"Rolling," I said.
I didn't use the click track this time.
Alfie took a breath. It rattled in his chest.
"I saw the lightning strike the ground..."
The sound was indigo, deep, velvety, almost black at the edges. But it was torn. There were silver sparks of static in the timbre, gritty and unpolished.
"But you didn't hear the thunder sound."
He leaned into the mic, his eyes locked on mine through the glass.
"I saw the color of the noise / You saw three terrified boys."
My synesthesia flared. The room washed in a violet haze. Beside me, I felt Kit stiffen, his scent of espresso spiking. Euanstopped breathing. We were the audience, the subjects, and the judges all at once.
Alfie built the energy. He wasn't performing anymore. He was pleading.
"I won't chase you down the street, Won't ask for what you cannot meet."
His voice cracked on 'meet.' A genuine, ugliness break in the vocal cord that would have been auto-tuned out in any other studio.
I kept it. I marked the timestamp with a hotkey.Keep. Gold.
He hit the bridge. The part he’d changed at the Barrowlands.
"We want to learn, not take,"he belted, moving away from the mic instinctively, his voice filling the small box, overriding the compression."We want to build, not break."
It was a wall of sound. Bright, blinding copper. It felt like his hands on my skin. It felt like the knot.
"You’re the ghost in the machine,"he whispered, dropping down an octave, bringing his mouth right against the grille, initiating the proximity effect that boosted the bass in his voice."The clearest sound we've ever seen."
Silence.
The waveform flatlined.
I let it hang there for ten seconds. Nobody moved. Euan was staring at the screen like it was a holy text. Kit had stopped leaning and was standing rigid, hands fisted at his sides.
"Cut," I whispered.
I released the talkback.
Alfie didn't move. He stayed slumped against the mic stand, chest heaving.
"That's the take," I said to the room.
"That's the one," Euan agreed, his voice tight. "Verification complete. No edits required."
Alfie pushed the door open. He stumbled out of the booth like a diver coming up too fast, gasping for the scrubbed air of the lounge. He looked shattered.
"Was that..." He wiped his face with his forearm. "Was that too much?"
I stood up. My legs protested, but I ignored them. I walked over to him, crossing the invisible lines we used to draw.
I reached up and grabbed the front of his vintage tank top, pulling him down to my level.
"That was exactly enough," I said.
