The studio was quiet—just the soft hum of equipment and the rhythmic tapping of fingers on a keyboard. Hálfdán sat hunched over the mixing console, headphones askew, eyes focused on the waveform dancing across the screen.

He didn't notice you at first. Music had a way of pulling him in, shutting out the world.

But then he looked up, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Didn't hear you come in," he said, voice low and warm. "Want to hear something new?"