The O'Connell living room, usually an organized chaos of guitar cables, open sketchbooks, and mismatched coffee mugs, had been rearranged into something stiff and unnatural—like a living room pretending to be a boardroom.
On the couch, Maggie and Patrick O'Connell sat side by side, posture tight, expressions caught between parental pride and deep confusion. They looked like parents called into school for a "serious conversation," the kind that started with "Your children are gifted, but…"
Finneas balanced on the couch arm, unusually still, eyes scanning the room like he was tracking every shift in the atmosphere. Billie was curled up in her usual corner chair, knees drawn in, sleeves over her hands. Her sketchbook sat closed on her lap like a sealed vault. She wasn't looking directly at anyone, but Alex could feel her attention—quiet, dense, unblinking.
Alex sat opposite with his father, Michael, beside him. They occupied two wooden chairs borrowed from the kitchen, which only made the divide between the two parties feel more stark. The line between friends and parents. Between dreamers and gatekeepers. Between kids and the world trying to keep them that way.
Michael gave a nod—slight, private. It's your move.
Alex took a breath. The papers in his hands felt heavier than any guitar he'd ever held.
"I know this looks formal," he began, voice steady, "but this isn't a pitch for a product. This is about protecting what we started."
He looked at Finneas first, then Billie, then finally at their parents. "We started this in a garage. Just messing around. A mic, a laptop, three people making noise and calling it art. And somehow, that noise found the world. I don't know how far it'll go—but I know what it feels like when we get it right. I just want to make sure that never gets taken away. That we stay the ones in control."
The words weren't polished. But they were real.
Then, slowly, he shifted. From memory to vision. From the past to what could be.
He spoke of Echo Chamber Records, not as a company, but as an ecosystem. Not as a brand, but as a shield. A place where artists weren't owned. Where contracts weren't traps. Where the people who made the music still held it.
"Creative freedom, transparent accounting, and full artist ownership," he said, his voice growing firmer. "That's our foundation."
Patrick O'Connell raised a hand, brow knitted in pragmatic concern. "That's noble, Alex. Really. But what are you actually asking for? What's the deal here?"
Alex reached forward and placed two folders on the coffee table—one for the parents, the other for the artists. Each held a summary of the business structure and a single typed term sheet.
"This isn't a label signing offer," he said. "It's a co-founding invitation."
His gaze shifted to Billie and Finneas. "You wouldn't be just artists on the roster. You'd be partners. With equity, voting rights, and ownership of your masters from day one. This is about building something with you, not on your back."
Finneas opened the folder immediately, flipping through with the same critical focus he used to dissect a mix. Billie didn't move. Her fingers tightened slightly around her sleeves, but she kept her eyes on Alex, as if trying to read past the words, down to whatever truth sat beneath his skin.
Finneas frowned, thoughtful. "So we split master ownership with the LLC for seven years, and then full rights revert to us?"
Alex nodded. "Fifty-fifty until year seven. Then they're yours—no strings, no fine print."
"And we get equity in the label too? So if the company signs other artists..."
"You benefit," Alex confirmed. "It scales. Not just for you, but for everyone who joins after. Every success feeds back into the artist pool. No exploitation. Just expansion."
"And distribution?" Finneas asked, the producer in him now fully engaged. "We don't have physical infrastructure. That's a huge disadvantage."
Alex was ready. "We don't need trucks or shelf space. We need community. Digital-first, direct-to-fan. Merch bundles, exclusive drops, event-based rollouts. All of it can be managed lean and independently. We already have proof of concept—'Lost Boy' proved that."
Every question Finneas lobbed, Alex met like a seasoned exec in a pitch meeting—clear, exact, unnervingly prepared. The shift in posture around the room was palpable. This wasn't the quiet kid from the garage anymore. This was someone different. Someone older. Someone intentional.
Billie hadn't spoken.
She hadn't even touched the folder.
But she hadn't looked away, either.
Because she wasn't listening to the pitch. She was listening to the person. Watching the edges of his conviction. Measuring the cost of the fire in his eyes.
She saw the way his fingers curled slightly around his own knee—tight, almost shaking. She saw how much of this wasn't ambition, but urgency. Not about being big, but about not being crushed.
It scared her.
Not because it was wrong.
But because it wasn't.
Finally, Finneas leaned back, letting out a long breath. "You really thought this through."
Alex nodded once. "I had to."
The attention shifted to the couch again. Patrick picked up the term sheet and read in silence. Maggie watched him, then looked at her daughter.
Still no reaction. No words. Just that watchful stillness.
The room quieted, heavy with the presence of decision. A door had opened—but no one had walked through it yet.
This wasn't a jam session. It wasn't an idea.
It was a turning point.
The informal magic that had started in a garage had just been packaged, priced, and handed over for approval.
Now, it was up to them to say yes.