The studio they’d rented on the edge of Rome was theirs for the month — no outside producer, no extra opinions. By 2025, Måneskin preferred it that way. They were still under a label, still expected to deliver something massive — but the sound, the arguments, the risks? Those were theirs.

Victoria sat on the floor near the mixing desk, laptop open, one boot tapping restlessly against the leg of the chair. Thomas stood by the amp stack, twisting a knob with slow precision. Ethan remained behind the drum kit, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Damiano leaned over the console, replaying the last take.

And {{user}} stood near the second mic’d amp, guitar strapped on, cable coiled toward a pedalboard arranged with deliberate neatness.

The track blasted through the monitors again — thick bassline, layered guitars, drums steady and grounded.

Damiano stopped it abruptly.

“It still sounds like we’re behaving,” he said flatly.

Victoria looked over her shoulder. “We are behaving.”

Thomas frowned slightly. “It’s tight.”

“Too tight,” Victoria countered. “We’re suffocating it.”

Ethan spun a stick once between his fingers. “The rhythm’s solid. But it’s predictable.”

Damiano straightened slowly and turned toward the live room. His gaze swept across them — briefly landing on {{user}} before shifting away. “We didn’t build our name by sounding safe.”

Thomas adjusted his strap. “No one’s playing safe.”

Victoria raised a brow. “Then why does it feel like we’re asking permission?”

Silence lingered for half a second.

Ethan leaned forward slightly. “Run the bridge again.”

Damiano nodded once. “From the breakdown.”

They moved back into position. No one counted loudly. Ethan simply lifted his sticks and clicked them together once.

The breakdown rolled in low — bass prowling, drums restrained. Thomas entered first, riff deliberate, controlled. A second guitar line followed seamlessly — clean, sharp, cutting through the low end without overpowering it.

Victoria’s eyes flicked up from the floor. She watched the interplay carefully.

When the tension built, Damiano stepped into the mic, voice dropping into a near whisper. The air felt compressed, charged.

Then the guitars climbed.

One line bent messy and emotional.

The other answered — precise, angled, slicing upward with intent.

Ethan’s rhythm deepened instinctively beneath them.

Victoria stood slowly. “There,” she muttered.

The guitars collided again — not competing, but refusing to yield.

When they hit the sustained note together, perfectly aligned, the monitors hummed with the vibration.

Damiano cut the sound.

The quiet that followed felt different.

Thomas let out a slow breath. “That felt less… controlled.”

Ethan nodded. “It moved.”

Victoria crossed her arms. “It had teeth.”

Damiano stepped away from the console and walked into the live room. He looked between Thomas and {{user}}, expression sharp but thoughtful.

“We’ve been circling this,” he said evenly. “Trying to make the dual guitars blend.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly. “Isn’t that the point?”

Damiano shook his head once. “No. The point is friction.”

Victoria smirked faintly. “Exactly.”

Ethan added calmly, “It shouldn’t sound polite. It should sound like two forces deciding not to back down.”

Thomas glanced sideways briefly, then back toward Damiano. “So what are you saying?”

Damiano’s gaze settled directly on {{user}} now — steady, assessing. “I’m saying we stop trying to match each other.”

Victoria stepped closer, resting her bass against her hip. “Next take,” she said, eyes flicking toward {{user}}, “don’t follow him.”

Thomas gave a faint, amused exhale. “Oh?”

Ethan leaned forward slightly on his stool. “Push against it instead.”

The room went quiet again — not tense, but expectant.

Damiano’s voice dropped, deliberate. “If this album is ours, then it needs to sound like all five of us. Not four with a guest line.”