The moment Dayo handed the accordion back to the street performer, people moved toward him almost immediately, surrounding him with excited voices and flashing phones.

"Oh my God, that was amazing! What's the name of the song?"

"Yeah, I've never heard anything like that before."

"Is the song yours?"

Dayo nodded.

That simple response stunned them. Everything about the song had been flawless—the melody, the control, the emotion. His pronunciation was perfect. His intonation felt natural.

Then someone asked the question everyone was thinking.

"Are you from around here?" a man asked.

Dayo shook his head. "No. I'm from the United States."

Several people frowned in disbelief.

And who could blame them? Nothing about his voice sounded American. The way he sang in French felt native, effortless, like someone born into the language. It was only natural that many doubted him.

They continued asking questions—who he was, whether he was an artist. Dayo answered patiently, even pulling out his phone to play a few tracks from his album.

Recognition came instantly.

"I know this voice!"

"I've heard these songs before!"

"I didn't recognize his face!"

Soon, people were asking for pictures and autographs. Dayo took his time with everyone, signing, smiling, posing for photos.

The reason was simple.

The more fans he had, the better.

After a while, he said his goodbyes to the women he had met earlier. They apologized repeatedly, saying they hadn't expected his singing to cause so much chaos.

Dayo only smiled and waved it off. "It's fine."

After a beautiful but exhausting day, the family of five finally went to bed.

****

While Dayo slept, a small corner of the Paris internet exploded.

Videos from the Eiffel Tower—clips of him singing—spread rapidly.

Reactions poured in.

Not just because of the song, but because of how he sang it.

The comments flooded in.

"Who is this guy?"

"I haven't heard a French love song this beautiful since the '90s."

"Wait, isn't that the guy who received the Olympic Order a few days ago?"

"An athlete can sing like this?"

"LOL, he's not just an athlete. That's JD—the American musician who released The Other Side."

"Let me explain something to you all. JD is both an athlete and a musician. Not just any athlete—he's highly decorated. Same with music. His album sold over 11 million copies four years ago."

"He's that impressive?"

"This has to be AI. How does an American sing French better than us? @Sergio @Elena do something about this."

"This love song hit deep."

"He should do a Paris tour."

"Support."

"Support."

"Support."

"It's confirmed JD is leaving Paris tomorrow 😢"

"Nooo @JD don't leave!"

"I'm going to the airport tomorrow."

People dug into everything about Dayo—and the more they found, the more amazed they became.

****

Dayo and his family woke up early for their flight.

The hotel departure was quiet, but the moment they arrived at the airport, Dayo sensed something was off.

People were standing near the terminal entrance.

Not a crowd.

But enough to be noticeable.

Around thirty people.

Some held phones. Others held small banners.

Dayo slowed his steps.

"Hm?" he muttered.

Then he saw the words.

Handwritten banners.

JD.

Merci pour la musique.

Reviens à Paris.

The moment recognition hit him, voices followed.

"Dayo!"

"Jason Dayo!"

They were speaking French—fast, excited, overlapping.

One woman stepped forward, waving.

"Pourquoi tu ne l'as pas fait avant?" she said, half laughing, half emotional.

Another added, "On ne savait pas que tu pouvais chanter comme ça."

Dayo paused.

His mind clicked.

The video.

The Eiffel Tower.

The song.

He finally understood.

They weren't cheering the Olympic medals.

They were cheering that night.

A young man raised his phone. "On t'a vu hier. À la tour Eiffel. C'était magnifique."

Dayo swallowed.

For a moment, he forgot the airport. Forgot the flight. Forgot everything.

He smiled—small, genuine—and lifted his hand in a quiet wave.

"Merci," he said softly.

That was all.

But it was enough.

The fans clapped, some laughing, some emotional, some just happy they got to see him once more before he left.

As security signaled it was time to move, Dayo turned back briefly and bowed his head.

A simple gesture.

But one that made the moment linger.

As they walked away, Jeffery leaned closer and whispered, grinning,

"Bro… you're really charming Paris."

Janet giggled. "You're collecting countries now."

Their mother shook her head, amused. "First medals, now hearts."

Dayo laughed quietly. "You people should stop."

But even he couldn't hide the warmth in his chest.

They boarded the plane shortly after.

Paris faded behind them.

******

The moment he stepped out of the terminal, it was obvious what awaited him.

Cameras.

Microphones.

Reporters.

Security moved quickly, forming a clear path, but voices still rang out.

"Dayo!"

"Congratulations on the Olympics!"

"Three gold medals in your first appearance!"

Some reporters tried to rush him. Others stood back, observing.

Dayo stopped walking.

"I've said this before," he said calmly. "If you rush me, I won't answer properly. Let's do this the right way."

That alone slowed everyone down.

A senior reporter stepped forward.

"Dayo, how does it feel winning three Olympic gold medals in your first Olympic appearance?"

Dayo nodded. "Honestly, it still feels unreal. I came to compete, not to rewrite history. I'm grateful."

Another question followed.

"You swept the 50m, 100m, and 200m freestyle—something no one has ever done. Did you believe it was possible?"

"I believed in preparation," Dayo replied. "I focused on each race, not history."

A third reporter raised her microphone.

"You also played a role in restructuring the swimming team. The team achieved its highest medal count ever. How does that make you feel?"

Dayo took a breath. "Proud. This wasn't about me alone. Everyone worked hard."

Then came the sensitive question.

A younger reporter spoke carefully.

"There are still people online accusing you of using performance-enhancing drugs. What do you say to them?"

Dayo's expression didn't change.

"I won't spend long on this," he said. "I was tested before the Olympic trials. I was tested during the Olympics. Immediately after my third race, my blood and urine were taken. Everything came back clean."

He paused.

"So if this question still exists, some people simply aren't paying attention."

Another reporter stepped forward.

"Some critics say you don't deserve the Olympic Order. How do you respond?"

Dayo gave a small shrug.

"I didn't award it to myself. I competed. I supported my team. I achieved something unprecedented. Anyone with an issue should speak to the committee, not me."

One final question came in.

"What's next for you—more swimming or music?"

Dayo smiled faintly. "Rest, first. Then we'll see."

He raised his hand slightly. "That's all for today. Thank you."

Security guided him away.

***

Inside the car, his family finally relaxed.

His father shook his head. "You handled that well."

Dayo leaned back in his seat. "I'm just glad it's over."

The car pulled away from the airport.

Home was waiting.

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