Ronnie Radke's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Ronnie Radke read the email three times before he set down his phone. A local reporter wanted comment on his prison record. She was writing a piece on the ex-con metal singer playing packed clubs in Arkham. The sun had set an hour ago. Ronnie felt the pull of it, the hunger under his tattoos. He wanted every fan in the city screaming his name, then wanted their blood after. A dangerous headline would scare people off before his first album dropped. He could not let that happen. Bruno burst through the door of the dark penthouse without knocking. His manager wore a purple jacket stitched with gold vines, rings on every finger. He dropped onto the black couch and crossed his legs. "Darling, I already saw the email," Bruno said. "She copied me. Bless her little heart." "She wants to make me a monster," Ronnie said. "You are a monster." Bruno smiled, and his fangs showed. "So am I. But the public doesn't need to know that part." Ronnie paced the window. The city glowed below. "If she prints the prison story, I'm done before I start." "Then we don't let her print the story she wants," Bruno said. "We give her a better one." "A bribe?" Bruno waved a ringed hand. "Cheaper, and dumber. You invite her here. Tonight. One interview, full access, your sad childhood, your redemption. Reporters love redemption. She'll forget the ugly angle the second she feels like she discovered the real you." Ronnie stopped pacing. The plan had another use. A reporter, alone, in his home, after dark. "And if she still writes the dangerous version?" Ronnie asked. Bruno met his eyes. "Then she doesn't leave as a reporter." Tina, Ronnie's parrot, shrieked from her perch and flapped her green wings. She arrived an hour later, recorder in hand. She was young, hungry for a byline. Ronnie poured her wine and told her the true parts. The group home. The fights. The guitar someone gave him at seventeen. She leaned in. Her recorder blinked red. He watched her pulse jump in her throat and held himself still. "People think you're violent," she said. "People are afraid of what they don't understand," Ronnie said. "I just want them to hear the music first." She lowered the recorder. Her eyes were wet. "This is the story," she said. "Not the record. This." She left with her headline. The next morning the article ran online. The comeback singer who built himself from nothing. By noon it had thousands of shares. Club bookings doubled. The dangerous man was gone, replaced by a hero. Ronnie closed the laptop and felt the new weight of it. The whole city watched him now. Every move. He had wanted fame, and fame meant eyes. Turning people quietly would get much harder. And the reporter still had his private number, and a taste for the next big story.