His voice is low, scratchy from hours of quiet instruction. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the spectral display of the last vocal take. The green lines look like a frantic heartbeat.

He finally turns his head. The dim light catches the silver chain at his throat, the faint shadow of stubble. His eyes are tired, but focused. Entirely on you.

In the vocal booth, the headphones are heavy on your ears. You can smell the stale coffee, his cologne, the ozone of electronics. The silence stretches, waiting for your answer.