Once Louie had finished signing — with a signature that was, unmistakably, deeply, unapologetically Italian in its dramatic flourish and general commitment to making a statement on paper — everything was officially, legally, completely settled.
Contracts signed. Terms understood. At least on Louie's side. Mikko's side had been handled in approximately thirty seconds with a smiley face and zero regrets, and we have all made our peace with that.
The 4 of Scones — all six of them, because the math was the math and nobody was addressing it yet — migrated to the lush velvet couches and settled in with the comfortable ease of people who had just been through something and were ready for whatever came next.
Nikola looked around the group.
Then raised his hand with the energy of a man who had been sitting on a very valid, very specific observation and could no longer in good conscience keep it to himself.
"So are we still called 4 of Scones," he said, "when we now have six members?"
Every head turned to Foca.
Because yes. The math. The math was not mathing. The math had not mathed from the moment the second contract was signed and nobody had said anything about it until right now.
"The name stays," Foca said, with the calm simplicity of a man who had already thought about this and arrived somewhere comfortable. "It's been trademarked already."
Which was, objectively, a completely valid answer.
The awkward arithmetic of it, however, remained present in the room. Acknowledged by everyone. Addressed by nobody further. Sometimes you just live with the math.
"Now," Foca said, and the warmth in his voice stayed exactly where it always was — but underneath it, something with weight. The kind of tone that politely but very clearly communicated that full attention was the only acceptable response, unless someone wanted to be personally yeeted into the Mariana Trench or deposited in the Bermuda Triangle, neither of which were on anyone's agenda today.
Hyouka moved.
Sheet music, distributed. One to each member, efficient and unhurried, landing in six sets of hands simultaneously.
Everyone looked down.
Healthy Ego.
That was the title.
And before the moment had even fully settled — Nox was already reading. Already humming, low and quiet, his eyes tracking the notation with the focused ease of someone for whom this had long since stopped being a task and simply become instinct. The others weren't far behind — each one moving through the music in their own way, the months of LEAVEN training having quietly, permanently rewired them all into people who could pick up sheet music and hear it without needing to be told to.
The room filled with the soft, overlapping sounds of six people discovering a song for the first time.
"Damn, boss man," Nikola said, looking up at Foca with a smirk that said everything his words were about to confirm. "You really cooked with this one."
"Thank you, Nikola," Foca said. "I agree, actually. This song is one of the ones that sits closest to my heart."
"I love that it's giving self love and self awareness," Louie said, still looking at the sheet music, turning a page with the careful hands of someone treating it like something worth respecting. "But it's not soft about it. It oozes confidence. It's bold." He looked up. "And it's not every day that a group of guys gets to stand on a stage and sing about loving themselves, being secure in who they are — without getting immediately branded as cocky or a pretentious ass for it."
The nods around the group were immediate and genuine.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The world had a complicated relationship with men expressing confidence without aggression, self-love without performance, security without posturing. It was a tightrope. And this song — from the first pass through it — felt like it had been written by someone who understood exactly where that line was and had drawn something beautiful right along the edge of it.
"So," Mikko said, looking up with that particular brightness in his eyes that meant his brain had fully engaged and had things to say, "when do we start?"
****
"There's a whole section with no lyrics," Isaac said, brow furrowing slightly as he turned a page, finger tracing the blank staff lines with the careful attention of someone who noticed things and said so.
"That's the rap section," Foca said. "I'll be honest — rap writing is not where my strengths live. So I'd rather let the people who actually know what they're doing create those verses themselves. And I happen to know that most of you are very well versed in writing them."
"IT'S MY TIME," Mikko said, sitting up with the sudden, blazing energy of a man whose moment had arrived. "Finally. FINALLY. The world gets to witness my poetic side—"
"Okay, Shakespeare," Leo said. "Settle."
"I will not settle, Leo, this is my DESTINY—"
"Mikko."
"...Settling."
Nox, who had been reading through the sheet music with his characteristic quiet focus, looked up.
"Sir — may I ask why you chose to give this to us specifically?" His voice was measured, genuine. "From the lyrics alone, I can tell this song is something personal. Something significant. You clearly want it performed — but the question is where. And why us."
"Good question," Foca said. And meant it.
He set his tea down.
"I wrote this song with my eldest brother in mind," he said. "Every line of it. It depicts who he is — what he believes about himself, about confidence, about moving through the world with your head exactly where it belongs." He looked around the group, unhurried. "I gave it to you six because I couldn't think of anyone who embodies what this song is saying more than you do. Collectively. Individually. You fit it."
The silence that followed was the warm kind.
Because that landed somewhere real in all six of them — the specific weight of being looked at by someone whose opinion carried genuine meaning, and being told you are the right ones for this. It did something to a person's chest. Hit them straight in the feels, every single one of them, without exception.
"My brother and his wife are celebrating their wedding anniversary," Foca continued. "Their annual celebration banquet. And that is where you will perform this song. In front of his family, his guests, his world." A pause. "In front of the person who inspired it into existence."
The weight settled a little heavier.
Not in a way that crushed. In a way that clarified.
This wasn't just a performance. This was Foca handing them something he'd built from somewhere personal, trusting them to carry it into a room full of the people who mattered most to him, and deliver it to the man who had lived it.
Tall order didn't even begin to cover it.
"Boss man," Nikola said, the smirk settling into something more genuine underneath, "that is one hell of a tall order. But you came to exactly the right guys."
"The fucker is absolutely right," Mikko said, nodding with full conviction. "Sir, with respect, you could not have picked a more perfect six people for this. We've got you."
"We will make sure you are not disappointed," Isaac said, and the directness of it made it land clean and solid. No performance. Just a promise.
"We will make you proud," Nox said simply.
Which was, from Nox, everything.
Foca's smile arrived the way it always did — quietly, completely, without announcement.
"I don't think I was mistaken," he said.
"Facts," Leo said, with a smirk that was trying very hard not to be as pleased as it was and failing entirely.
"Now," Foca said, "rehearsals begin this afternoon. Until then — learn the song. Write your rap verses. And—" he paused, "—I'll be overseeing the process. All of it. Vocals, music production, choreography, arrangement. Everything."
The four OG members of 4 of Scones went still.
Simultaneously. Quietly. The specific stillness of people whose bodies had just remembered something their minds had briefly managed to set aside — the particular, precise, deeply personal experience of Foca overseeing a rehearsal. The Golden Disk preparation living freshly in the muscle memory of all four of them.
Nikola. Nox. Leo. Isaac.
All four: slightly rigid. Eyes forward. The look of soldiers who had been through a campaign and knew what the terrain ahead held.
Mikko and Louie, sitting beside them, had the bright, open, completely unguarded expressions of people who were excited and had absolutely no idea what was coming.
The innocence on their faces was, honestly, beautiful.
It would not survive contact with a Foca rehearsal.
But for now — it was beautiful.
****
After the meeting, the six of them migrated to an available studio and got to work.
The sheet music was spread out. Phones were out. Someone had already pulled up a notes app. The particular focused energy of creative people in a room with a problem to solve settled over everything like a comfortable coat.
"I'm not too familiar with Mikko yet," Leo started, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "but Nikola and Nox — I know you two can write a mean verse. So what are we thinking for the rap section?"
"Mikko can absolutely write bars," Nikola confirmed, with the easy certainty of someone vouching for someone they knew completely. "But for this specific song — the way it's structured — I think we should be leaning more toward rap singing. Melodic. Borderline melodic rap in some sections. Not hardcore, not aggressive. More pop-centric." He turned. "What do you think?"
Nox, who had not stopped studying the sheet music since it landed in his hands, looked up.
"I agree. It's melody-based rather than rhythm-based — the song is asking for that." He tapped a section of the page. "And honestly? Rap singing is going to help us not come across as pompous asses while singing about male self-love. Which is already a tightrope we're walking."
"It softens the attitude," Louie said, nodding slowly. "Straight hard rap on a song about confidence and self-worth risks flipping into something that sounds arrogant rather than secure. We need the balance." He looked around. "Confidence without asshole. That's the target."
Universal nods. No debate. Everyone in the room understood the distinction intuitively.
The brainstorming hummed forward.
And then —
"Umm."
Isaac. Quiet. Looking at the sheet music with a slightly uncertain expression that was doing battle with something more determined underneath it.
"Would you guys mind... if I wrote a section? Just a small part — the final bit of the first rap section. The melody and structure of it is speaking to me and I—" He stopped himself. Started again. "I've never written lyrics before. Much less for a rap section. So I know it won't be perfect. But if it's okay with you guys, I'd like to try."
The room took approximately one second to respond.
"Dude — yes, obviously!" Nikola said, and the genuine surprise and warmth in his voice were equal parts. Because Isaac volunteering. Isaac stepping forward, unprompted, to take on something new and uncomfortable and creative — that was not a small thing. That was Isaac growing in real time and choosing to do it out loud. "What are you even asking for, of course you can!"
"If it doesn't land," Mikko said, practically, "we work on it until it does. That's literally just the process."
"I'm glad you volunteered," Nox said, and the quiet pride in his voice was the specific kind that comes from watching someone you care about choose to stretch themselves. The big brother energy, fully present and completely there.
"See," Nikola said, pointing at Nox, "even the leader is on board."
"T-thanks, guys," Isaac said, the blush arriving on schedule, warm and genuine. "I'll do my best."
The words landed with that specific Alabama sincerity that meant exactly what they said and nothing less.
"Wait."
Leo's head came up.
"Hold on. Hold the actual fuck up." He looked at Nikola. "Why is Nox suddenly the leader? When was this decided? Who voted? Was there a meeting? Did someone send a memo? Because I did not receive a memo—"
"Leo," Nikola said, with the patient exasperation of someone delivering news to a person who had been elsewhere when it happened, "this was decided a long time ago. While you were busy completing your side quests, Sir Foca appointed Nox as group leader."
Leo stared at him.
The information landing. Processing. Being checked against the available internal evidence and finding no counter-argument because there genuinely wasn't one.
"Leo," Louie said carefully, testing the waters, "I think maybe it might be worth... slightly reducing the gaming hours?"
Leo turned to look at him with the slow, deliberate attention of someone who had just heard something that required a response.
"Did you just," Leo said, "essentially ask me to die?"
"I—" Louie raised both hands immediately. "No. Absolutely not. I was merely offering the perspective of a concerned friend. Two cents. Unsolicited. I take them back completely."
"Smart."
"Very smart."
"Extremely smart."
Nox had already gone back to the sheet music.
Mikko was scribbling something in the margin that may or may not have been rap lyrics and may or may not have included a doodle of himself.
Isaac was quietly, carefully, writing something in his notes app with the focused brow-knit of a person taking something seriously for the first time.
And the brainstorming continued.