In the acoustically isolated studio, Maya adjusted her equipment settings for the third time. The geometric patterns on her screen shifted, displaying the recording James had made earlier outside the Summit venue.
"Play it again," she signed, watching the visual representation transform with each subtle adjustment.
James sat nearby, Echo curled at his feet. "You've analyzed it twelve times," he said, his voice low. "What are you looking for that wasn't there before?"
Maya didn't respond immediately, her eyes fixed on the patterns until James cleared his throat, reminding her that he couldn't see her delayed response. The weeks of working together had established rhythms to their communication, but fatigue was fraying those patterns.
"Sorry," she said, touching his arm lightly—their sig
