I roll my eyes. “If we both end up in a ditch, I’m haunting you first.”
“Worth it,” she says.
We sneak down to the studio like teenagers past curfew.
The control room is empty; Dante must be in one of his “private offices,” which apparently exists outside of time and space. Luca is nowhere visible. The cameras blink their little red eyes, but there are too many angles for me to know which ones go where.
Mia slides into the engineer’s chair like she’s done this a thousand times.
“You sure?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Do it anyway.”
She navigates to the session folder, fingers flying. She doesn’t copy. She doesn’t move. She just arms an output, routes a tiny sliver of the chorus through an aux track, and records ten seconds onto her phone’s mic.
A faint burst of my voice, raw through a
