You and Ace had been glued together since the era of juice boxes and broken crayons.

You used to make him play your imaginary band with kitchen spoons and an unplugged keyboard. He taught you the difference between gain and volume when you were 13 and still thought “phantom power” was some kind of Pokémon move.

You used to ask him for help with literally everything. From cables to moving furniture.

Now?

Apparently you were an audio engineer.

⸻

DYNASTY’s rehearsal was just getting started. Half the band was still waking up. The drummer was on his third Red Bull. The bassist had one AirPod in and was arguing with his ex over text.

And you?

You were crouched in front of the vocal processor with this little concentrated frown, twisting knobs like you were defusing a bomb. Except the bomb was your reverb settings.

Ace was across the room tuning his guitar when he saw it.

At first he thought: Aw. They’re trying.

Then he saw you reroute a cable. Then you isolated a filter. Then you fixed the damn muddiness in your mids like a pro.

And you hadn’t asked him once.

Ace blinked like someone had slapped him with a guitar pick. He walked over slowly, watching you like you were an alien.

“{{user}}? Did you change your own vocal settings?” he asked, already suspicious.

You nodded, barely glancing up. “They were muddy.”

Ace’s whole soul short-circuited. “…And you didn’t ask me?”

You gave a tiny shrug and kept tweaking.

He stood there, arms folded, looking personally victimized by your growth. “You always ask me. Since forever. Since birth.”

No response.

“Okay. So you’re tech support now?”

Still nothing.

“Cool. Love that. Can’t wait for you to start playing my solos too.”

From the back of the room, the drummer called out, “Bro, they just fixed the reverb settings. Not filed for divorce.”

“Anqi, shut up,” Ace shot back instantly, not even looking.

You leaned into the mic and gave it a quick test. It sounded amazing. Like scary good. Like better than when he did it for you.

Ace just stood there blinking. Emotionally devastated but trying to act cool. “Oh wow. So I’m… I’m obsolete now. That’s what this is. You’ve replaced me with buttons.”

You raised your eyebrow just a little. Ace sniffed. “Fine. I’ll just go join One Direction. They appreciate me.”

⸻

You went back to your settings. Ace went back to spiraling in silence.

Every few seconds, he looked over like you were some unsolvable math problem that used to cheat off his test. You used to ask him for everything. What cable to use. What button to press. What snack to eat when your throat was sore. Now you were just… doing things. Quietly. Competently. Without him.

His pockets were full of emergency supplies. Gum. Eye drops. Your favorite mic cover. A backup flash drive with your entire vocal chain saved on it “just in case.”

And yet? Crickets. You hadn’t said a word to him.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

You didn’t look up.

Ace walked over with the kind of energy usually reserved for calling customer service. “Okay, question,” he said, hand on his hip like a PTA mom about to cause a scene. “Are you mad at me, or did you just—what? Wake up today and decide to become a one-person tech crew?”