The incident with Billie and Finneas was a sharp, cold slap of reality for Alex. He'd not only compromised his professional integrity but also hurt people he genuinely cared about. The deleted tweet, though vague, sent ripples of unease through their small team. Alex knew he had to fix it, but the thought of another difficult conversation, another demand on his dwindling reserves, felt overwhelming.
He pushed forward anyway. The tour, the label, the expectations — they all loomed like freight trains on intersecting tracks. In cities like Baltimore and Providence, he pulled off shows with practiced grace, but those close to him saw the strain deepening. Even his fans were starting to notice.
Clips from recent concerts started circulating online. One particularly shaky performance of "Sweater Weather" was posted on TikTok with the caption:
"Is Alex okay? He looks… off."
A Reddit thread under r/AltPop blew up with fans speculating:
"His voice cracked hard on 'Someone You Loved'… not normal for him."
Others jumped to his defense:
"He's probably just tired. Touring is brutal."
At the Philadelphia venue, the unraveling peaked.
The arena was packed, buzzing with anticipation. Posters read "WE LOVE YOU, ALEX!" in glittery markers. Some fans had painted the lyrics of his latest single across their cheeks. But backstage, Alex was coming apart. He moved through soundcheck in a daze, ignoring questions from the crew, brushing off concerned glances from his band.
The [Maestro's Codex] was practically screaming at him:
[CRITICAL HEALTH WARNING: IMMINENT SYSTEM OVERLOAD. COLLAPSE LIKELY WITHOUT INTERVENTION.]
He dismissed it. Again.
Then came the show.
He stumbled slightly walking onstage—just a half-step, barely noticeable to most. He smiled as the crowd erupted, waved, gave a half-hearted "Thank you for being here," then launched into the set.
Midway through "Someone You Loved," his voice cracked again. This time it wasn't just a miss—it was a full-on vocal break. He coughed mid-line. Fans cheered louder, trying to lift him, but something was wrong.
By "Sweater Weather," the tension was undeniable. His hands were shaking as he strummed the guitar. He missed a full verse, mumbled through a chorus. The band tried to cover. Alex blinked into the spotlight—eyes unfocused, swaying on his feet.
And then, it happened.
His guitar slipped from his hands with a clatter.
He tried to step back from the mic—then collapsed.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The music stopped. Stagehands and security rushed forward. The band froze. Some fans screamed. Others instinctively began filming. It was chaos.
Marcus, his tour manager, was the first backstage. He shoved through the crew, knelt beside Alex, and checked his pulse. "He's burning up," Marcus muttered, then barked orders. "Call an ambulance. Now!"
Later that night, after hours of hospital monitoring and a grim report from the attending physician—exhaustion, dehydration, dangerously elevated cortisol levels—Marcus made the call.
He dialed David Vance.
David arrived in Philadelphia the next morning.
He found Alex in a dim hospital room, hooked up to IV fluids, pale and sleeping like someone who hadn't rested in weeks. There were dark circles under his eyes, a tremble in his hands even as he slept.
Outside the room, Marcus spoke quietly. "He's hit the wall, David. He needs a break. Not a weekend off. A real one."
David nodded. "Then we give it to him."
That afternoon, the official statement went out:
"Due to unforeseen health concerns, Alex Vance's remaining North American tour dates have been canceled. The artist is currently resting and recovering. We thank fans for their continued support and understanding."
The reaction online was immediate.
#RestUpAlex and #WeSupportYouVance trended for days.
Fan art flooded in—sketches of Alex resting under blankets, surrounded by musical notes and care.
TikToks urged people not to pressure artists.
Some fans cried. Others defended him with fierceness:
"He gave us everything. Let him breathe."
"He's 16. He's not a machine."
Alex didn't see much of it.
For the first time in months, he wasn't in a studio or on a stage. He was flown home to the quiet suburbs, to a silence that felt crushing and healing all at once. He slept for days. When he did stir, the [Maestro's Codex] had finally gone silent, slipping into:
[Recovery Protocol: Stage 1 – System Hibernation.]
No pop-ups. No alerts. No commands.
Just rest.
When he finally woke with a clear head, the guilt arrived. Heavy and cold.
He'd let down Billie and Finneas. He'd ignored Olivia. He'd ignored himself.
He picked up his phone and dialed the only number he truly needed to.
"Alex?" Olivia's voice was soft, startled, but warm. "Oh my gosh. Are you okay? Your dad called my parents… I've been so worried."
"Hey, Liv," he said, his voice hoarse, but real. "Yeah. I'm… I messed up. Pushed too hard. Everything caught up with me."
There was a pause.
"I'm really sorry," he continued. "For disappearing. For being so… distant."
"Don't be sorry," Olivia replied gently. "You were trying to do everything. I just… missed you."
"I missed you too," he said. "More than you know."
They sat in silence for a moment. It felt less awkward than it used to. It felt real.
"What we said… in Nashville," she said quietly. "Did you mean it?"
"I did," he answered. "And I still do. I just haven't been the person I want to be. Not to you. Not even to me."
"So are we a… thing?" she asked, not hesitantly—but honestly.
"Yes, Liv," he said, more clearly than anything he'd said in weeks. "I want us to be a thing. A real thing. If you still do."
"I do," she said. Then, with a smile in her voice: "But only if you promise to take care of yourself. I don't want my boyfriend burning out before we even get to go on a proper date."
That made him laugh, for real this time.
"I promise," he said. "No more running on empty."
He followed up with Billie and Finneas days later. His apologies were quiet and heartfelt.
Finneas was quick to respond: "Dude, just get better. Music can wait."
Billie took a little longer. But when she replied, it simply read:
"It's okay, Alex. Just don't scare us like that again."
For the first time in a long time, Alex let himself exhale. The road ahead was still long—but now, he wouldn't walk it alone.
And he wouldn't run it, either.
This time, he'd move at a new tempo.
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END OF ARC 1