The door to Studio Three opened with a soft hiss of air pressure and the faint smell of lavender, soundproofing foam, and something citrusy—like orange oil and sweat. It was warm inside, but not the comforting kind. The heat clung to the walls like breath held too long. Every inch of the space was soaked in sound that had already been sung, notes that lived and died between the foam panels.
A girl stood at the mic.
She turned just as I stepped in, and everything in the room shifted. Not dramatically. Not with thunder or some magical swell of fate. But like the air tilted slightly — like gravity leaned her way.
Her voice had been humming through the speakers a second ago—low, dusky, not quite singing, but already claiming space. It was a voice that dared the silence to exist. And now, in person, she was… fire.
Not the roaring kind. Not the flashy, burn-your-house-down kind.
But a candle in a cave. Controlled. Quiet. Fierce in its steadiness.
Her ginger hair was pulled into a thick braid that trailed over her shoulder, loose strands curling like flame against her cheek. Freckles dusted her pale skin like constellations, and her steel-grey eyes were clear and cutting—like she saw straight through the static of the world. Her boots were scuffed. Her jeans torn at the knee. Her black oversized hoodie was covered in tiny embroidery—moths, moons, and a stitched phrase I couldn't read from here.
She looked like a rebel who hadn't slept, but still knew exactly who she was.
"Dwyn?" she asked, her Scottish lilt curling at the ends of my name like smoke off a candle.
I nodded. Suddenly, my throat was too tight, my heartbeat too loud, my fingers twitching slightly where they gripped the folder of sheet music. I felt… small. Too plain. Like I'd stepped into a scene I hadn't auditioned for.
"Rhea Solane," she said, stepping forward and offering her hand.
Her rings were mismatched—silver, bronze, one shaped like a snake swallowing its tail. Her chipped black nail polish made her fingers look like charcoal sketches. Her grip was warm. Firm. Present.
"You don't have to look so terrified," she said with a crooked smile. "I don't bite till the third session."
That startled a laugh out of me — thin and breathless, but real.
"It's nice to meet you," I managed. "I—I've heard your music."
"Pity," she said, not unkindly. "Hopefully this won't ruin it."
She gave me a wink and turned back toward the stool. Her braid swung behind her like punctuation.
She dropped onto her seat with the kind of ease that made it look like she lived there — like this studio was her church and the mic her altar. She grabbed a worn sheet from her folder and slid it across to me.
"Come on, girl. They want a warm-up. Something raw. No polish. No filters. Then we can take a break."
I moved toward the second mic, my legs stiff and untrusting. My fingers brushed the mic stand, cool metal grounding me as I lowered onto the stool. I adjusted my seat, feeling my wolf stir faintly beneath my skin — not speaking, not warning — just watching.
Then Rhea tilted her head and asked, "You know Unknown / Nth?"
My heart thudded.
"I love it," I said, barely above a whisper.
Her smile sharpened into something impish. "Perfect. Let's ruin it together, shall we?"
The room shifted again.
Not in temperature. In weight.
Like it was holding its breath.
The sound tech gave a thumbs-up behind the glass. Rhea tapped the mic once, then wrapped her arms around her guitar like it was a lover. Her fingers found the first chords and coaxed them into the air — slow, aching, and dangerously tender.
Then she began.
"You know the distance never made a difference to me…"
Her voice wasn't perfect.
That's what made it impossible to look away.
It cracked at the edges, frayed and smoky like old paper — but it meant every word. She didn't sing like she was performing. She sang like she was remembering something that hurt too much to keep quiet anymore.
"I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea…"
The chords folded around the lyrics like dusk folding around the hills. Then she looked at me, and I knew — it was my turn.
"Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy…"
I started soft.
Just above breath.
But the moment our harmonies met, something clicked — like flint striking flint. My voice found its strength where hers left off. Rhea didn't back away from it. She leaned in, let the notes wrap around each other like vines.
Her voice was whiskey and gravel.
Mine was water and glass.
Together, we were a storm.
I forgot the sound booth.
Forgot Margot waiting outside.
Forgot Kael's eyes the day he looked through me like I was a stain in his story.
Here, I wasn't a castoff.
I wasn't unwanted.
We slid through the bridge like it had grown from us.
Rhea's voice dipped lower, raw:
"Do you know, I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you?"
There was a shiver in the way she said weight. Like she didn't trust it.
Then I came in:
"That I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you…"
We didn't speak the rest of the song. We just gave it.
All of it.
When the last sha-la-la faded into the wood-paneled walls, silence fell like velvet.
Neither of us moved.
Not even to breathe.
Then, finally, Rhea let out a long exhale and leaned back.
"Well," she said, blinking slowly. "That didn't suck."
I swallowed. "You sounded like… heartbreak."
Her mouth quirked, and for a second, she looked younger. Softer. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
She unplugged her guitar and stood, slinging the strap over one shoulder.
"You want coffee?" she asked. "Or tea? Or whiskey in a mug with fake sugar and terrible life choices?"
I smiled. "Coffee's perfect."
Rhea tilted her head as we moved toward the door. "You're a quiet one, aren't you?" she said.
"Until I'm not."
Her smile widened. "Good. I like people that don't announce themselves."
We stepped out into the hall.
And just like that, I wasn't walking alone anymore.