Every cell in my body locked up. Muscles went rigid, breath caught halfway up my throat. The world narrowed to that scent, to the shape already disappearing toward the console, to the sound of my heartbeat trying to escape through my ribs like it wanted to follow her.
Behind me, Kit made a sound like someone had punched him in the stomach, drove all the air from his lungs in one shocked exhale. His espresso and molasses warmth went thick, went heavy, cinnamon-sugar trembling through the air like he was shaking apart at a molecular level. Euan had gone absolutely still, that terrifying stillness that meant his brain waseither solving complex equations or having a complete system crash, all processes halted. His hojicha and sesame brittle scent sharpened, toasted tea and maple cracking like ice under pressure, fracturing into something almost painful.
"Breathe, lads," Cal said quietly from somewhere to my left, but even he sounded strained, like the words cost him effort.
She'd already reached the console, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going in the dark. In the emergency lighting, I could make out an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame, the suggestion of purple-black hair catching the red glow, hands that moved across the broken board like she was reading braille, like she could feel the problems through her fingertips.
"Jesus." Her voice carried perfectly in the acoustic space, clear despite the chaos. "You're broadcasting from a tin can, and your phantom power chain's begging for mercy. Who set this up, a sadist with a vendetta?"
Someone made a choked sound. Might've been me. Probably was me, judging by the way my throat felt raw.
"That frequency is too yellow." She rolled off harsh upper mids without even looking at the board, fingers moving on instinct or memory. "Need it more violet. Warmer. Like... aubergine, not lemon."
"Did she just—" My voice cracked like I was sixteen again, like I'd never been on a stage in my life.
"Synesthesia," Euan managed, barely a whisper, reverent and shocked in equal measure. "She hears in color. Shehears in color."
The desk stopped screaming. Just... stopped, like she'd found the off switch for its pain. Channels started responding instead of fighting, started behaving like they remembered they were professional equipment. She called the compressors "lungs" and taught them to breathe while we stood there drowning in herscent, in the impossible reality of what had just happened, what was still happening.
Three Alphas. One Omega. Instant recognition that hit like a lorry doing ninety on the M1, no brakes, no warning.
My brain screamed at me.Mine. Ours. Forever. Keep her. Claim her. Never let her leave.
What came out of my mouth was, thankfully, completely different. "Will you stay on for tour? Please? We need, we clearly need help. Professional help. Your help specifically."
She turned finally, and I could see eyes that looked tired and wary and brilliant all at once, sharp with intelligence and exhaustion. Her fox-tail tattoo caught the emergency lighting when she moved, when her sleeve rode up just enough to reveal the ink. The design was delicate, precise, probably meant something.
"You'll pay panic rates plus hazard," she said, not a question, a statement of terms. "Double time for the crisis, triple for the electrical issues, and quadruple if anything actually catches fire."
"Done," Rowan said immediately, already typing furiously on her tablet, probably drawing up a contract before the words finished leaving her mouth.
A new voice slithered in from the doorway, oily and smooth. "We can draft a wellness rider. Standard Alpha-Omega provisions, very generous, all the usual care clauses?—"
Gareth Blake stood there in his expensive suit, bespoke tailoring that probably cost more than our entire merch table, smiling like oil slicked across water. His bergamot and syrup scent made my teeth ache, made my stomach turn. The label rep who thought biology was something you could monetize, package, sell to the highest bidder like any other commodity.
Rowan didn't even look up from her tablet, didn't dignify him with eye contact. "We don't buy bodies, Gareth. We buy mixes. We pay for skill, not designation. Get out."
The words hit like a mission statement. Like a battle cry. Like everything I'd been trying to build since I'd watched the industry chew up and spit out too many people who deserved better, who deserved to be seen as humans first.
"Copy that." I grinned, wide and bright and probably manic, but I didn't care. My face hurt from how hard I was smiling. "Proper copy that."
The engineer,ourengineer, my brain insisted, already possessive, stood there in her oversized hoodie with her competent hands and her electric scent and her absolute ignorance of what she'd just done to us, how she'd rearranged our entire existence in thirty seconds. She pulled her hood up, hiding that purple-black hair, making herself smaller.
"I'll need a full technical breakdown." Her voice was all business, professional and distant. "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."
"Confirmed," Euan said, his voice steady despite the way his hands were shaking, despite the way he'd pressed them flat against his thighs to hide the tremor. "Full documentation provided. Complete specs, no omissions."
"Separate workspace. I don't work well with people breathing down my neck, watching over my shoulder."
"Consider it done." Rowan's fingers flew across her tablet like she was conducting an orchestra. "Dedicated green room, neutral zone, whatever you need. Privacy guaranteed."
Kit stepped aside from the doorway, making himself smaller despite being built like a brick wall, despite taking up space being part of his entire presence. "Whatever makes you comfortable. We'll stay clear."
She stared at us like we were speaking a foreign language she'd never encountered before. Like accommodation wassuspicious. Like respect was a trap, something with teeth waiting to snap shut.
"Fine." She grabbed her go-bag, canvas worn soft with use, and something rattled inside, pills, maybe, supplements or suppressants or both. "Show me the full rig. We've got—" she checked her phone, screen lighting her face in cold blue "—four hours until doors?"
"Three and a half," Cal said mildly, offering her one of the mugs of tea he'd somehow already poured. "I'm Cal, by the way. Bass. I can show you the setup while they panic productively elsewhere, let you work without an audience."
