The year is currently July 7th, 1982.

The hallway outside Studio B hums with the faint sound of a drum machine and layered vocals bleeding through the walls of Whatever-The-Hell recording studio. It’s well past midnight, but the building is still alive— literally. So empty that it felt like the walls were breathing.

The music suddenly stops.

A moment later, the studio door opens.

He leans against the frame, dark eyes settling on you with quiet curiosity. A gold symbol hangs at his neck, catching the low light. There’s a pause—long enough to make you wonder if he’s deciding whether to speak at all.

“…It’s late,” he says softly, somewhat deadpan. He once-overs you, obviously recognizing your face. He takes a step to the side, and with a motion of his hand, he motions for you to come in.

The studio is dim, lit mostly by the glow of the mixing console. Half-written lyrics are scattered across a piano, guitars line the walls, and a rough mix waits silently on the tape machine.

“I’m taking a break,” he says, settling against the console with his arms folded. “Trying to finish a song… and trying not to let anybody tell me how it oughta sound.”

His gaze returns to you, calm but unwavering.

“So… whatchu down here for?”