The ferry horns echoed across Elliott Bay, that lonely sound that meant home and distance all at once. I counted breaths against the rhythm. Four in, six out. The suppressants pressed against my ribs through the bag strap.
Here's the thing about being scent-blind, everyone assumes it's a disadvantage. Poor little Omega, can't even smell her perfect Alpha match when he walks by. What they don't understand is that it saved me. When you're part of the 0.003% who can't feel pheromone pull, you can't be coerced by it. Biology becomes choice. Chemistry becomes irrelevant.
It also meant I'd never know if I passed my scent match on the street. Never feel that supposedly electric recognition, that instantminethat romance novels loved to sell.
Good. I didn't need that fairy tale. I needed clean audio and wire transfers and the Exit Card laminated in my back pocket, a literal "we're done" clause I could drop anytime a working arrangement got uncomfortable.
The venue appeared through the rain, loading dock open and spilling yellow light into the alley. Road cases stood like monuments to barely controlled chaos. Someone inside was having a very bad night, judging by the stream of cursing that carried over the rain.
I shouldered through the crowd of roadies and locals, keeping my head down and stride purposeful. The loading dock led to a maze of hallways, all painted black and marked with tapearrows nobody had updated since the '90s. The lights flickered, power draw issue, probably too many rigs on one circuit.
Voices ahead. British accents layered over each other in familiar panic, the same voices I'd balanced through livestreams.
"The entire signal chain's fucked?—"
"Did you try?—"
"Yes, I tried that, I'm not an amateur?—"
"Everyone breathe, yeah? She'll be here?—"
The lights cut out completely.
Emergency lighting kicked in a second later, but that first moment of pure black made everyone freeze. I navigated by the sound of their voices, muscle memory from too many venue disasters keeping my stride steady.
"Sorry, moving through."
I shoulder-checked someone in the dark, solid warmth that grunted at the impact. My hand brushed leather and something that might have been ridiculously soft fur before I slid past, focusing on the direction of maximum panic. That's where the console would be. That's where the problem lived.
The emergency lights painted everything rust-red and shadow. The mixing board looked like it was actively dying. Error lights flashing. Channels peaked and screaming. The ghost of feedback lurking in the monitors.
"Jesus." I dropped my bag and went straight for the board, not bothering with introductions. "It's like you're broadcasting from a tin can."
Someone made a choked sound behind me.
"Your phantom power chain's begging for mercy." My fingers found the problems by touch, rerouting signal paths and backing off gains that someone had cranked in desperation. "And whoever set up your routing apparently thinks cable management is a suggestion, not a requirement."
The desk stopped screaming. The feedback died. Channels began responding to touch instead of fighting it.
"That frequency is too yellow," I muttered, rolling off the harsh upper mids that made everything sound like tin foil. "Need it more violet. Warmer."
"Did she just—" A Northern accent, rough like burnt sugar.
"Synesthesia." A Scottish voice, precise and quiet. "She hears in color."
I ignored them, focused on teaching the compressors how to breathe again. Every piece of equipment had lungs if you knew how to listen. This desk had been suffocating, gasping through broken routing and impossible gain structure. Now it inhaled, smooth and grateful.
"There." I sat back, the chair creaking. "Your rig's not eating itself anymore. Though whoever let it get this bad should be banned from touching audio equipment."
Silence. The kind that felt heavy, like the air pressure had changed.
I turned around finally, ready to negotiate rush rates with Rowan.
Three Alphas stood frozen in the red emergency lighting. The one in the ridiculous pink faux-fur coat stared at me like I'd just walked out of the sea. The one with the buzzcut and careful hands hadn't moved since I'd started talking. The tattooed one with drummer's forearms gripped the doorframe hard enough to leave marks.
Behind them, a Beta in a soft jumper held a cup of tea like it was anchoring him to reality. And Rowan, in a sharp suit despite the crisis, pencil behind her ear, tablet clutched like armor, watched me with an expression I couldn't parse.
"Will you stay on for tour?" The one in pink, Alfie Riot, I realized, the frontman whose voice I'd balanced a hundredtimes, sounded like speaking hurt. "Please? We need, we clearly need help. Professional help. Your help specifically."
