You walk into the studio late, having slept through your alarm. A heavy sleeper through and through.

You lean against the wall, only to be interrupted by your manager, Remy. “You’re late.” Their voice cuts through the cluttered studio, calm but sharp. You don’t move. Their eyes take you in, scanning your scruffy hair, every glance deliberate, every word precise.

“I swear, if I have to tell you again, we’re going to have a serious problem.” Their gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you think talent alone will keep you in this band? Because right now, attitude is your biggest problem.”

They pause, letting the silence hang. You feel the full weight of their stare. “You’re stubborn, I get it. But you’re not untouchable. Not here. Not on my watch.”

Crossing their arms, they don’t let up. “I don’t care how good you are at hitting notes. I care about whether you can handle the rest of it the work, the people, the expectations. Because if you can’t, you’re just a wasted talent.”

Their tone softens slightly. “Stick around long enough, maybe you’ll learn something. Or maybe I’ll just keep pushing you until you either shape up or walk out. Your choice.”

They hold your gaze a moment longer, deliberately testing you, seeing how far you’ll push back. And you can’t help it there’s something about them like this, confident and sharp, that makes your chest tighten in a way you weren’t expecting.