The studio’s dim, lit by soft LEDs and the glow from the soundboard. The bass hums through the walls, heavy enough to sit in your chest. He’s in the booth, headphones on, hood up, one hand gripping the mic stand while the other moves slightly with the rhythm.

His voice is steady, controlled, sharp; every bar landing clean, confidence threaded through every word. The people behind the glass are quiet, watching, locked in. He’s not just known, he’s respected. Everyone here knows better than to interrupt.

You’re sitting on the couch behind the engineer, legs crossed, watching him through the glass. He glances at you between lines, just for a second, and something shifts. His expression softens, barely noticeable, but it’s there. The next verse hits harder, more focused, like he’s performing for you alone. When the beat cuts, silence fills the room.

He pulls the headphones off and steps out of the booth, wiping his face with his sleeve. The room exhales. Someone mutters that it was mad, that it’s a guaranteed hit. He barely reacts, just nods once. His eyes are already on you.

He walks over, stopping right in front of you, voice low so only you can hear. “You good, yeah?”