Six o'clock in the evening.
As soon as class was over, Adrián Vega received a simple message on his phone:
Dinner together tonight? Sophie Lambert's treat!
No, I've got something tonight. You two go ahead, he replied while walking out the academy's main doors.
Just then, a red car was parked by the curb. The driver's side window rolled down, and a woman removed her sunglasses, smiling and motioning him over.
"It's been a while. Get in," she said.
"Hello."
Adrián got in after greeting her. The woman was Clara Duvall, his agent. She was about thirty-five, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes. When she smiled, she seemed warm and approachable; when she didn't, she carried a calm, steady authority that commanded respect.
"Adrián," she began as she shifted into first gear, "it looks like your song doesn't have lyrics. Do you want me to find someone to write them? There are only ten days left before the season starts."
"No, the lyrics are already complete."
"The arrangement… you did it yourself?"
"Yes."
"Perfect." Clara's smile was subtle. "Do you know what the real competition in November is?"
"What?"
"The 'Musical Revelation Season' is just the umbrella. In reality, each company is competing for Bellmare's debut chart. Only the top twenty truly matter: visibility, radio play, store displays… the rest is just noise."
"I understand."
They stopped at a red light. Clara turned her head briefly to look at him.
"Your song is good. If you make a strong showing in November's chart, I can transfer your contract to the composition department."
"Thank you."
Adrián's eyes lit up. He wanted to grow as a composer; he didn't need the exposure of being a singer, but he did need the recognition the system demanded.
Just then, the metallic voice rang in his mind:
*\[Ding Dong. Congratulations to the host for activating a new task.]*
*\[Task Name: First Song]*
*\[Objective: Successfully record 'La Vie en Rose']*
*\[Reward: Wooden Treasure Chest]*
The previous mission hadn't even concluded, and already he had a new goal. Reading those blue lines floating before his eyes, he wished more than anything for that night's recording to go flawlessly.
---
Half an hour later.
Adrián arrived at the headquarters of Astral Entertainment—a twenty-one-story tower of glass and steel. Everyone coming and going wore suits with a departmental badge pinned to the lapel. The air smelled faintly of fresh ink and coffee.
People greeted Clara as she passed, with the kind of automatic respect reserved for someone with status.
Clara, considered "number one" at Astral, replied with only a nod. She escorted Adrián into the elevator, and they rode up to the ninth floor, where the floating floor muffled every step. At the studio door, a stocky manager in a white shirt and loose tie, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, hurried toward them.
"Clara! The team's almost ready."
"Where's your talent?" she asked, voice cool.
"They're stuck in traffic; the debutant hasn't arrived yet. I've called him several times! When he gets here, I'm going to give him an earful."
"And why haven't you found a replacement?" Clara's gaze sharpened. "If you can't bring one debutant, bring another. In fifteen minutes I want someone in that booth—and not an amateur."
"Yes, yes…" The manager smiled thinly, hands trembling as he pulled out his phone to call again.
An assistant stepped out of the elevator, crossed the hall, and approached Clara.
"The general manager wants to see you right away."
"Understood."
Clara pinched the bridge of her nose, as if soothing the start of a headache. She'd been pushing hard that day, presenting herself to the higher-ups with a bold pledge. Before leaving, she swept her eyes over the studio crew—technicians, assistants, the manager himself—then fixed her gaze on Adrián, the innocent face behind all this sudden urgency:
"The song was written by Adrián Vega. From now on, the recording follows his direction. Clear?"
"Understood," the manager and crew replied almost in unison. No one seemed inclined to argue.
Adrián returned a polite nod. He wasn't letting it go to his head; it simply suited him that his decisions would be respected.
Clara left, and the manager disappeared for a few minutes to make calls.
Adrián and the technicians waited around ten minutes. Then, from the far end of the hallway, voices rose:
"If you're late, you lose your slot in this year's Musical Revelation Season! How many years have you dreamed of debuting, only to cause trouble now? And now I'm the one getting chewed out from above! With the pressure Clara's been under lately, you're giving me a pounding headache!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's my fault! I swear I'll give it everything today! Thank you for covering for me and getting me the company's last rookie slot. I won't let you down!"
"Less talk, more singing," the manager growled. "And don't raise my blood pressure."
A short, slightly sweaty young man appeared at the door, breathing hard but with eyes burning. He looked up and found Adrián standing there.
"Adrián Vega?" He took two steps closer, squinting. "It's really you! What are you doing here? Ah, I get it—you're working part-time at the studio?"
Adrián blinked. The face was familiar; he dug through his memory. Luca Moretti, from the Bellmare Faculty of Arts' vocal music department, already graduated. He'd seen him perform at department galas, and thanks to his stage presence, Luca had signed with a major company right after graduation. Among students, he was living proof that "it's possible."
The young man didn't wait for an answer. He lifted his chin, pulled a thermos from under his arm, and handed it to Adrián.
"Here, pour me some water. I ran here and I'm parched. After today's recording, as a veteran—" he tapped his chest with a grin, "—I'm going to debut."
A couple of technicians exchanged odd looks. The stocky manager saw the scene and felt his blood pressure spike again. Striding over, he smacked Luca on the back of the head.
"Do you know who you're talking to?! The song you're about to sing was written by him! You call him Maestro Adrián!"
Then he turned to Adrián, flustered and deferential:
"Forgive him, Maestro Adrián. Luca means no harm… he just speaks before thinking."
"It's always good to drink water before recording," Adrián said lightly, filling the cup at the cooler and handing it back to Luca.
The young man took it without quite processing the situation. The manager, still irritated, pressed:
"Show some respect. No overfamiliarity."
Luca opened his mouth, but couldn't find the words. Inside, he was thinking: *He's years younger than me! Show respect?* Pride and embarrassment tangled in his chest.
A technician, trying to ease the tension, stepped in:
"Alright, rookie, do you know the melody? If you do, let's work through the lyrics and give it a try."
"Yes, yes, I know it."
"Then let's start," Adrián said.
They entered the booth. Double glass insulated the sound. Luca adjusted the headphones, the condenser mic level with his mouth. The technician ensured there were no peaks; the metronome ticked softly. Luca drew a breath and began.
"The entry's not natural enough," Adrián cut in, pressing the talkback button.
Luca nodded. They tried again. A few bars in:
"You're over-enunciating. Soften the consonants, give it more emotion. This melody needs air, not a hammer."
"Alright."
Through the glass, Luca's expression wavered between focus and frustration. Adrián wasn't being arbitrary; his memory carried the original Adrián's vocal experience, and his demands were exactly what the song needed to shine. If they were going to share credit and royalties, the piece couldn't be anything less than its best.
Three, four takes. The result improved, but still didn't click.
"Ten-minute break," Adrián said. "Then we'll continue."
Luca stepped out and dropped into a cushioned chair by the coffee table. He downed the water in a single gulp. Before he could set the cup down, Adrián picked it up, refilled it at the cooler, and set it back in front of him.
"This… Maestro Adri—"
"Just call me Adrián."
Luca smiled awkwardly, screwing the thermos lid back on with clumsy hands.
"So… Adrián… you compose," he said at last, trying to settle into the new hierarchy.
"I was sick," Adrián explained. "My throat never recovered. In my second year I switched to the composition department."
Luca shook his head, letting out a sigh from deep in his chest.
"A shame, a real shame," he murmured three times under his breath.
For someone from the vocal music department, losing one's voice was a sentence hard to accept. He realized then that he was still treating him like "the kid from before" rather than the author directing his session. It wasn't always easy to see where camaraderie ended and professional respect began.
In truth, if Adrián had wanted to keep the song for someone else, the manager would have tossed Luca out of the booth without hesitation. The company's stance on Adrián had already been made clear to him—delivered in the form of a sharp smack to the head.
He'd waited years for this debut, and now it depended largely on the opinion of this "kid" who poured water without ceremony.
"It's fine," Adrián said sincerely. "Thanks for your effort."
Luca froze for a moment, surprised by the ease in his tone. Suddenly, he realized he'd been measuring things with too small a yardstick: Adrián wasn't here to humiliate anyone—he was working.
He took a deep breath.
"Let's go again," he said, with a serious look no one had seen from him all afternoon. "This time I'm ready."
"Let's go," Adrián nodded, rising with calm expectation.
Back in the booth. The technician signaled with a raised finger. Silence. No metronome—just music now.
The backing entered with a restrained warmth, a close, intimate pulse. Luca let the first phrase rise from a place less forced. The "natural entry" appeared on its own when he stopped pushing; the diction softened, consonants no longer struck too hard; the long notes carried a subtle vibrato that blended with the arrangement; each breath landed exactly where it should, as if someone had recalibrated the clock.
In the control room, Adrián didn't smile for show; he nodded when something was right. He gestured for another take, for safety, then one more with a different nuance in the second verse. They built the layers step by step. When it was done, there was a clean second of silence, like a well-finished seam that needed no ornament.
The technician gave a thumbs-up. The manager—still with traces of anger on his brow—let out a slow exhale.
"That's it," Adrián said, now with a brief smile.
The system's voice crossed his mind again, sharp as a click:
*\[Ding Dong. Mission complete: First Song.]*
*\[Reward: Wooden Treasure Chest.]*
Luca removed his headphones slowly, feeling for the first time that he'd truly sung—not just sung well. He looked at Adrián through the glass; Adrián returned a calm, professional nod.
"Good work," Adrián said.
The manager cleared his throat, conciliatory now:
"That take was solid. We'll clean it up and mix tomorrow. Clara will want to hear it as soon as it's ready."
"Perfect," Adrián replied.
A couple of technicians began labeling files, copying sessions, saving versions. The atmosphere had eased. The studio no longer felt like an operating room, but a workplace with its own rhythm.
In the hallway on the way out, Luca walked beside Adrián. The thermos felt lighter in his hands.
"Thanks for… this," he said awkwardly, nodding toward the booth. "You know."
"Thanks to you," Adrián replied. "The song is also your interpretation."
Luca hesitated, as if wanting to add something, but didn't. He simply nodded.
"See you tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow," Adrián confirmed.
The elevator closed, and the ninth floor returned to the soft hum of the air vents, the blink of LEDs, the quiet liturgy of a day that, without making a sound, had changed things.