As a brand-new morning greeted the island, Nadi International Airport buzzed with life.
Live audience members, family, friends, loved ones, artists—and, of course, the three beloved heads of Bread Music—all gathered together, filling the terminal with chatter, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes.
Flights heading home were already rolling out—fully paid for, naturally, by Foca himself.
One by one, the artists said their goodbyes. Tight hugs. Promises to call. Tears that came despite everyone insisting they'd just seen each other yesterday. Families and loved ones boarded flights back home, waving until they were out of sight.
As for Foca, Luca, Tuesday, and the artists—
They were New York–bound.
Once all the contracts had been officially signed, Foca wasted no time informing the artists that work was already lined up for them. Actual jobs. Real opportunities.
The excitement was instant—and explosive.
It was practically unheard of for rookies to have projects waiting for them right out the gate. But then again… this was Bread Music.
And when it came to Foca?
"Impossible" was more of a suggestion than a rule.
So when boarding time arrived, the artists nearly forgot how to breathe.
Parked right on the tarmac were two luxury private jets.
Jaws hit the damn floor.
One jet—sleek, understated, unmistakably expensive—was Foca's personal aircraft. That would be for him, Luca, and Tuesday.
The other?
Belonged to Jonathan—Foca's eldest brother.
And yes, he had happily lent it to his adorable little brother without a second thought.
Jonathan made sure everyone knew, of course.
He proudly announced to the family group chat that his jet had been chosen over the others—promptly igniting a very petty, very childish argument among the siblings.
For the sake of fairness—and facts—Jonathan had technically been half a second faster than the rest of the family in offering his jet.
So Foca, being the reasonable menace he was, took him up on it.
Watching the chaos unfold, Foca couldn't help but smile. His family's antics—the bickering, the competitiveness, the dramatic sulking—were oddly comforting. Endearing, even.
Thankfully, Leonor—his mother—never once entered the fray.
Because if she had?
Game over.
Every time.
No contest.
Foca would've picked his mom without hesitation, and everyone knew it.
Some battles simply weren't worth fighting.
****
The flight was long—but for the artists, it was anything but miserable.
Flying private had a way of doing that.
Plush seats. Endless snacks. Space to stretch, laugh, nap, and just exist without being herded like cattle. For them, the journey itself felt surreal—and very, very comfortable.
Foca, Luca, and Tuesday, on the other hand?
Comfortable, yes.
Relaxing?
Not even a little.
Work didn't bow to anyone. Not even to Foca.
It never had.
"If you want money, you work for it."
That was Vincent's voice—Foca's father—echoing in his head. A lesson drilled into him and his siblings early on.
Sure, the money he'd been given could last him several lifetimes. He could comfortably support his two best friends without ever lifting a finger.
But that was never the point.
There came a moment when Foca decided he didn't want to live off his family's legacy forever.
He wanted to earn his keep.
He wanted to be responsible for himself.
So while the artists laughed and lounged, Foca, Luca, and Tuesday worked—laptops open, schedules aligned, emails flying, already laying the groundwork for what was coming next.
By the time the long journey finally came to a smooth landing, the concrete jungle of New York City rose to greet them.
And New York did not waste a second.
The moment they arrived, everything moved fast.
They were swiftly guided through a private exit at JFK International Airport—away from the crowds, cameras, and chaos.
Waiting outside were sleek black vehicles.
Foca, Luca, and Tuesday stepped into a graphite-gray metallic Mercedes-Maybach S-Class—one of Foca's many cars.
The artists were divided into groups and ushered into two Mercedes V-Class vans.
Luxurious, yes—but understated. Quiet wealth. No screaming logos. Just comfort.
From there, the convoy rolled straight to their destination.
A five-star hotel.
One that just so happened to be owned by Foca's sister, Pearl.
She had once casually referred to it as a side gig—as if owning a global chain of luxury hotels was just a cute hobby.
Thus, Titania.
Named after the Queen of the Summer Court, exuding royalty, elegance, and unapologetic luxury. When people heard Titania, they thought of five-star hotels and resorts so refined that even the cheapest suite could cost an arm, a leg, and maybe your dignity.
The artists barely had time to take in the breathtaking interior—the marble, the lighting, the sheer grandeur—
Because the moment Foca stepped forward, hotel staff moved with military precision.
Key cards were already being handed out.
Efficient. Seamless. No fuss.
Foca instructed everyone to head to their rooms, unpack, and rest.
"You're going to need it," he said calmly.
It was already late by the time they finished settling in. After unpacking, a bit more awed staring, and some quiet disbelief, everyone ordered quick takeout—delivered straight to their rooms.
They ate. Freshened up.
And the moment their heads hit the cloud-like pillows?
Lights out.
Instantly knocked the hell out.
Tomorrow was coming—and it wasn't going to be gentle.
****
Everyone was woken up early the next morning.
Mercilessly early.
Especially for those who absolutely refused to rise with gentle encouragement and had to be dragged into consciousness kicking and grumbling.
After getting dressed, the artists grabbed a quick breakfast—no time to savor, just enough to survive—before being ushered into a conference room.
Foca was already there, calm and composed as ever. Luca and Tuesday had left early, off to meet potential clients, partners, and collaborators—doing what they did best.
Once everyone was seated, Foca began with a soft smile.
"Good morning, everyone!"
"Good morning!"
"Good morning, sir!"
The artists replied energetically—some more awake than others.
"Today is going to be a hectic day," Foca said gently. "So please bear with it to the best of your ability."
He glanced at his watch.
"I'll also have to step out shortly," he added apologetically. "But don't worry—your managers will be going over each of your schedules with you today."
And right on cue—
The double doors swung open dramatically.
"Sweet baby Jesus," Bobby breathed, eyes widening, "and the adult one too."
"Holy fuck," Nikola muttered, equally stunned.
"Salazar!" August shouted, practically vibrating with excitement as his manager stepped into the room.
Yes.
The vampire squad had arrived.
And this time, it wasn't just Salazar, Illiyana, and Seth.
Behind them came many more.
Men and women of different ethnicities, all impossibly beautiful, all clad in black suits—each design distinct, tailored to perfection. They looked like they'd stepped straight out of a vampire film… or that one iconic sci-fi classic[1] no one ever shuts up about.
As the squad flooded into the conference room, they moved with eerie grace—so smooth it looked less like walking and more like gliding.
The temperature in the room dropped at least five degrees.
Satisfied, Foca stood and gathered his things.
But before leaving, he paused and turned back.
"Oh—and Bobby?" he said casually. "You're coming with me."
Bobby froze.
Blink.
Blink.
"Oh—oof—YES—"
He scrambled out of his chair, nearly tripping over himself as he bolted after Foca.
The doors closed behind them.
And just like that—
The real work began.
[1] The Matrix