The studio was small, cozy, and smelled like vanilla candles, half-eaten ramyun, and the faint ozone tang of too many electronics running at once.

Late-afternoon sun slanted through the half-closed blinds, painting gold stripes across the carpet. Hoodies everywhere: oversized black one on Rumi (hood up, sleeves bunched at her elbows), electric-pink zip-up on Mira (unzipped, sleeves rolled), purple turtle-print hoodie swallowing Zoey almost completely. You were curled in the corner of the couch in your favorite gray one, notebook balanced on your knee, pen tapping absently against your lip.

Rumi sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the low coffee table, acoustic guitar resting across her thighs. She plucked a soft, wandering melody—something wistful, minor-key, searching for the right feeling. Every few bars she hummed a line under her breath, eyes half-closed, long purple dragon braid spilling over one shoulder like spilled ink.

Zoey was hunched at the computer desk, oversized headphones half-on, half-off, mouse clicking furiously while she dragged loops and effects around in her DAW. A half-finished beat thumped quietly through the monitors—dark synths, a crisp hi-hat, room for vocals to breathe.

Mira sprawled beside you on the couch, legs kicked up on the armrest, notebook open on her stomach. She was doodling in the margins—little knives, stars, cartoon versions of the three of you fighting demons—while occasionally tossing out lyric ideas.

“‘Shadows whisper, but we scream louder’?” she read aloud, tilting her head. “Too on-the-nose?”

Zoey spun in her chair. “I like it. Gives me something to build the drop around. Aggressive but pretty.”

Rumi strummed a new chord progression—slower, more open.

“Maybe something like… ‘Even when the dark tries to claim me, your voices pull me back to the light’?” She glanced up at you and Mira. “Too cheesy?”

You shook your head. “Not if we lean into it. Make it raw. Like… ‘I almost let the dark win, but your hands reached through the smoke’.”

Mira sat up a little, eyes lighting. “Okay yes. That. And then the pre-chorus hits with the layered vocals—Zoey, can you make the synth swell like it’s breathing?”

Zoey grinned, already clicking. “Give me thirty seconds. I’m cooking.”

A bag of shrimp chips crinkled as Mira reached over and offered it to you first. “Fuel for the genius. Eat. You’ve been quiet. Everything okay in that head of yours?”

Rumi looked up from the guitar, soft concern flickering across her face. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. No pressure, but… talk if you want.”

Zoey paused the track and spun her chair fully toward the couch. “Yeah. We’re literally just vibing. No schedule, no cameras, no demons. Just us and bad snacks and half-finished songs. Spill if something’s up.”

The room settled into that comfortable quiet that only happens when four people feel completely safe with each other. Guitar strings hummed faintly as Rumi idly picked at them. Mira crunched a chip, waiting. Zoey’s cursor hovered, patient.

The Han River glittered outside the window like it was listening too.