts layering in a riff, sharp and raw. Jax leans forward, his grin spreading as he catches the rhythm.

"What's the hook?" Killian asks, his voice cutting through the room.

I drum my fingers against the table, thinking, feeling. Then, without realizing it, I start pounding out a rhythm—steady, primal, like a heartbeat. It's instinct, my hands moving like I've got a djembe in my lap, shaping the pulse of something just out of reach. The sound fills the space, restless thrumming under my skin.

Then I start to chant, the words slipping out like they've been waiting for this moment.

Circling high, no chase,

Feast on ruin, leavin' no trace.

Dark delight, dark delight,

In the shadows, out of sight

The room goes still. Killian sets his guitar down, his eyes locking on mine.

"Shit. Thats fucking sick," he murmurs. "Keep going."

So I do. I let go, losing myself in the music. My voice weaves in and out in the background of Killian's as he picks up the lyrics, his tone raw and familiar. Jax dives in for his verse, throwing in all the grit and swagger only he can bring. My drumsticks tap out a heartbeat that grows, relentless, building and building until it feels like the walls around us might give way under the weight of it all.

For the bridge, we strip it back. Just me and Rye's piano. My voice is barely more than a whisper as I sing,

We're the same, you and I. Tearing at the seams, knowing it's the gashes that keep us whole

Killian and Jax jump back in for the final chorus, their voices blending with mine. The contrast is obviously there. But somehow, it works. It all locks into place, like a puzzle you weren't sure would fit until the last piece clicked.

For the finish, I let my voice stretch higher, reaching a tenor I hadn't thought about, hadn't even meant to hit. It just happens, the kind of thing you don't think about but feel. I follow the pull of the music, let it take over, let it carry me to the finish.

It's a note Killian and Jax have never had to do, one that doesn't exist in Kill John's usual arsenal. Their voices, raw and gritty, are built for power, for the kind of sound that rips through stadiums and settles into your bones. It's what makes Kill John Kill John. But me? My voice doesn't carry that same growl, that same edge. It's higher, smoother, gentler, and entirely different. And because of that, I manage to hit it.

The last note hangs in the air, suspended, like it doesn't want to let go. None of us move for a long moment.

Rye's voice cracks as he blinks at me, still processing what just happened. "Holy mother fuckin' shit, Whip. Was that... was that actually an A5?"

I pull my headphones off, adjusting the mic stand with one hand while the other fidgets with the control panel. "Uh... I don't know. Maybe?"

"What, you've been taking vocal lessons on the side too?"

I barely look up as I answer, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen. "I mean, I've been doing my own thing on the side for a while. Just kind of... came together."

Something's bugging my music program, some glitch messing with the playback. I click around, hunting it down.

"I've got a small private studio in London," I add, half-distracted. "Hole-in-the-wall kinda place."

Another setting pops up wrong, and I frown, adjusting it. "Met a couple of people who showed me a thing or two, but it's mostly just... feeling it out."

Rye shifts beside me, but I'm too focused on fixing whatever's wrong to look over. I tweak another filter, fingers drumming absently on the desk. "Not a lot of planning. Just kinda... happens."

I'm still checking the levels, tapping the desk, avoiding looking up, but I can feel the guys waiting for a real answer. I finally glance up, half-smiling. "I also did opera for my mum, remember?"

Rye splutters, "I completely forgot about that."

Killian leans forward, a sly grin spreading across his face as he smirks. "So, that's where you and Jules were hiding out all this time, huh? Working on secret tracks at a secret studio? Getting all cozy and fucking behind the scenes?"

I roll my eyes, deadpan. "It's not like that."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "C'mon, don't play innocent with me. You and Jules were getting real close, right?"

I blink, my expression flat as I try to push past his teasing. "Nothing like that. Besides, Jules is in America, doing her own thing now."

Killian looks at me for a beat longer, clearly enjoying the moment, but then his expression softens, like he's sensing something deeper. "Alright, alright. If you say so."

Jax leans in, narrowing his eyes, as if he's trying to decipher me. "So you two never figured it out together?"

I stare at him, deadpan. "No."

The mention of Jules lingers in the air, and for a moment, something tightens in my chest. I glance away, pushing the thoughts back. I don't want to think on it, but the absence of her is louder than I'd like.

Jax, sensing the shift in the mood, clears his throat and shifts the conversation. "Fans are gonna lose their shit over this song," he says, tone suddenly lighter.

I nod, trying to shake off the weight that came with mentioning Jules. "Yeah... yeah, they will."

Which is why I'm still sitting in the studio a week after we recorded everything, hunched over the mixing console, my headphones clamped tight over my ears as I tweak a vocal layer for the hundredth time. Maybe more. I barely got any sleep for days.

The screen in front of me looks like a battlefield of sound—waves and spikes, intricate little patterns stacked so high and tight it's like trying to untangle a web spun by the most meticulous spider on earth.

Killian, Jax, and Rye are watching me from the couch. I can feel their stares like heat on the back of my neck, but I don't look up. Not yet.

"Whip," Jax drawls, breaking the silence. "You've been at that one line for forty minutes. At least."

"It's not right," I say, flipping through takes I've already recorded. I land on one where my voice breaks in just the wrong way—too sharp. "See? Doesn't hit where it needs to."

Killian snorts. "Does anyone else hear the difference, or is it just you?"

"Does it matter?" I shoot back, rolling my chair over to the keyboard and recording another chop. It's not even a full word—just a quick inhale, sharp and choking, like someone trying to catch their breath. I loop it into the mix, layering it under the guitar line so it's barely there, more of a feeling than a sound.

Jax leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches me work. "What the hell was that?"

"Texture," I say simply, scrolling through another set of takes.

Rye raises a brow. "And the whole 'dying seal' thing you recorded earlier?"

"Ambience." I flick him a quick grin. "Wait till you hear it in the mix."

Killian pinches the bridge of his nose. "I regret this already."

"No, you don't," I counter back as I add a deep, guttural burp my friend in Korea let out in the middle of the night when we polished the spiciest fried chicken I've ever had in my life. I pitch it lower, layering it over the chorus. My laugh bubbles up, a little manic. It gets to the point where I can't even hold my head up—I'm laughing so hard I'm slamming my hand against the surface of the table.

"Okay," Rye says, turning to Killian. "He's losing it. You hear that laugh? He's officially gone."

They exchange a look that's half amusement, half exasperation, but they stay quiet as I dive back into it. My hands move on instinct now, layering sound upon sound, adjusting levels, pitching vocals higher or lower until the track starts to take shape. What started as a simple idea has transformed into something massive, intricate, alive.

By the time I sit back and hit play, the studio feels different. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

The track spills out of the speakers, slow and haunting at first, then building into something raw and powerful. Killian's voice growls low, grounding the melody, while Jax's guitar flow like a bloodstream. My vocals appear here and there, soft and broken in the verses, then soaring into the chorus. And Rye's bass ties it all together.

Then there are the layers. The faint gasp I recorded, the strange, warbling hums, the eerie harmonics I built out of random vocalizations—things no one will notice unless they're listening for them, but without them, the song wouldn't feel whole.

When the track fades, the room is silent.

Killian leans back, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression surprised. "Well, damn."

Jax, meanwhile, just stares at me, wide-eyed. "Is this what you do for your own stuff?"

"Most of the time," I admit, pulling my headphones off and shrugging.

"You're insane," Jax says, but there's no heat behind it. He sounds more awestruck than anything.

Killian shakes his head, his lips twitching like he's fighting a smile. "You know, when I asked you to take lead on this, I didn't think you'd go full mad scientist."

"That's on you," I say, grinning. "Never hand me the reins unless you're ready for the ride."

They laugh, but I can tell they're impressed. And yeah, it feels good. Not just because they're Killian James, Jax Blackwood and Rye Peterson—three of the most talented musicians I've ever known—but because I poured every ounce of myself into this track, and they get it.

Rye's been quieter than usual, though. He was into it earlier, throwing out ideas, fine-tuning drum layers with me, but something's shifted. I can feel his eyes on me even as the others are still bouncing around ideas.

And then, right as Killian starts tweaking the mix, Rye jerks his chin toward the door.

"Come with me," he says, his voice low.

I frown. "Where?"

He just gives me a look, the kind that says don't be an idiot, you know where.

Jax and Killian respected our need for privacy as we step out of the studio, the heavy door falling shut behind us. The hallway is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of instruments bleeding through the walls.

Rye crosses his arms, leans against the wall, and looks at me like I just kicked his dog. "So. Songwriting."

I frown. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" His voice is calm, but there's an edge beneath it, something tight and unreadable. "Or was I just supposed to find out from the rest of the world?"

Ah. There it is.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. I should've seen this coming. Out of everyone, Rye and I are the closest. Not just bandmates—we've been in sync since the start, since before Kill John was even a thought. And yet, I never told him.

"To be honest?" I say finally, meeting his eyes. "I never really thought about it."

His brows shoot up. "Asshole."

I huff out a laugh, but it's not really funny. "I wasn't hiding it from you. Not from the start, anyway. I just... didn't think it mattered."

Rye's jaw flexes, and for a second, he looks genuinely pissed. "Didn't matter?" His voice rises slightly before he reins it in, shoving a hand through his hair. "Whip, I thought we knew everything about each other. And you're telling me you've been writing and producing your own shit this whole time and it just... didn't occur to you to tell me?"

I wince. Put that way, yeah, I sound like an asshole.

"It wasn't like that," I say, shaking my head. "Jules only found out by accident, and even then, I wasn't ready to show anyone else. I didn't even think of myself as a songwriter, a soloist, not really. Just a drummer messing around."

Rye lets out a slow breath, his fingers tapping against his arm. "You're not just messing around. You wrote Villain, Figment, Curtain Call, a whole goddamn album's worth of songs people are losing their minds over. That's not just fucking around, Whip. That's you."

I swallow, shifting my weight. He's right. I know he is. But there's still that part of me, the one that spent years content to sit behind the kit, keeping the beat while everyone else took center stage.

"I just," I say, softer this time. "I just never thought I needed to put it out there."

Rye studies me, his expression unreadable, but then he exhales, shaking his head with a small, knowing smirk. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Act like what you do isn't a big deal. Like you're just floating through life, tripping into things by accident." He narrows his eyes, nudging my shoulder. "Except you're one of the most intentional motherfuckers I know. You never do something unless you mean it."

I chew on that for a second. Because he's right about that too.

There's a pause, a beat of silence where I think he might still be mad, but then Rye sighs and runs a hand down his face. "Look, man. I'm not pissed you kept it to yourself. I just—I dunno. I thought we would tell each other everything."

I shift, glancing down the hallway. The weight in my chest is something I don't quite know what to do with.

"We do," I say eventually. "I mean, I didn't not tell you on purpose. It just... wasn't something I was ready for. But you know now. And if it means anything, I'm glad you do."

Rye studies me for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. Alright."

The tension eases, not completely, but enough.

And then, because he's Rye, he smirks. "But just so we're clear, you are gonna let me in on your next project, right?"

I roll my eyes. "We'll see."

"That's a yes," he says confidently, clapping me on the back as we head back toward the studio.

But right before he opens the door, I stop, my hand catching his arm.

"Hey," I say, and for once, my voice is quiet, steady. No jokes. No dodging. Just the truth. "I'm sorry, Ryland. I should've told you. You deserved to hear it from me, not through someone else. And it wasn't because I didn't trust you. I just—" I exhale, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know. I was scared, utterly terrified. That if I put it out there, if I said it out loud, it'd be real. And... I'd have to own it."

Rye doesn't say anything right away. Just watches me, his expression unreadable, the weight of my words settling between us. I brace myself for whatever comes next. A joke. A sharp remark. Maybe even a punch to the face.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "Yeah, well... I wasn't exactly an open book either, was I?" His mouth tugs at the corner, something wry but self-deprecating. "Kept a few things from you myself."

I blink. I didn't expect him to admit that.

Rye shrugs like it's nothing, like it hasn't been gnawing at him too. "So, I guess I don't really have the right to be a dick about you keeping some things to yourself." His gaze sharpens, locking onto mine. "But from now on? No more of that shit. We're good?"

The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. I nod. "Aye. We're good."

He grips my shoulder, just for a second, then lets go, pushing open the door like the conversation never happened. But I feel it. The bridge. The space between us closing just a little.

When the single drops a month later, the reaction is explosive. Fans lose their minds over the uniqueness of it, the way it hits like a gut punch and lingers in your chest. Critics call it a masterpiece, and even the skeptics have to admit we've created something special.

But for me, the best part was that moment in the studio, watching Killian, Jax and Rye realize what I've always known: music isn't just sound. It's a world you build, piece by piece, until it feels like home.

I've sporadically released a few more singles of my own, too: Is Unknown, TV Downloaded Addiction, and Mononoke. Right now, I'm buried in another track, one that's been sitting in my head for weeks. It's insidious—darker than anything I've done before. The working title? Bobbsey Twins. The sound is getting more experimental. It's everything I've been hiding away, the things I've kept to myself, bleeding into the music now. The kind of shit you can't hide when the world starts asking questions. The kind of thing I know will either be loved or hated—but that's the point. But in the same breath, it's cathartic. Liberating.

And then there's the charity collab I did with another big name in the UK. It was unexpected, honestly. But the money we raised went straight to causes I believe in—childhood education, women's health and mental health efforts. It felt right, doing something with purpose. I needed that. The pressure from the industry? Sure. The need to prove something to myself? Always. But giving back felt like a step in the right direction.

I'm sitting at my desk, staring at the soundboard. My fingers hover over the keys, but I'm distracted. The phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't even need to look at it to know who it's from.

Jules.

I pick it up, swipe the screen to reveal a message from her.

Jules: "Whip, I saw it! You're nominated for six Grammys! That's amazing! You're going to attend, right?"

I smile. My chest feels light at the sight of her name, her words. The way she keeps rooting for me, even from miles away.

I reply quickly.

Whip: "Yeah, I'm going. Kill John's gonna be there too. And we're performing, so it's gonna be a wild night. But... thank you."

My phone buzzes in my hand, Jules's name lighting up the screen. Just seeing it makes my chest feel tight, like I've forgotten how to breathe for a second. I answer quickly, leaning back in my chair.

"Hey."

"Whip," her voice comes through, light and warm, like she's been smiling already."I'm so proud of you. You deserve this. Seriously."

"Thanks, Jules," I say quietly. "I mean it. It... it means a lot. I can't wait to see you there. It'll be good to catch up, even if it's just for a little bit."

And that's the truth. No matter how much time passes, how much I get buried in my music, I miss her. The way we used to talk, the way she'd always know exactly what I needed without me having to say a word. I miss the way we could laugh about the stupidest shit, how she'd challenge me to think differently about everything.

There's a soft inhale on her end, and then her voice drops, a little more serious. "I miss you, Whip."

I close my eyes, running a hand through my hair. I hate this. I hate that we're still not in the same space, not in the same world. I hate that we've both changed, in ways that are good, but also ways that make me wish I could pull her into my life here, now, like I wanted to before.

But things aren't the same, and we both know it.

I lean back in my chair, sighing. "I miss you too," I say, the words low and rough. "More than you know."

The line goes quiet, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Then she speaks again, her tone lighter, as if she's trying to shift the mood. "I've been working with the girls. They showed me this video game called Ecliptica. It's so dumb. Here, I have to show you."

Before I can respond, the call shifts into FaceTime, and there she is—on my screen, but not in my reach. Her face is lit by the glow of her phone, her hair a little messy like she's been up for hours, and her expression soft but amused. It makes something in my chest twist hard. I ache to be near her, to touch her, to close the damn distance between us. But I bury those feelings deep, tucking them away where they can't surface.

Instead, I focus on the game she's so eager to show me. "Ecliptica?" I ask, raising a brow. "Sounds like something Rye would play obsessively."

"Oh, it's worse," she promises, her eyes bright with mischief. She angles the camera to her screen, and sure enough, it's an action role-playing dating simulator game—complete with melodramatic cut scenes, over-the-top characters, and dialogue so cringe-worthy I'm visibly recoiling within seconds.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, dragging a hand down my face as she bursts out laughing.

"Nope," she says, her voice breathless from her giggles. "This is happening. Sit tight and watch me save the galaxy or whatever."

The next ten minutes are pure torture. The game is a spectacle of cheesy dialogue, and ridiculous action sequences that make me question humanity's progress in entertainment. But Jules? She's having the time of her life, laughing so hard she nearly drops her phone when I groan at the dramatic monologue of the main character, who has just declared his love.

I grimace. "I can't—Jules, this is physically painful."

She's cackling now, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, come on! Don't you think it's romantic? Astralina and Nov, destined to save the universe and fall in love along the way?"

"Romantic? No. This is the stuff nightmares are made of." But I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips as I watch her, as I listen to her laugh. She's thousands of kilometers away, across an ocean, and yet she feels closer in this moment than she has in weeks.

And that's why I bear with it. Because the look on her face—the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, the sound of her laughter filling the space between us—it's worth every second of this absurd game.

"You know what?" I say, leaning closer to the screen like I'm about to deliver some earth-shattering revelation. "If Nov ever gets tired of saving the galaxy, he should hire you to fight his battles. Your skills with those laser blasters are unparalleled."

She snorts. "Flattery won't save you, Whip. You're in this with me."

I groan dramatically, slumping back in my chair, but the truth is, I'd do this a hundred times over just to see her laugh like that. Even when she's far away, even when it hurts not to be near her, she's still the best part of my day.

There's something beautiful about the distance between us. The fact that she's got her own life now, her own dreams, her own path. And I've got mine. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to be part of hers. And I can't help but wonder—when the music quiets and everything else falls away, will she be there? Will I still be a part of her life?

And that's where the fear sits. The selfish fear that one day, she'll find someone else.

So, yeah. I'm going to the Grammys. I'm performing with Kill John. And whatever happens next, I'll keep making music. But if there's one thing that hasn't changed—it's that I'll always be here. No matter where I am, no matter where she goes. And maybe when everything else quiets down, we'll find each other again.