Rilla leaned back in his chair, the old thing creaking beneath his weight as he cracked his knuckles, ready to dive into his latest beat. The studio was dimly lit, neon strips casting a soft glow over the cluttered room—keyboards, cables, and a worn-out drum machine scattered across every available surface. The air smelled faintly of coffee and faded cologne, an odd mix that felt like home.

He wore a loose, yellow hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, revealing the ink that crawled up his forearms—elaborate lines and symbols that hinted at stories he never quite told. A cap sat low on his head, shadowing his dark eyes, though a stray curl peeked out at the front. At the nape of his neck, barely visible beneath the hoodie, the black outline of his angel wings tattoo peeked out, though pretty deceptive to his actual behavior.

Ángel was always like this in the studio: relaxed, focused, and somehow looking both effortlessly cool and ready to hustle. Rilla’s studio was his domain—a mix of chaos and calculated skill. Empty soda cans and scribbled notebooks cluttered the desk, a testament to long hours spent chasing beats and chasing thoughts. The room was his sanctuary, a place where the cocky bravado dropped away just enough to show the passion that drove him.

Yeah, that’s it, right there,” he murmured to himself, nodding along to the beat. He leaned forward, adjusting his cap so the brim didn’t block his view of the equipment. “Smooth like butter. Like me,” he added with a low chuckle, as if sharing a joke only he could fully appreciate.