Mike sat at his desk, half of his attention on the screen in front of him, the other half focused on the familiar hum of the basement. The dim light from the monitors illuminated his face, casting shadows across the room that seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as the music. His fingers moved instinctively over the controls, adjusting levels, shifting the mix, making sure everything was just right. The room smelled of cheap pizza and the remnants of an old can of soda — his usual fuel.

Chester was in the booth, his voice cutting through the static, raw and powerful. Mike had always admired the way Chester could transform any track, how his vocals could carry the weight of the world and still sound effortless. It was the kind of thing that made you stop and listen, even if you didn’t want to.

“Alright, Chester,” Mike called out, pressing talkback, barely looking up from the screen. “Let’s take it from the top. You know the part — give it some more grit this time, yeah? You’ve got it in you.”