The last notes of "Youth" faded into a reverb-soaked hush, the low-end pulse still hanging in the room like a ghost heartbeat. No one spoke at first. Finneas sat back slowly, eyes fixed on the waveform on the screen. Billie had gone completely still, the pen in her notebook hovering in midair. Alex just stood there, shoulders rising and falling as if the recording booth had stolen his breath.
The control room was vibrating—not literally, but emotionally. It was the hum of something landing. Something real. The energy that had carried them through the last four hours hadn't dipped once. They hadn't noticed hunger or time or the way their legs ached from staying in the same positions for too long. The music had taken over.
This was what they'd come here to do.
Then the door slammed open like a cymbal crash.
"The support crew has arrived! And they come bearing gifts!"
Leo Martinez stood in the doorway, framed by the soft light of the hallway like some chaotic saint. Balanced in his arms were three stacked pizza boxes, a twelve-pack of soda, and what looked like a bag of hot fries poking out of his back pocket. He grinned like he had just walked into the Oscars.
The studio's delicate spell shattered.
Finneas groaned and rolled his chair back from the console, joints cracking. "Leo, you absolute legend."
"Your savior in greasy cardboard form," Leo declared, striding in like he owned the place. He deposited the food onto the already cluttered side table with dramatic flair and spun once in place, surveying the room. "So this is where the magic happens, huh? Dang. This is like—NASA for sad people."
He moved to the mixing board and hovered his hands over the knobs like a kid approaching a forbidden spaceship. "These things even do anything? If I press this, do we launch into orbit or just make Billie's voice sound like a robot?"
Billie laughed from the couch, stretching like a cat as she stood. "You touch that board and Finneas will actually murder you."
"Good to know," Leo said, hands raised in surrender, then reached for a slice. "God, it even smells like genius in here. Or is that just old coffee and nervous sweat?"
"Bit of both," Alex muttered, plopping down on the couch beside Billie, already two bites into his own slice. The hot grease dripped down the side of his hand. He didn't care. It was the best thing he'd tasted all week.
The studio's focus dissolved like sugar in warm water. The high-strung energy that had kept them moving, that had driven every detail of the session, melted into something softer. Friendlier. Leo's arrival acted like a release valve—letting all the pressure escape in warm laughter and the sound of soda cans cracking open.
For twenty minutes, music didn't exist. They were just four kids again, sprawled across a threadbare couch and some half-broken chairs, talking nonsense. Finneas launched into a rant about a glitchy video game level. Billie recounted a bizarre encounter at a gas station. Leo, in true Leo fashion, turned the bag of hot fries into a makeshift microphone and interviewed each of them on their "cheese preferences under stress."
And just when things felt like they might finally settle, Leo pulled out his phone.
"Oh, you know we're documenting this," he said, switching to selfie mode, voice dipping into a mock-announcer tone. "Live from the hottest, most top-secret studio session in Los Angeles—possibly the world—I give you: Alex Vance and the Echo Chamber mafia."
"No, Leo," Alex said immediately, holding up his hands. "Please no."
"Yes, Leo," Billie said from the other side of the couch, already giggling.
"Tell the people, Alex," Leo insisted, camera now zoomed comically close on Alex's face. "The pressure! The artistry! The crippling expectations of a sophomore single! How do you endure?"
Alex sighed, cheese slice paused mid-bite. "You're the worst."
"I'm the hype man," Leo corrected, solemn as a priest. "It is my divine purpose to turn everything into a moment."
So Alex gave in.
He turned toward the camera, adopting the kind of faux-serious expression you only ever saw in award show speeches. "Well, Bob," he began, choosing the most generic name possible, "it's been a spiritual journey. We dug deep. Got lost. Found ourselves. Broke a few hearts. Possibly broke a speaker."
"Bold. Vulnerable. Raw," Leo intoned.
"I've been crying every night," Alex added with a nod. "But like… artistic crying. Controlled. Rhythmic."
Finneas coughed soda through his nose. Billie groaned and laughed at the same time. "You guys are unbearable."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Leo replied, still filming, now dramatically zooming into Billie's eye like it held the secrets of the universe. "Behind these eyes… pain. And cheese."
It was dumb. Ridiculous. But perfect.
The mood in the room lifted higher than it had all day—not just because the session had gone well, but because for once, there was no goal, no deadline, no pressure to prove something. Leo had reminded them of something vital: that joy and success weren't enemies. That even in the middle of chasing a dream, there were moments worth stopping for. Worth laughing through. Worth remembering.
Alex looked around at the three people in the room: Billie, finishing her slice with one hand while thumbing through a melody idea on her phone with the other. Finneas, half-lost in the mix again but still grinning like a kid. And Leo, already editing the video together in some chaotic masterpiece of jump cuts and ironic captions.
This was the crew.
This was the center of everything.
And in Leo's absurdity—in his chaotic kindness, his endless energy, his ability to make anything feel like a celebration—Alex found something grounding. He wasn't just a hype man. He was a reminder. That they were still young. That they could still play. That the weight of the music didn't always have to crush the joy out of making it.
Leo finally collapsed onto the couch, flinging an arm dramatically around Alex's shoulders.
"Alright," he said, mouth half-full of crust. "Enough fame. Play me the damn song."
Alex didn't answer right away. He just clicked play.
The rough mix of "Youth" filled the room again—drums sharp, synths shimmering, his voice cutting through like a flare in the dark.
No one spoke.
Not even Leo.
And somehow, even through the chaos and the pizza grease and the jokes, the music still had the final word.
They were laughing. They were working. They were becoming.
Together.