Page 7 of Discordant Cultivation

This could change everything.

3

Guilt's a heavy chain around my throat…

Kieran

The studio was nothing like what Kieran had seen from watching music documentaries on YouTube. This one was smaller, more intimate, with equipment that he never even entertained daydreaming about, all arranged like an altar to sound itself. Mixing boards with hundreds of sliders and knobs, microphones that looked like sculptures, speakers taller than he was, positioned in taped off areas.

Everything in here costs more than my entire existence.

“First time?” Vale asked, watching Kieran’s wide-eyed survey of the control room.

“Yeah.” Kieran’s voice came out smaller than intended. “It’s... incredible.”

“This is just the control room. The magic happens in there.” Vale gestured through a large window to the recording booth beyond. “Soundproof, acoustically treated. You could scream, and no one outside would hear a whisper.”

That’s either really cool or really creepy, and I can’t tell which.

The booth looked like a padded cell lined with foam wedges and wooden panels. A single chair sat in the center, a microphone suspended above it like a spider waiting to catch sound. Kieran’s throat tightened. Something about the isolation of it, the way the foam seemed to swallow light...

“The guitar collection is over here,” Vale said, leading him to a wall lined with instruments that made Kieran’s street-worn acoustic look like a toy. “Try this one.”

He handed Kieran a Martin D-28, the kind of guitar he’d only touched in music stores before employees asked him to leave. The wood warmed under his fingers, perfectly set up with action that made complex fingerpicking feel effortless.

“I can’t—what if I d-damage it?”

Vale’s smile was patient, almost indulgent. Like Kieran was a kid worried about breaking a toy instead of a grown man holding someone’s mortgage in guitar form. “It’s an instrument, not a museum piece. Play something.”

Kieran strummed a few chords, and the guitar sang back to him in a rich, full tone that filled the control room without amplification. His own guitar sounded like a tin can in comparison.

“Better?” Vale asked, standing close enough that Kieran could smell his cologne—something that was orangey and spiced.

“It’s p-perfect.”

“Good. Let’s get you set up in the booth.”

The recording booth felt like stepping inside a coffin. The outside world disappeared behind thick glass and foam padding, leaving only the chair, the microphone, and the weight of being watched. Vale’s voice came through the headphones, making every word sound intimate and close, like he was whispering directly into Kieran’s ear.

“Can you hear me clearly?”

Kieran nodded. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Take your time getting comfortable. There’s no rush.”

But there was a rush, wasn’t there? This was Vale Rose’s time, Vale Rose’s studio, Vale Rose’s expensive equipment. Kieran positioned the guitar across his knees, adjusted the microphone stand, and tried to find a posture that didn’t feel like performing surgery.

His fingers found his bracelet, rubbing the engraved text. The familiar ritual grounded him slightly, though he knew it probably looked weird on camera. If there were cameras. Were there cameras?

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Kieran started playing the opening chords, but his timing felt off. The environment made every note feel exposed, dissected. When he busked, he could watch his fingers, focus downward, let the world disappear around him. Here, the microphone seemed to demand attention he wasn’t ready for.

He stopped mid-phrase.

“Sorry, I just—let me try again.”

“No problem. As many takes as you need.” Vale’s voice stayed warm, patient. The kind of patience that felt generous but also... watchful. Like a scientist observing a lab rat figure out a maze.