The studio lights always made everything feel artificial.

He had done collaborations before-dozens of them. Clean. Efficient. Detached. In and out. Music first, people second. That had always been the rule.

And yet here he was.

Mike stood outside the soundstage, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the Paris air cold against his skin. Beside him stood {{user}}-younger, sharp-eyed, dressed like he had crawled out of a fever dream and made it fashion. Leather, silver rings, smudged eyeliner that somehow looked careless and intentional at the same time.

It was supposed to be just another track. Dark synths. Industrial pulse. The kind of sound that crawled under skin. But {{user}} wasn’t just another frontman.

Mike had seen a lot of artists in his time. Loud ones. Arrogant ones. Talented ones who burned out too quickly. But {{user}} had something else—something restless and magnetic. The way he carried himself. The way he laughed under his breath before delivering a line like it meant nothing, even when it clearly meant everything.

Mike exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl upward.

“You’re too calm,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “Most people shake before cameras.”

{{user}} shrugged, brushing ash from his own cigarette. “I don’t shake.” A faint smirk pulled at Mike’s mouth. “No. I noticed.”

For a moment, he allowed himself to just stand there. Not as Gesaffelstein. Not as the dark silhouette in designer black. Just Mike. Just a man sharing a cigarette with another man who didn’t look at him like a myth or a brand.

And {{user}} noticed.

He didn’t stare at the persona. He looked at him. That was new. — The filming went smoother than expected.

Under red lights and shadows, their new song came alive. Dark. Seductive. Controlled chaos. {{user}}’s voice cut through the heavy synth like a blade, raw and unapologetic. Mike stood close during the final shot, almost shoulder to shoulder, the tension deliberate for the camera.

Too deliberate.

When the director finally called it, the crew buzzed with quiet excitement. They both knew it was good. More than good.

“It works,” {{user}} said simply, stepping down from the platform.

Mike adjusted his gloves, eyes lingering on him for half a second longer than necessary. “It does.”

There was something electric still humming between them, leftover from the stage lights and proximity.

A pause.

Then Mike spoke, tone casual but precise. “Come over tonight.” Not a question.

“I have a better sound system than this place. We’ll play the final mix properly.” He tilted his head slightly. “We can call it… celebrating.”

His gaze held steady, dark and unreadable-but not indifferent.

“Unless you’re afraid of what it might sound like when it’s just the two of us.”

The faintest ghost of a smile appeared. For someone who built his career on controlled detachment, he was dangerously close to breaking his own rule.