I code.Range 1k-4k = #CC5500. Range > 8k + Harmonic_Density = #C0C0C0 + Particle_Effect.
"What are you doing?" she asks, stepping closer. Five feet.
"Translating," I say. "If you cannot read the data, I'll change the interface."
I spend four hours coding. I build a custom plugin hook for the visualizer. I map frequency bands to HEX codes. I add texture algorithms, noise becomes grain, sine waves become smooth gradients, transients become bursts of light.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to her chair, which I have pulled to the six-foot mark.
She sits.
I route Alfie’s raw vocal stem through the new channel strip.
"Look at the main screen."
I hit play.
The screen doesn't show bouncing grey bars.
It explodes into color.
The low end rolls out like a dark, bruised fog. The snare cracks in bursts of violet smoke, just as she described. Alfie’svoice cuts through the center, a river of molten copper that sparks silver at the edges when he hits the high notes. It’s chaotic, beautiful, and precise.
Zia stops breathing.
She stands up. She creates a contract violation by stepping inside the four-foot radius. She walks right up to the massive monitor.
She reaches out, tracing the digital river of orange and silver.
"That’s..." Her voice breaks. She turns to look at me, her eyes wide, reflecting the colors of the code I wrote for her. "That’s my head. That’s exactly what it looks like."
"I mapped the parameters to your descriptions," I say, my voice steady, though my chest feels like it is expanding to the point of rupture. "Is the violet accurate on the snare? I added a diffusion layer to simulate the smoke."
"It’s perfect," she whispers. "You built this?"
"I coded it. It’s an overlay."
She looks back at the screen, watching the music paint itself in real-time.
"That’s... mine," she says softly. "Nobody has ever seen it but me."
"Now we see it," I say.
She looks at me then. The look is not fearful. It is not professional. It is the look of someone who has been speaking a dead language alone for twenty years and finally heard a response.
Day Fourteen: The Collapse.
The tour connects to the European leg in three days, and we need to lock the loop transitions for the entire setlist.
It is 3:00 AM. The bus is dark, save for the glow of my monitors and the LEDs on the rack gear.
Zia is sitting next to me.
Not six feet. Not four feet.
She is sharing the piano bench. Her thigh is two inches from mine.
We have been working for six hours straight. We are delirious with fatigue, surfing the dopamine high of creative sync.
