"You'll pay panic rates plus hazard. Double time for the crisis, triple for the electrical issues, and quadruple if anything actually catches fire."
"Done," Rowan said, not even checking with the band.
A new voice, oily-smooth spoke up, “We can draft a wellness rider. Standard Alpha-Omega provisions, very generous, all the usual care clauses?—"
Everyone turned. A man in an expensive suit smiled from the doorway, all teeth and calculation. The label rep, probably. The kind who thought biology was a business asset.
Rowan didn't even look up from her tablet. "We don't buy bodies, Gareth. We buy mixes.We pay for skill, not designation. Get out."
The frontman, Alfie, grinned wild and bright. "Copy that."
I stood, pulling my hood back up, hiding the purple-black hair and the shaking in my hands. They thought I was just another engineer. Good. Perfect.
Take the cash, fix their tour, vanish before anyone got close enough to matter.
Four in. Six out.
The exit routes mapped themselves in my peripheral vision, loading dock, main entrance, fire door stage left. The Exit Card pressed against my hip through denim, laminated promise that I could walk away whenever I chose.
"I'll need a full technical breakdown," I said, voice steady and professional. "Every piece of gear, signal path documentation, and whoever's been managing your board needs to be kept at minimum ten feet away because they're clearly cursed."
The Scottish one, had to be Euan from the loop setup I'd seen on streams, almost smiled. "Confirmed. Full documentation provided. Complete specs, no omissions."
"Separate workspace," I added, testing. "I don't work well with people breathing down my neck."
"Consider it done," Rowan said, fingers flying over her tablet. "Dedicated green room, neutral zone, whatever you need. Privacy guaranteed."
The tattooed drummer stepped aside from the doorway, giving me a clear exit. Making himself smaller, which was impressive given his size. "Whatever makes you comfortable. We'll stay clear."
Too easy. Too accommodating. My paranoia prickled, but the number Rowan had promised would cover three months of upgraded suppressants and maybe better soundproofing for the loft.
"Fine." I grabbed my go-bag, careful not to let the suppressants rattle. "Show me the full rig. We've got—" I checked my phone "—four hours until doors?"
"Three and a half," the Beta with the tea said mildly. "I'm Cal, by the way. Bass. I can show you the setup while they panic productively elsewhere, let you work without an audience."
The three Alphas hadn't moved. Alfie's hands twitched like he wanted to reach for something. Euan's stillness felt calculated, contained. The drummer, Kit, I remembered from credits, kept taking controlled breaths.
"Right then," Alfie said, too bright, too loud. "We'll just... let you work. Yeah. We'll be... somewhere else. Being productive. Productively panicking. Not here. Definitely not hovering. We don't hover."
He practically fled. The other two followed, Kit muttering something that sounded like "breathe, lads" as they disappeared into the maze of hallways.
Rowan watched them go, then turned to me with that sharp smile that probably terrified label executives. "I'll have contracts ready within the hour. Standard rates plus fifty percent hazard.No wellness provisions. No scent clauses. Clean technical contract."
"No Alpha access requirements?"
"None whatsoever."
"No heat scheduling oversight?"
"Absolutely not."
"Full credit on any mixes?"
"Timestamped and locked."
I stared at her. "What's the catch?"
She tilted her head, pencil spinning between her fingers. "The catch is that you're brilliant, they're desperate, and I don't believe in trading biology for business. First clause kills the problem. Second clause cures it. You get both."
