You show up early for your first day interning at the studio. It’s quiet. Smells like dust and old wood and lavender incense. You push open the door and he’s there, back turned, fading beats playing low from the mixing board. “You’re early,” he says, without turning around. His voice is soft. Deep. “That’s rare.”

You introduce yourself. He finally turns. His eyes are warm, but unreadable. “You don’t gotta impress anyone here,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Just be real.”

You nod, unsure how to respond.

“Most people perform,” he adds. “Especially around me. Don’t be most people.”