Euan
I looked at the morning light filtering through the high windows of the London collab house, light that caught the dust motes dancing over the grand piano and the sprawling mess of my pack, and I calculated that we had defied the laws of thermodynamics.
We had created a perpetual motion machine of happiness.
Alfie was the kinetic energy. He was currently draped over the back of the sofa, upside down, reading a lyric sheet while humming a melody that was entirely off-key. His scent, burnt sugar and blackberries, was a warm, constant hum in the room.
Kit was the gravitational anchor. He was in the kitchen, visible through the open archway, methodically chopping vegetables for a lunch that wouldn't happen for three hours. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the knife against the board was the metronome of our existence. He smelled of espresso and deep earth, a heavy, grounding bassline.
And Zia.
Zia was the processor. The central unit. The reason the system functioned at all.
She was sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by cables she was re-coiling because Alfie had tangled them. She was wearing my sweatpants and Kit's t-shirt, her hair a messy knot held together by a pencil. The silver scars of our claim marks on her neck gleamed faintly as she moved, a topographic map of our devotion.
Neon citrus and ozone. Her scent was no longer a spike of distress or a flash of heat. It was a steady, pervasive atmosphere layer. It was the air we breathed.
I adjusted the schematics on my laptop screen. The project file was labeled PROJECT_SANCTUARY_v4.2.
My heart rate accelerated slightly. 72 BPM to 78 BPM. Anticipation.
I had spent three months building this architecture. I had run the numbers. I had consulted zoning laws, acoustic dampening coefficients, and security protocols.
It was ready for the client pitch.
"Zia," I said.
My voice cut through Alfie's humming and Kit's chopping. Zia looked up immediately. Her eyes, analyzing, intelligent, locked onto mine.
"Yeah, Euan?"
"Requesting a meeting," I said, standing up. "In the workspace. Now."
Alfie rolled off the sofa, landing in a heap of limbs. "Ooh. Formal Euan. Is someone in trouble? Did I leave the phantom power on again?"
"No," I said. "But your attendance is required. Kit, pause the prep."
Kit wiped his hands on a towel and joined us, a frown creasing his brow. "Everything okay, mate? You're vibrating."
"System is optimal," I assured him, though my palms were damp. "I just... I have a proposal."
I led them to the large drafting table I'd set up in the corner of the studio. I had printed the blueprints. Physical media added weight to the concept.
I unrolled the main sheet.
It was a floor plan. 4,000 square feet. Located in a repurposed warehouse in East London, ten minutes from our current location.
"What is this?" Zia asked, leaning in. She smelled of clean laundry and grapefruit sunlight. She traced a line on the paper. "Isolation booths. Three control rooms. A dedicated mastering suite. Euan, this is a massive facility."
"It is," I confirmed. I pointed to the header.
PROTOCOL STUDIOS.
"Read the sub-header," I instructed.
She squinted. "A Scent-Neutral Creative Environment."
She froze. She looked at me, her mouth parting slightly.
