"Hard to relax when the subject of the song is staring at me with her producer face on," he crackled back. "You look strict. It’s doing things to me."
"Save it for the track," I said, though I felt a flush heat the back of my neck. I turned to Euan. "Is the compressor dialed in?"
"Light ratio. 2:1. Fast attack."
"Make it 4:1," I said, watching Alfie pace in the tiny box. "He’s going to shout. He doesn't know it yet, but he’s going to shout."
Euan adjusted the virtual knob on the screen fluidly. "Threshold set. Ready for capture."
I leaned into the mic. "Okay, Alfie. We're not doing the polish. I don't want the shiny version you did on the stream. We're doing the raw take. The 'I just realized I destroyed the woman I love by singing too loud' take."
Alfie winced. "Low blow, Z."
"Tactical blow," I corrected. "Take one. From the top. Rolling."
I hit the spacebar. The click track started, a steady, synthetic heartbeat.
Alfie closed his eyes. He gripped the mic stand.
"I saw the lightning strike the ground..."
It was good. Technically proficient. He hit the pitch perfectly in the center, his tone warm and rich, that burnt-sugar rasp coating the melody.
But it was wrong.
"Cut," I said flatly, hitting the spacebar again.
Alfie opened his eyes. "Pitchy?"
"No. Perfect. That's the problem." I spun the chair around to face Euan and Kit. "It’s too safe. He’s singing it like a performance. I need him to sing it like a confession."
"He’s guarding," Kit observed, arms crossed, leaning against the kitchenette wall. "He’s trying not to scare you again."
"He thinks if he pushes too hard, you'll use the Exit Card," Euan added, tapping the edge of the table. "He is modulating his output to stay within 'safe' parameters."
I turned back to the glass. Alfie was watching us confer, looking like a puppy waiting to see if he’d been bad.
I pressed the talkback.
"Alfie."
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember the green room?"
He froze. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the gold iris instantly. "Fox, don't."
"I remember," I said, keeping my voice low, letting the compression on the talkback mic turn it into an intimate whisper right in his ear. "I remember you sitting on the floor. I remember you telling me exactly how you were going to touch me. You weren't safe then, Alfie. You were dangerous. You were starving."
"Zia..." His breath hitched audibly in the channel.
"I need that guy," I said ruthlessly. "I don't want the frontman. I want the Alpha who sat outside a door for an hour smelling my distress anddidn't open it, even though it was killing him."
I watched him through the glass. He bowed his head, his knuckles turning white on the stand. The scent of scorching sugar began to leak from the booth’s ventilation gap, not a lot, just a thread of it, sharp and caramelized.
"Option B," I whispered. "Give me Option B."
He looked up. The mask was gone. His face was open, wrecked, raw.
