Chapter 6
SIX
Zia
Status: Complete.
I sat back in my chair, the silence of the loft rushing in to fill the space where Alfie’s voice had just been. Without the track playing, the room felt empty. Too big. Too quiet.
My eyes drifted back to the second monitor, to the open Dropbox folder Euan had built.
We do not require the engineer to be visible.
It was a lie, of course. I knew that. I remembered the way Alfie had looked at me in the emergency lighting of the Showbox, like I was the only signal in a world of static. I remembered the way Kit had planted his feet when I walked past, like he was physically restraining himself from orbiting me.
They wanted me visible. They wanted me close.
But they had looked at the data, my flight, my panic, my blocked numbers, and they had calculated a solution that prioritized my comfort over their hunger.
I opened the schematic again. Z_WORKSPACE_PROPOSAL.pdf.
I zoomed in on the details I’d missed the first time.
It wasn’t just the "Neutral Zone." It was the cable management. Euan had drawn the XLR runs with color-coded tags. He’d specified the brand of ergonomic chair I used, which meant he’d either zoomed in on pixelated screenshots of my V-tube streams or he’d somehow contacted the manufacturer of my old setup.
He hadn’t just built a workspace. He’d built hope out of architecture.
We want to learn, not take.
My phone buzzed on the desk. Rowan.
Received the file. It’s... Zia, it’s extraordinary. You kept the rasp but removed the pain.
I removed the sibilance. The pain is his artistic choice. I just EQ’d it so it doesn't hurt the listener.
He’s listening to it now. I think he’s stopped breathing.
I stared at the screen. My heart did a strange, syncopated kick against my ribs. Four in. Six out.
Tell him the reverb tail on the bridge is still muddy on the raw tracking. He needs to stand six inches further back from the mic capsule.
Tell him yourself.
It was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down by a woman who dissected contracts for sport.
I looked at the Exit Card sitting next to my keyboard. Laminated. Real. It was my safety net. My "pull cord" in case of emergency. If I went, and it got too much, if the biology I couldn't smell became a weight I couldn't carry, I could leave. They had already proved they would let me run.
They had written a song about letting me run.
I picked up the card. I slid it into my back pocket.
Then I typed.
Where is the bus tomorrow?
The typing bubble from Rowan appeared instantly.
We have a flight from Sea-Tac that lands at Heathrow in nine hours. A car can be at your loft in forty minutes.
Forty minutes.
I looked around the loft. The triple locks. The white noise machines. The fortress I’d built to keep the world out, to keep myself a ghost.
It was safe here. It was lonely, and it was sterile, and it was perfectly, boringly safe.
But safety hadn’t written a song that sounded like indigo velvet. Safety hadn’t redesigned an HVAC system to give me clean air.
Send the car.
Copy that. Ticket stands ready.
I stood up. My knees were shaking, just a little. Not the frantic tremor of a heat spike, but the vibration of a frequency changing.
I packed differently this time.
Into the go-bag went the suppressants, the cables, the interface.
But I also packed my favorite hoodie, the one with the bleach stain on the cuff.
I packed the good headphones, the open-back ones I usually didn't risk on the road.
I packed my own tea, even though I knew Cal likely had a stock that rivaled a dispensary.
I paused at the door. I looked back at my setup, at the screens that were my window to the world.
"Be right back," I whispered to the empty room.
I locked the deadbolt. I didn't set the alarm.
The flight was a blur of noise-canceling headphones and turbulence that I visualized as jagged red spikes, the kind that are usually shown on a graph. I spent the time reviewing the bus schematics on my tablet, annotating them with red pen.
Note: Monitor placement needs isolation pads.
Note: If the "Neutral Zone" curtains aren't blackout, I will riot.
Note: 6 air changes per hour is acceptable. 8 would be better.
I was armoring myself with technicalities. If I focused on the airflow, I didn't have to focus on the Alphas. If I focused on the mix, I didn't have to focus on the man.
When I landed at Heathrow, rain was lasering against the terminal glass. It looked exactly like Seattle rain, just with a different accent.
A driver was waiting. He held a sign that didn't say Zia Vale or FoxTail.
It said: THE ENGINEER.
I allowed myself a small, dry smile. Rowan. She missed nothing.
We drove north. The English countryside rolled by in greys and greens, muted and wet. I counted the mile markers. Four breaths in. Six breaths out.
"Nearly there, miss," the driver said.
We pulled up to a venue that looked like a factory that had given up on industry and embraced noise ordinance violations instead. Brick, grime, tour buses idling in the alley like sleeping beasts.
The main bus, the one from the schematic, sat in the center. It was a sleek, black monolith.
The driver opened my door. The air smelled of diesel and damp concrete.
I stepped out.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. I patted my back pocket, checking for the Exit Card. Still there.
I walked toward the bus.
The door was open. Standing on the bottom step, guarding the entrance but looking for all the world like he was just enjoying the drizzle, was Cal.
He wore a thick knitted jumper that looked soft enough to sleep in. He held two steaming mugs.
He saw me. He didn't wave. He didn't shout. He didn't call out to the others.
He just extended one of the mugs.
"Earl Grey," he said, his voice low, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the engine. "Two sugars. Splash of milk. It's about sixty-two degrees, so mind you don't wait too long or it'll drop below optimal."
I stopped at the foot of the stairs. I looked at him. I looked at the dark windows of the bus where I knew, with synesthetic certainty, three neon-bright souls were vibrating with the knowledge that I was close.
"You knew I was coming."
"Rowan tracks flight paths like she's air traffic control," Cal said mildly. "And Euan saw your phone connect to the bus Wi-Fi three minutes ago."
Of course.
"They're inside?"
"In the lounge. Waiting."
"Are they... hovering?"
"Vibrating, mostly. Alfie is trying to sit on his hands. Kit has reorganized the kitchenette four times. Euan is staring at a wall pretending to be calm." Cal offered the mug again. "They know the rules, Z. They won't come out until you go in. Or until you ask."
I took the mug. The warmth seeped through my cold fingers. I took a sip.
Perfect. It was absolutely perfect.
"The schematic," I said. "The Neutral Zone."
"Euan installed the curtains himself," Cal said. "Velvet. Heavy. Sound-dampening."
"And the lock?"
"Digital. You set the code. No overrides."
I looked up at the open door. It was a dark mouth. But it was also a way in.
"Two constraints," I said, testing the words on the damp air.
Cal nodded, his expression serious. "We're ready to build."
I took a deep breath. The diesel smell mixed with the faint, warm scent of the tea.
"Okay," I said.
I stepped up.
The bus interior was dim, lit by low-running LED strips along the floor. It smelled of coffee and expensive leather and... them.
A mix.
Blackberry and burnt sugar.
Espresso and molasses.
Hojicha and sesame.
I couldn't smell it. I knew that. My nose registered only the clean, scrubbed scent of aggressive air filtration.
But I felt it. A hum in the air. A color in the noise floor.
I walked down the narrow corridor, past the bunks, toward the back lounge.
The door was open.
They were there.
Alfie was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, wearing that ridiculous pink coat like a security blanket. His knee was bouncing.
Kit was standing by the kitchenette counter, gripping the edge like he was holding the bus together by force of will.
Euan was seated at the small table, laptop open, hands flat on his thighs.
When I stepped into the doorway, they all froze.
Total stillness.
Alfie’s knee stopped bouncing. Kit's breath hitched. Euan’s eyes locked onto me, wide and terrifyingly focused.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody rushed to hug me or claim me or demand why I’d run.
They just waited.
I looked at Alfie. I saw the Sharpie on his thumb, fresh and black. ASK > ASSUME.
I looked at Euan. I saw the tension in his jaw, the sheer physical effort of not calculating the distance between us.
I looked at Kit. I saw the tattoos on his arms, ink and muscle, and the way he’d leaned away from the counters to give me more line-of-sight.
They were terrified. Not of me. Of contaminating me.
"The mix," I said. My voice was steady, clearer than I expected. "The vocal clean-up. On the track."
Alfie blinked, as if surprised I was speaking English and not some divine language. "It... yeah. It sounded like you. It sounded like what I wanted to say, but... tuned."
"The attack time on your compressor was criminal," I said, stepping fully into the room. "And you need to stand six inches back from the mic capsule."
Alfie let out a breath that sounded like a laugh breaking in half. A grin, sharp and wet and real, cracked his face open. "Copy that."
"I have terms," I said, looking at Euan.
"Contract is prepared," Rowan’s voice came from the corner I hadn’t looked at yet. She was there, blending into the shadows, tablet in hand. "Thirty-seven pages. I drafted it on the flight."
"I have immediate terms," I corrected.
"Name them," Euan said. His voice was rougher than usual.
I looked at the three of them. I fingered the Exit Card in my pocket, just to feel the edge. Then I let it go.
"One, I get the bunk in the back. The one with the extra soundproofing."
"Done," Kit said immediately.
"Two, nobody touches me without a verbal check-in first. Even if I look like I want it. Especially if I look like I want it."
"Baseline," Alfie whispered. "Absolute baseline."
"Three," I said, turning to Euan. "You really built a HEPA filter system into a tour bus?"
Euan nodded, a faint flush touching his cheekbones. "Six air changes per hour. We can boost it to eight if the pressure differential is too high."
"Show me," I said.
It was an invitation. A small one. A technical one. But an invitation nonetheless.
Euan stood up slowly, telegraphing the movement. He didn't come closer. He gestured toward a panel near the floor. "It's integrated into the chassis flow."
I walked over. I knelt down next to the panel. It put me within three feet of him.
I could feel the heat radiating off him. I could see the way his fingers curled into his palms perfectly visible, safe, keeping distance.
"It's good work," I murmured, tracing the vent grill.
"It's necessary work," he replied, his voice low.
I looked up. They were all watching me. Not like a predator watches prey. Like a navigator watches the North Star.
"I'm staying for the UK leg," I said. "As a trial."
"Copy that," Alfie said, his voice thick.
"We'll need to set up your workstation," Kit said, already reaching for a cable but stopping himself. "Whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now."
I stood up. I took the tea Cal had given me and set it on the table.
"Four in, six out," I said to the room.
Alfie’s eyes widened. He knew the pattern. He’d heard it on the stream.
"Four in, six out," he repeated, matching his breathing to the count.
I pulled my hoodie tighter around me.
"Let's get to work," I said. "This rig isn't going to calibrate itself."
And for the first time in ten years, the silence that followed didn't feel lonely. It felt like a rest beat before the drop.