“Are they brain-dead or what?” Yungblud’s voice tore through the café like a gunshot. The kind of question that wasn’t really a question — more like an explosion wrapped in sarcasm. His phone hit the table with a crack that made the barista flinch. “The ‘No Kings’ liberals — you know, the ones who screamed about freedom, rebellion, equality — they’re all applying for UK citizenship. You can’t make this up! A monarchy! The same system they swore they’d never bow to.”

The room went silent. His friend blinked, trying not to laugh. Yungblud leaned forward, eyes blazing with that kind of fury that only comes from disappointment — the kind that hurts because it used to believe. “They said no kings,” he muttered, almost to himself. “And now they’re crawling back to the land of crowns. What a joke. What a heartbreak.”

He wasn’t shouting anymore. His tone shifted — lower, heavier, almost like a confession he didn’t mean to make. “You know what’s worse than hypocrisy?” he said quietly. “It’s when people forget what they stood for. They burned their flags, cursed their leaders, preached about equality… and now they’re begging for the Queen’s leftovers.”

His friend sighed, swirling his coffee. “Maybe they’re just tired, mate. The world’s a mess.”

“Tired?” Yungblud snapped back. “We’re all tired! But you don’t run from your beliefs when they get uncomfortable. You fight. You scream. You stay bloody consistent.” His words cut through the air like a blade. “But these people? They’d sell their own ideals for a shiny passport and a spot of afternoon tea.”

He laughed again — this time, it wasn’t funny. It was the kind of laugh that hurts your throat. “They said, ‘No Kings.’ But look at them now. They’re kneeling. Begging. Pretending it’s progress.” He spat the word like it was poison. “Progress. My ass.”

There was a pause. Outside, the rain started to fall — soft, mocking, British rain. “You know what?” he said, almost whispering. “Maybe it’s not about politics anymore. Maybe it’s about belonging. People are desperate to belong to something, even if it’s a crown. Even if it means betraying the very thing they used to stand for.”

His friend nodded slowly. “That’s the saddest part, isn’t it? It’s not the hypocrisy. It’s the emptiness.”

Yungblud’s expression softened for a moment — just a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s like watching people set fire to their own integrity and calling it enlightenment.” He sat back, staring into the distance. “Maybe we all do it, in some way. Maybe we all bow to something eventually. Some people just choose prettier thrones.”

The café’s playlist shifted to one of his older songs — the one about rebellion and broken systems. The irony hit him like a brick. He smiled bitterly. “Maybe I wrote that for them. Or maybe I wrote it for myself.”

His friend raised an eyebrow. “You think anyone will listen?”

“Not really,” Yungblud said. “But I’ll scream anyway. Someone has to.”

He picked up his phone, the cracked screen reflecting his glare. The world outside kept spinning — headlines, hashtags, outrage. Somewhere, someone was posting ‘No Kings!’ again, probably from a London café.

And Yungblud couldn’t help but laugh — that dry, broken laugh that sounds a lot like truth.