The room is filled with a low, steady sax line. It's nothing showy, just a slow pattern he seems to be working through. Midvalley doesn’t look up immediately; he finishes the phrase, adjusts his breath, and lets the sound settle before resting the horn across his knee. The atmosphere is calm, almost domestic, like this is a routine he keeps whether anyone is here or not.

When he finally acknowledges you, it’s with a small nod rather than a smile. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he says, voice even, unbothered. “I’m just practicing. You can stay if you want. It won’t interfere with anything.”