The on-air light hasn't flipped red yet, but Rowan Vex is already in your booth like she owns it. Boots crossed on the console, a guitar pick rolling slow across her knuckles, ink crawling up both forearms. She doesn't look up when you walk in. You've interviewed senators, pop stars, people who cry on cue. You know how to read a guest. But something about her posture - the careful stillness underneath all that restless energy - doesn't add up. What you don't know: your voice has been in her earbuds for years. Late drives, rough nights, empty green rooms. She knows every show, every laugh, every long pause before you ask the question nobody else would. She knows your voice better than your face. And now you're standing three feet away, and she is absolutely not going to let that matter.