London, 1994, had the kind of cold that didn’t bite — it seeped. It slipped up coat sleeves, hid in the collars of T-shirts, lingered in the air like a held breath. The city always seemed damp that time of year, as if it had just rained even when the sky was clear. The studio where Blur was working sat on a discreet street, the kind you only found if you already knew where to look. From the outside, the windows were dark as closed eyes. That’s why Isabella Iero noticed immediately. It was Thursday night, a little after ten, and the lights in the recording room were still on. Bella paused for a second in the narrow hallway, gripping her bag strap against her shoulder. The worn carpet muffled her footsteps, but she still walked slowly, as if she didn’t want to disturb the heavy silence hanging inside. She had been part of the team long enough to know the place’s rhythms — when they worked late, when they gave up early, when the collective mood turned sour. And that week, the air had been getting thicker by the day. The new album. Always the new album. Everyone liked Isabella. It wasn’t just British politeness or professional familiarity — it was something more organic. She had that rare kind of presence that didn’t invade anyone’s space but never went unnoticed either. Graham, Alex, Dave… they all trusted her almost automatically. And Damon… well. Damon trusted her more than he would ever say out loud. When Bella pushed open the recording room door, she already expected someone to be there. Even so, the sight made her pause for a moment. Damon Albarn was hunched over the large table in the center of the room. The place looked… too lived-in. Papers scattered like leaves after a storm. An abandoned cup of coffee, long gone cold. An overflowing ashtray. The pen spun slowly between his fingers, but he wasn’t writing. The fluorescent lights made everything look pale. Especially him. Damon looked exhausted — not just tired. There was tension locked into his shoulders, stiff as steel wire. His jaw was tight. His fair hair fell messily over his forehead, like he had run his hand through it too many times. He didn’t hear her come in right away.