Tycoon Actor C474

Lucas and Luis performed Despacito, the crowd swaying and singing along—especially during the English verses led by Lucas. As the final chorus echoed across the stadium, their voices blended into one last lingering note:

“Despacito…”

The word hung in the air, resonating like a soft thunder. Then—eruption. The crowd roared with such force it felt like the stadium itself shook.

Luis wiped sweat from his brow, breathless, eyes scanning the sea of applause and flashing lights. He grinned, heart full. “Thank you!” he shouted.

The cheers only got louder.

Beside him, Lucas watched with a faint smile, then glanced at the crowd. “You all made this unforgettable,” he said, voice low but steady into the mic. “Gracias.”

As the lights dimmed, the announcer teased a short break. Some in the audience began to rise—until the stagehands didn’t clear the set. A few murmured in confusion.

Backstage, Luis was already unfastening his mic when he noticed Lucas changing outfits. He was now surrounded by three others, each prepping instruments.

Luis raised a brow. “You’re going back out there?”

Lucas nodded, slipping on a new jacket. His smile was dry. “Apparently, one hit song isn’t enough tonight.”

Understanding flickered in Luis’s eyes. “Ah. Encore track?”

“Something like that,” Lucas said.

Luis patted his shoulder. “Well… I’ll be in the crowd cheering like a fanboy.”

Lucas smirked. “Appreciate it.”

Moments later, he walked back on stage—this time with three musicians in tow. One held a trumpet. Another took a seat behind the drums. A pianist readied his fingers. And Lucas, now holding a violin, stepped up to the mic.

A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd.

“Wait—he’s performing again?”

“What’s this one gonna be?”

Then the music began—plucks, keys, brass, percussion. A quirky yet emotional melody filled the air. And then Lucas sang.

“My grandpa fought in World War II, he was such a noble dude…”

The World’s Smallest Violin had begun.

On the YouTube Grammy livestream, the chat exploded:

“Wait, isn’t this the YouTube Rewind song?”

“HE’S DOING IT LIVE?!”

“Goosebumps. This version hits different.”

Back in the venue, artists turned their heads in surprise. Many hadn’t heard the song before—it wasn’t as viral as Despacito, and it had only been released recently.

But it was catchy. Sharp. Funny. And oddly heartfelt.

Bruno leaned back, impressed. Miley Cyrus bobbed her head. SZA leaned forward, squinting toward the stage.

“What song is this? Did he write this just for the Grammys?” she asked.

Someone beside her replied, “Nah, I think it’s from that YouTube thing he did—Rewind or something?”

“YouTube Rewind?” SZA repeated, puzzled.

A few others nearby nodded vaguely. They’d heard of YouTube, of course. But Rewind? That was new territory.

Still, it didn’t matter. The music was working its magic.

Lucas, with nothing but a mic and a violin, had the whole room in his hands—again.

At his seat, Bruno Mars was still. One hand rested under his chin, his head gently bobbing, eyes narrowed with curiosity.

‘Damn… did Lucas drop another song I don’t know about?’ he thought, feeling a flicker of disbelief. ‘The rhythm’s clever, the lyrics hit hard, and the vibe—God, it’s fresh. This isn’t just catchy… it’s honest. Weirdly uplifting, too.’

He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that crept up without permission.

Then came that part.

Lucas took a single stomp forward—deliberate, grounding the rhythm—and began the final rapid-fire verse. The tempo picked up with each line, like a storm gathering speed.

His voice was rich, almost theatrical at first:

“I’ll blow up into smithereens” 🎶
His eyes flicked to the audience, a flicker of fire behind them.

“And spew my tiny symphony” 🎶

“All up and down a city street” 🎶
Faster now. The band behind him synced up.

“While tryna put my mind at ease” 🎶
Lucas’s shoulders moved with the rhythm. Confession in motion.

“Like finishing this melody” 🎶
“This feels like a necessity” 🎶

The lights behind him pulsed—urgency mounting.

“So this could be the death of me” 🎶
He half-laughed into the mic. There was madness in his grace.

“Or maybe just a better me” 🎶
“Now, come in with the timpanis” 🎶
The drums exploded like fireworks.

“And take a shot of Hennessy” 🎶

He grinned wide, fully immersed, daring the crowd to follow.

“I know I’m not there mentally” 🎶
“But you could be the remedy” 🎶

He turned toward the camera. Direct. Intimate.

“So let me play my violin for you” 🎵
He raised the violin, not to play, but to bow—like a final punctuation mark.

Goosebumps.

Bruno felt them shoot up his arms. He laughed, rubbing his shoulders dramatically.

“Ho, ho! It’s chilly here!” he quipped with a grin, playing it off, but not hiding his admiration.

A few people near him laughed, nodding.

“He’s not wrong,” someone murmured. “That ending gave me actual chills.”

Another artist whispered, “What even was that song? It’s… incredible.”

---

In a cozy studio somewhere, Taylor Swift sat on a couch during a filming break, eyes fixed on the TV. Jimmy Fallon and a few others were gathered around, watching the Grammy broadcast. Lucas Knight’s performance had just wrapped.

“Gosh, this guy’s incredible,” Jimmy said, shaking his head with a soft chuckle.

Taylor leaned forward, still watching the screen. “The way he blends genres—it’s so inventive. Normally that kind of mix would be a mess, but he makes it work. It’s really impressive.”

Others in the room murmured in agreement, caught in the afterglow of the performance.

—

Back on the Grammy stage, Lucas stood before a roaring crowd, grinning as he gave a short wave. “Thank you, everyone. I appreciate the applause.”

The cheers were thunderous, echoing through the stadium—until he raised a hand and spoke again.

“I know some of you might be feeling a little threatened by that song,” he said with a teasing smile. “Don’t worry—it’s not eligible for this year’s Grammys. You won’t have to compete with it.”

Laughter rippled across the audience. His confidence, laced with humor, was infectious.

Lucas stepped forward. “Well, I should probably get going now. But hey—let me hear it if you’d want to see me perform again.”

He held out the mic toward the crowd.

“Encore!”

“Sing another one!”

“Lucas!”

The audience played along, voices rising in playful demand.

Lucas chuckled. “Want more?” He grinned. “Unfortunately, I gotta go. Otherwise, this wouldn’t be the Grammys anymore… it’d be a Lucas Knight concert.”

The crowd burst into laughter and applause.

With one final wave, Lucas left the stage and made his way back to his seat, sliding in next to Luis, who greeted him with a nod and an impressed smile.

Several artists nearby nodded at him. A few came up to congratulate him.

“That was insane, man.”

“Loved the arrangement.”

Lucas offered polite nods, exchanging a few brief words, but didn’t linger. The energy had begun to settle as the next segment of the ceremony resumed.

The announcer’s voice rang out.

“Up next—Best Pop Duo/Group Performance.”

The nominees flashed across the screen: Despacito, Thunder, Stay, and then—

“Make It Right.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t just any song. His gaze drifted across the room, landing on a group of Korean artists seated together—BTS, flanked by a familiar figure in a white helmet.

Marshmello.

A faint smile tugged at Lucas’s lips.

Across the room, Marshmello sat with the BTS members. Behind the mask, Christopher’s eyes briefly met Lucas’s. He gave a subtle nod, one Lucas returned.

‘This guy’s everywhere,’ Marshmello thought, suppressing a laugh. ‘Does he ever rest?’

Next to him, Namjoon leaned over. “Why isn’t Lucid here?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Our song’s nominated, and he doesn’t show. What could be more important than this?”

Marshmello’s gaze flicked back to Lucas. “Beats me,” he said dryly. “That guy’s weird. For all I know, he’s in some basement playing with wires.”

Namjoon chuckled, clueless that Lucid and Lucas were the same person.

Back on stage, the hosts prepared to announce the winner.

Tension crackled at the BTS table. Namjoon held his breath. He knew Despacito was the favorite—but still, part of him hoped for a surprise.

“And the Grammy goes to… Despacito!”

There were no gasps. No shocks. Just polite applause and a few resigned sighs.

Marshmello leaned back. “Guess I better bring something stronger next time,” he said, trying to lift the group’s spirits.

Lucas and Luis stepped onto the stage, basking in the applause. Though smiling, Lucas’s gaze briefly slid to BTS and Marshmello. ‘Hope they’re not too crushed,’ he thought.

As they reached the mic, Lucas gestured for Luis to speak first.

Luis, visibly emotional, took the mic and began in Spanish. When he finished, he turned to Lucas and smiled.

“I’m thankful to this guy right here. If Lucas hadn’t found me… this song might’ve stayed in the shadows.”

Lucas chuckled softly. ‘If you only knew...’ he thought, amused.

When the mic came to him, Lucas kept it short.

“Thank you for listening. Music speaks louder than words tonight.”

They lifted the trophy together and walked off stage—one moment closer to history.

The ceremony carried on—artists flowed on and off stage, accepting trophies, giving speeches, embracing the moment.

By the end of the night, Despacito had taken home Song of the Year, Record of the Year, and Best Pop Duo/Group. Three major wins.

All eyes were on Lucas and Luis. They had swept the night.

Luis was glowing—posing for photos, signing autographs, giving interviews. He looked like a man standing on top of the world.

Lucas, on the other hand, slipped away from the spotlight.

He headed to a private dressing room, changed out of his sleek red carpet attire, and into a casual jacket. Finally, he pulled on the familiar white mask of Lucid.

Minutes later, he was walking down a quiet corridor, searching—until he spotted them. BTS and Marshmello were gathered near one of the side exits, talking among themselves.

“Hey,” Lucas said casually, voice slightly muffled by the mask. “Am I late?”

Marshmello and Namjoon exchanged glances, then let out soft chuckles.

“No, no, you’re early,” Christopher said dryly. “Come on, let’s wait for the results together.”

Namjoon laughed. “Seriously, the Grammys are over, man. You missed everything.”

Lucas smiled beneath the mask. He’d made the effort to show up as Lucid for one reason only—to lift the mood. “Damn. I had a whole acceptance speech ready and everything.”

Christopher gave him a light slap on the shoulder. “Speech for what? We lost, man.”

“Lost, huh?” Lucas echoed, as if tasting the word. He didn’t sound disappointed—more amused by it.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem affected at all.”

Lucas chuckled behind the mask. “Not really. I don’t make music to win trophies. I make it so people nod their heads.”

Then he gestured toward the exit. “How about dinner? On me.”

Christopher blinked. “You got a lot of time on your hands, huh?”

Lucas didn’t answer. He just grinned beneath the mask.

Namjoon looked around. “By the way, where’s Lucas? I wanted to thank him personally.”

Christopher cleared his throat. “Maybe… try asking Lucid.”

Namjoon looked confused.

Lucas was fighting back a laugh. Juggling between being BTS’s temporary U.S. liaison and their masked collaborator had its challenges.

“Let’s just go,” he said, already walking ahead.

Later that night, Lucas treated BTS and Marshmello to a quiet dinner at a nearby restaurant. Namjoon offered to order for him, but Lucas declined. He couldn’t risk revealing his identity just yet.

The next morning, the Grammy buzz still hadn’t died down. La La Land quietly picked up three awards in the Visual Media categories—unsurprising, but well-deserved.

But the true shock of the night remained Despacito. Few believed the Recording Academy would ever give such recognition to a bilingual hit. And yet—three Grammys.

It was official. History had been made.