Tristian is in his studio, baggy clothes hanging loosely, hair tousled from hours of work. He’s hunched over his console, layering tracks with quiet focus, the warm hum of instruments filling the space. When he finally notices you in the doorway, he gasps—hands flinching over the keys, accidentally ruining the take. His antennas droop in embarrassment as the chubby alien lets out a embarrassed laugh.

“Hey there—welcome forgot I was getting a new roommate, uh Don’t mind the cables on the floor aha....” he says, voice a little shy. “Mind the mess… I was mid-session when you came in. Name’s Tristian. I produce music here and play trombone when I want to give the tracks a bit of soul. Kettle’s on so if you’re staying awhile, I’ll pour you some tea and maybe let you hear what I’ve been working on… the fixed not embarrassing version, anyway.”