Two children played on the playground, their laughter ringing out as they played on the swings. The chains creaked rhythmically, blending with their carefree giggles, until, slowly, the sound faded into a quiet atmosphere. After a few moments of silence, one of them spoke.
"Hey, Ray… would you support me in becoming an idol?" she asked softly, her voice barely louder than the breeze.
The boy pushing her didn't hesitate. "Of course! I'd support you in anything you want to do!" he shouted, a proud smile lighting up his face.
The moment hung in the air, until it was ruined by a sharp, persistent buzzing. Ray's eyes fluttered open. The sound didn't stop. Groaning, he turned toward the source, his damn alarm clock. With a sluggish swipe, he smacked the off button, silencing it. For a second, he just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the remnants of the dream slip away like mist. Then he let out a deep yawn and stretched, arms raised.
After stretching, he immediately flopped back onto the bed with a soft thud. Reaching over to the nightstand, he grabbed his phone and unplugged it from the charger. The screen lit up, dozens of notifications, all from the commission site.
He let out a quiet sigh. Scrolling through them, he began reviewing each request, accepting a few and mentally listing which ones to prioritize. The familiar rhythm of checking deadlines and reading briefs slowly pulled him in, until a knock on the door broke his focus.
"Ray, are you awake? We have to go to church soon," his mother called from the hallway.
"I'm up, Mom. Just checking some stuff," he called back, sitting up straighter, fully awake now.
He heard her footsteps fade as she moved away, and he finally stood. Slipping out of bed, he grabbed his laptops and carefully packed it into its case. He went to the bathroom
After stepping out of the bathroom, Ray slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and headed downstairs. The scent of breakfast greeted him, eggs, and something toasty. He saw his mom moved around the kitchen in her usual Sunday rhythm. He gently set his laptops on one of the dining chairs before sliding into his seat at the table.
Breakfast passed quickly, filled with light chatter and the clinking of cutlery. Once the plates were cleared, the family headed out. The car ride was filled mostly with conversation between his parents, their voices soft and steady.
Ray, meanwhile, slipped on his headphones and opened the mixing app on his phone. He liked doing this, listening to songs he already loved, adjusting EQ settings, experimenting with how they could sound better. It was a fun way, at least for him, to understand how to become better at his job as a sound engineer. By the time they arrived at the church, the worship team was already running sound check. Ray made his way quickly to his booth, moving through the rows of chairs and cables on the floor.
Once at his station, he set his laptop down and started connecting everything with practiced care- interface, headphones, cables, familiar motions that required no thought. He launched the mixing software, slipped on his headset, and started listening to the instruments as they played. Levels, clarity, live feed. Everything needed to be fixed before the service began.
***
"What a powerful Name it is."
As the final chorus swelled, Ray nudged the fader up for the lead vocalist, just a few decibels—along with the backing singers, right on cue. He had mixed this song enough times to know its dynamics by heart. His fingers moved instinctively, his ears finely tuned to every detail, the instruments, the harmonies, and the breath between phrases.
As the final line echoed through the sanctuary, he began to bring the volume down, vocals, instruments, ambient mic. Smooth transitions mattered, even in worship.
The team began stepping off the stage, and Ray turned his attention to the monitor. One glance at the screen, another at the lapel mic the pastor was using. He tapped the PAFL button, Pre/After Fader Listen, and listened in.
"Hello," the speaker's voice came through his headphones.
He clicked the "Unmute" button, then quickly checked the livestream on his phone. The voice came through clean.
Satisfied, Ray slipped off his headphones just as his partner leaned back in her chair.
"Good job again today. We survived." She laughed, pulling out her ear-phones.
Ray smiled and gently placed the headphones on the console. "They were off-tempo in the second song."
"Yeah, it was really noticeable," she replied, slipping her earphones back into their case.
She glanced at Ray and noticed the dark circles under his eyes. "You know, I was rushing earlier so I didn't see it, but your eye bags are getting worse."
"Well, that's what happens when you have too many commissions," he sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"You've been getting famous lately. What's your online name again?" she asked, curious after hearing the word commissions.
Ray looked at her and replied, "Reverbious Maximus." He already knew what was coming next and face palmed.
She burst out laughing. "I still can't believe you won't change that name."
"I made it when I was a kid. It has sentimental value," he grumbled, clearly embarrassed.
Ray and his partner chatted casually in the booth, their voices low and relaxed as they waited for the next cue. The monitors in front of them flickered with the live feed, displaying the congregation in real time. Just then, Ray noticed a subtle shift—people were beginning to rise from their seats, heading toward the stage for worship. That could only mean one thing.
"The preaching's almost over," he muttered, reaching for his headphones.
He slipped them on and leaned forward, tuning back into the pastor's words.
"So as we end today," the pastor's voice echoed through the feed, "I would like to take a moment to acknowledge the guests we have with us this evening."
Ray glanced up as the camera panned toward the projection screen behind the pulpit, where a list of names was being displayed. The pastor squinted slightly, then read aloud.
"Amaya Chiyoko."
A ripple passed through the congregation. Heads turned. Whispers stirred like a sudden breeze. Then, from one of the center pews, a tall figure rose.
She stood with slow, composed grace, easily over six feet tall. Her posture was effortlessly regal, like someone used to being watched. A cascade of snow-white hair shimmered beneath the overhead lights, smooth and straight as it spilled over her shoulders. She wore a crisp white blouse with wide, flowing bishop sleeves that swayed slightly as she moved, paired with tailored black dress pants that added to her sharp, composed silhouette.
***
"What is she doing here?" Ray muttered under his breath the moment the pastor read the name and his eyes caught sight of her.
His partner glanced over, a mischievous glint already forming in her eye. "You wanna get her autograph or something?"
"What? No," Ray stammered, suddenly flustered, "I don't even have anything related to her."
Without missing a beat, she reached into her tote bag like she'd been waiting for this moment all evening. In one smooth motion, she fanned out a small stack of high-quality photo prints. Each one of Amaya Chiyoko in different outfits, different angles, different lighting, like it was some kind of magic card trick.
"Which one do you fancy more?" she asked, flashing a playful grin.
Ray stared at her, equal parts amused and disturbed. "Do you… always carry her photos around in that bag?"
"Of course," she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You never know when you'll meet someone famous. I've got photos of other people too! Wanna see?"
Her hand was already reaching back into the bag.
Ray raised both palms like she had a weapon. "No. I believe you. Please don't prove it."
"But," he added with a sigh, "I still don't want her autograph."
She gasped dramatically, clutching the photos like a scandalized fan, but before she could protest, the hum of instruments began to swell through the monitors.
Ray's expression changed in an instant. His attention turned back to his console. His eyes flicked across the touchscreen controls, his fingers immediately moving to the channel faders. The first few notes of the worship song bloomed across the feed, the soft strum of an acoustic guitar blending with a warm pad from the keyboard.
He dragged his finger gently along the guitar's fader, raising it just enough to sit above the pad without overpowering it. The kick drum entered next, but a little flat in the low end. He reached for the PEQ settings and gave the low frequencies a slight bump, then narrowed the Q-band to tame a harsh resonance on the snare. Then, one by one, the singers began.
Ray leaned in, closing his eyes for a second to listen more carefully. He isolated each vocal channel through his headphones, turning the pan slightly on one male voice to keep it from overlapping too closely with a female harmony.
He dipped the highs on one mic, boosted the midst on another. Some were coming in a bit strong so he adjusted the gain accordingly, smoothing them out to blend as one unified sound. A female vocalist hit a slightly breathy note, and Ray instinctively rolled off a little high end to clean the sibilance without dulling her tone.
The bridge came in which was a gentle, almost whispered moment in the song. Ray lowered the entire mix slightly, letting the vocals breathe. The keyboard shimmered in the background like sunlight on water, thanks to a subtle reverb he added mid-performance.
Then came the chorus. Without missing a beat, Ray nudged the faders back up. He gave the electrical guitar more presence, let the harmonies bloom, and ensured that the lead voice cut through the wall of sound just enough to lead the worship, not fight against it.
All the while, his partner sat beside him with her earbuds in, listening to the live mix. Her teasing was gone for now, replaced by quiet admiration as Ray's hands moved swiftly, deliberately, like a pianist performing in total sync with the music.
Ray stayed focused, his fingers dancing over the faders and knobs with steady precision. He rode the final swell of the chorus like a wave, catching the decrescendo just right as the instruments began to fade out. When the last note gently dissolved into silence, he exhaled and pulled his headset off, resting it around his neck with a quiet clack. The pastor's voice followed almost immediately, low and reverent, beginning the closing prayer. A soft piano melody began to play in the background, gentle and unobtrusive, like a musical whisper.
Ray leaned in, pulled up the keyboard's channel, and gave it a slight boost. Just enough to fill the space without drowning the words. Then, with practiced ease, he brought the pastor's mic up in the mix, making sure every word rang clearly through the system. No hiss, no distortion, just clean, focused speech.
One by one, he muted the other channels, the guitars, the backup mics, the pads, leaving only the piano and the pastor. Beside him, his partner glanced toward the monitor rig they'd been using to observe the livestream's levels.
"Should I start fixing this?" she asked, gesturing to the cluttered desktop full of open windows and overlapping meters.
"Yeah, please," Ray murmured, eyes still glued to the screen. One hand hovered near the master fader, the other already fine-tuning the EQ slightly as the pastor's voice shifted in tone. Once the pastor finished speaking, Ray reached for the console one last time. He began muting everything, first the instruments, then each microphone one by one.
He pressed Shut Down on his laptop, the fans letting out a soft whirr as the system powered off. Then came the familiar ritual: unplugging each cable carefully, coiling them with practiced fingers, making sure none of them twisted or bent the wrong way. He slid each wire into its designated pouch before finally slipping the laptop into his bag with a soft zip.
As he turned to leave, he noticed the other laptop, the monitoring one, resting nearby with its charger draped lazily over it. "Here. Good work again today."
His partner handed him the laptop bag with a small smile before casually walking out of the booth. Ray nodded in thanks, watching her leave before fixing the monitor laptop as well. He walked out of the booth after finishing cleaning up.
The hallway buzzed with life. Conversations overlapped, footsteps echoed, and children darted playfully between the adults. Ray headed toward the familiar spot, the little area where snacks were usually served after the service and where his friends always gathered before heading out.
But as he turned the corner, he paused. There was a line, and Ray already knew why it was there. He let out a sigh. He started to scan the room. And sure enough, there was the snack table, same as always, juice box, and light snacks lined up neatly. Only this time, it wasn't surrounded by people. Ray started walking toward it anyway, his goal was simple. It was to get food.
Then, "Hey," a hand landed firmly on his shoulder, halting his steps.
Ray turned around, blinking in surprise. A man stood behind him, wearing a friendly enough expression, but clearly trying to be polite while firm.
"Did I… do something wrong?" Ray asked, puzzled.
"You need to get in line," the man replied, gesturing toward the back of the long queue.
Ray tilted his head, pointing instead at the table in the distance. "I just want to get food."
The man followed Ray's finger, eyes settling on the food table, which clearly wasn't where the line was headed.
"Oh! Sorry, my bad. I thought you were trying to cut in line." He chuckled sheepishly, already stepping back.
Ray gave him a small smile. "No problem. Enjoy your autograph session."
With that, he turned and continued toward the snack table, his mission back on track. He grabbed a small pack of cookies—just five inside—and a bottle of orange juice. With his loot in hand, he made his way to a nearby wall and leaned against it, popping the first cookie into his mouth.
His eyes drifted back toward the autograph line. If anything, it looked longer than before. Had it grown since he last checked? He let out a small sigh through his nose. Then he saw a group of familiar faces heading his way, grinning like they just won the lottery. A single drop of sweat slid down his cheek.
"Yo, Ray! Why aren't you lining up?" Jack asked, still glued to the signed photo in his hand.
Ray barely glanced at him as he reached into the cookie pack. "Food is a lot more important than an autograph, Jack."
Before he could take a bite, another photo was suddenly shoved in front of his face.
"That's just your hunger talking. Here, I got this one for you," Elara said, smirking as she waggled the photo of Amaya Chiyoko like a bribe.
Ray stared blankly at it, then at her. "I already told you, Elara, I don't want her autograph."
A dramatic gasp burst from nearby, "How can a friend of mine not want an autograph from one of the top models, actresses and singers?!" Noelle exclaimed, clutching her chest like he'd just committed a personal crime.
"She isn't top one, Noelle. Don't exaggerate," Ray replied coolly, opening his juice bottle and taking a sip.
"Still, it's kind of wild that you don't want an autograph—considering how famous she is," Jack added, carefully sliding his signed photo into his bag like it was some priceless relic.
Ray held up a finger as he chewed, signalling them to wait. After swallowing, he calmly said, "Just because she's famous doesn't mean everyone wants her autograph."
He grabbed the last cookie from his pack while his friends launched into full-on banter mode, peppering him with jabs and arguments about fandom and missed opportunities. He didn't hear most of it. His eyes were locked on the snack table again.
"Should I get another pack…?" He was already half-ignoring their voices. In his mind, an autograph lost its novelty over time. Cookies did not.
But before he could make his move, he saw several people already swarming the snack table, snatching up the remaining packs. He let out another sigh.
"Hey! Are you even listening?" Noelle huffed, hands on her hips.
Ray blinked out of his cookie-related grief. "Sorry, what were you saying?" he asked dryly, taking his final bite.
Noelle looked ready to unleash fury, but Jack calmly placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a pitying look. "He's a lost cause. Don't bother," he said with a gentle smile.
Ray rolled his eyes and headed to the nearby trash bin, tossing the crinkled cookie wrapper and empty juice box. As he turned to rejoin his group, he heard a chorus of shrill screams. Instinctively, his body tensed, head snapping toward the source. And it was just his friends again, being fanatics.
He scanned the area, eyes moving quickly as he searched for his parents. He wanted to avoid her, and fortunately, he spotted them near the other side of the room. Before he could even start walking towards them, he heard his name being shouted.
"Ray! Come over here!" Elara's voice rose above the background chatter. She waved at him with both hands, her smile far too energetic for his current mood.
He sighed again, his third or fourth time today, and definitely not the last. He was sighing way too much for one afternoon. Still, he knew he couldn't just ignore her. If he did, she'd probably just start shouting louder, and the last thing he needed was to hear his name echoing across the entire hall like a public announcement. So, with reluctant steps, he turned around and walked back toward his friends.
He kept his gaze on the ground, not in the mood for eye contact. "Yeah? What is it?" he asked, sounding more like someone being dragged into helping a kid than someone greeting an old friend.
"It's been a while, hasn't it, Ray Ray?" That voice and that nickname. They clicked instantly in his head.
He lifted his eyes, and whatever hint of expression was on his face disappeared. "Yeah... it has been quite a while, huh, Amaya."
The three friends around him immediately looked from Ray to Amaya. Elara stiffened—she could feel something off in the air. Something heavy, but Jack and Noelle remained oblivious.
"Do you two know each other?" Noelle asked, her voice bright with curiosity.
There was a pause. The background chatter from the crowd filled the silence. Then Amaya spoke, her voice soft but clear. "Yes. We were childhood friends. And also… we were best friends."
Elara opened her mouth to say something, but Jack beat her to it. "Ahhh, which would explain why he doesn't want your autograph. You probably gave him a dozen already." He smirked, proud of the deduction.
"So you guys were best friends and childhood friends?!" Noelle practically bounced with excitement. "Why didn't you tell us, Ray?! And that nickname—'Ray Ray'—it's so cute!"
"Were," Ray corrected flatly.
That one word was enough. Elara, who had spent countless hours in the booth beside him, instantly picked up on the shift in his tone.
Still, Noelle was too excited to notice. "But why didn't you ever tell us?!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and started shaking him like a soda can.
Behind the flurry of motion, Amaya's smile flickered for the briefest second. Then it snapped back into place, bright and perfect.
"He was probably too embarrassed to say anything," she said with a light laugh. "That's just the way he is."
Noelle, taking that as absolute truth, shook him harder. "Why would you be embarrassed to have her as your childhood friend?!"
Ray exhaled slowly. "Stop shouting. People are already giving us weird looks, and my head's spinning."
That made Noelle freeze. She let go of him immediately and stepped back with a pout, arms crossed. "Fine."
"Anyway, what are you even doing here, Amaya?" Ray asked, still trying to shake off his dizziness.
"I have to record one of my new songs. There's a sound engineer here I'm supposed to work with," she explained casually. That instantly caught the attention of Elara, Noelle, and Jack.
Elara, Noelle, and Jack immediately began peppering Amaya with questions, what the song was about, when it would release, if it had a music video. Amaya answered each one with enthusiasm, her energy pulling them in.
Ray took the opportunity to quietly slip away. While his friends were distracted, he made his way over to his parents, who were chatting with some other people. He pulled out his phone and checked his email, no new commission notifications. Yet.
After a while, his parents finally decided it was time to leave. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and followed them toward the car, doing his best to avoid being seen by his friends, who were starting to look around for him.
Once they reached the car, Ray gently placed his two bags, each containing a laptop, into the back before sliding into the seat. His father started the engine and turned on the AC, then pulled out of the parking spot.
"Amaya's really grown, don't you think?" his father said, just as Ray was about to put his earphones in.
"I can't believe she became that famous already," his mother added, still clearly amazed.
"Aren't you proud of her, Ray?" she asked, turning her attention toward him.
Ray hesitated for a few seconds before replying in a low voice, "Yeah… I guess I am." He turned his head to the window.
"I remember how you two were inseparable. Always sticking together," his father said with a small chuckle.
"Oh, yeah," his mother added, laughing softly. "When it was time to go home, you two would always grumble about it."
Ray didn't respond. He stayed quiet, lost in thought, while his parents continued reminiscing about the past.
A few minutes later, they arrived home. Ray remembered he had an appointment with a client in two hours. Once the car was parked in the driveway, he grabbed both of his laptop bags and headed inside. He walked straight to his room, dropped the bags on his bed, then grabbed a change of clothes form his wardrobe and headed into the bathroom.
Ray stepped out of the bathroom, hair still faintly damp, he already had his change of clothes already on. He grabbed his phone from the desk and gave the screen a quick glance, trying to see if there was a message from the client. When he saw there was none, he checked the time. An hour and forty minutes until the meetup.
He set a one-hour timer before dropping into his chair. His fingers hovered briefly before pressing the power button on his PC. As the machine hummed to life, he opened his inbox on his phone to see what commissions were waiting.
As usual, most were song-related, requests to clean up instrumentals, fix vocal tracks, or balance sound effects. He figured it'd be best to handle the vocals first. They were usually quicker to sort out. He downloaded the files from his commission bin, renamed them according to each song title, and sorted them into folders. One by one, clean and efficient.
With a few clicks, he loaded the first vocal file into his editing software, pulled out his headphones, and pressed play. Muffled. The voice had no clarity almost as if it had been recorded through a sock. Probably a budget mic. He opened the PEQ and started adjusting frequencies, dialling back the mud and bringing out the clarity in the singer's tone. After a few tweaks and a full playback, it sounded clean enough.
The moment he hit play on the next file, he winced. This one was all over the place, notes drifting off key like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. He leaned back, exhaled slowly through his nose. He'd gotten a bit too confident about how much he could finish in one hour. He had forgotten how some people really did just hit record and hope for the best.
Without hesitation, he opened VoxAligner, dropped in the vocal file, and zeroed in on the pitch. Coloured blobs filled the screen in scattered chaos. He zoomed in and started realigning each note by ear, dragging them into place one by one.
***
An hour passed quicker than expected. When the timer buzzed, Ray had only managed to finish six out of the seventeen vocal tracks. Not ideal, but he wasn't too surprised. He saved his work and marked the completed files so he wouldn't lose track later, likely tonight, when he picked things back up.
Afterward, he glanced at the mirror nearby, debating whether or not to style his hair. One look was enough to decide. It wasn't terrible, and honestly, he didn't feel like putting in the effort. He went downstairs and he grabbed his father's car keys from the hook near the entrance, then walked into the living room where his dad was relaxing on the couch, eyes locked on the TV.
"Dad, I'm taking the car. I've got a client to meet," Ray said, already halfway into the room.
His dad turned slightly, throwing him a lazy smirk. "Just don't scratch it. I like my paint job."
Ray chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Can you let Mom know I won't be home for dinner?"
"She was thinking of ordering out anyway, so you're good," his dad replied, already turning his attention back to the screen.
"I'll head out then." Ray slipped on his shoes by the door and stepped outside.
He walked up the driveway and hit the unlock button on the keys. The car's lights blinked in response. He slid into the driver's seat, pressed the ignition button, and eased out of the driveway. As he drove, he tapped his phone's screen at a red light and double-checked the meeting location. A café, one of those pricey, glass-windowed places that made him hope the client would pick up the tab.
Even with decent income from his audio gigs, he wasn't about to pass up a free meal. The light turned green. Ray turned up the radio, leaned back slightly, and let the music fill the car as he made his way across town.
***
When Ray spotted the café, he pulled into the parking area and found a spot. After locking the car, he stepped inside, the scent of roasted beans and warm pastries greeting him. He pulled out his phone and called the client. It rang a few times before someone picked up.
"Hello? Who is this?" a voice asked on the other end.
"Uh... This is… Reverbious Maximus. I'm at the location right now. Which table are we meeting at?" He cringed slightly as he said it, still regretting the name, especially after what happened earlier.
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't save your number. Can you see someone standing up?" the voice replied, Ray looked around. A man in a suit was standing with a phone pressed to his ear, scanning the room. Ray figured it was him.
"Yeah, I see you." He ended the call and started walking over.
When he reached the table, he placed a hand lightly on the man's shoulder in greeting. "Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Ray, or well Reverbious Maximus."
The man turned around with a wide grin. "Ah, good to finally meet the person behind that infamous name."
But before they could continue, a familiar voice broke through from behind. "Ray? What are you doing here?"
He froze, turning toward the sound. There she was, Amaya. "What… wait, what are you doing here?" His voice mirrored her shock, his brows lifting as he tried to process the coincidence.
The man glanced at Ray, then back at Amaya. For both Ray and Amaya, felt déjà vu at the reaction. "Do you two know each other?" he asked.
Amaya opened her mouth to answer, but Ray beat her to it. "Yeah… sort of." His tone carried a dismissive edge.
The man clasped his hands together with a small, satisfied smile. "That makes things easier, then." He slid into the seat next to Amaya and gestured for Ray to sit as well.
Once Ray settled in, the man leaned forward. "Alright then, let's get started, Mr. Ray."
Ray nodded. "Yeah. Alright."
The man tilted his head. "So, I heard you can create a soundtrack based on the singer's voice and the lyrics?" His tone was curious, almost hopeful.
Ray nodded again, then gave a short explanation. "It's a bit trickier than standard mixing, but as long as I have the lyrics and the singer's tone, I can synthesize the instrumentals to match."
"Good… that's good," the man said, sounding relieved.
Ray raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why that's the first thing you wanted to know? Most clients don't start there."
The manager hesitated, glancing toward Amaya. She gave him a small nod, signalling him to explain.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "The last band we worked with… let's just say they were asking for some very questionable payments. And as her manager, I wasn't going to allow it."
Ray's eyebrow lifted slightly higher, but he didn't comment. A short silence hung over the table before the manager clapped his hands lightly, his mood shifting back to business. "Anyway! How much will we owe you?"
"I'll need to see how long it'll take first," Ray replied evenly. "I have to calculate how hard it'll be to build the instruments around Amaya's vocals."
"That's fair," the manager said.
"I'll also need to hear her raw vocals in a proper studio," Ray added. "Can't risk poor mic quality messing with the work."
The manager looked at Amaya again. She simply nodded, glancing to the side before returning her gaze to the table. "Well, she's fine with it," the manager said, smiling. "Just email me the location."
As the conversation wound down, the food the manager had ordered ahead of time arrived. Plates were set on the table, and the awkwardness slowly faded into the background. They ate quietly for a while, business talk forgotten.
Ray focused on the sweets, and for the first time all evening, his expression softened. Amaya, sitting beside him, caught herself smiling as she watched him.
I almost forgot how cute he looks when he eats sweets, she thought, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before taking another bite.
***
After they finished eating, the manager stood up, brushing his hands together. "I'll go pay the bill. Be right back."
Before Ray or Amaya could say anything, he was already heading off to the counter, humming cheerfully as he walked. Silence settled over the table.
The air felt heavier now, awkward in a way neither of them seemed eager to fix. Ray kept his eyes on the table, pretending to be interested in the untouched napkin beside his plate. Amaya, on the other hand, couldn't help sneaking glances at him. Just a few minutes ago, he'd been eating sweets with that calm, relaxed expression, and now he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but to be in a place with her.
She let out a quiet sigh and straightened her posture. "How have you been… these past couple of years?" Her voice was soft, an attempt to break the ice.
Ray froze for a second. Then, in a low, almost guarded tone, he replied, "I've… been doing fine." It wasn't much and it wasn't warm but nevertheless it was a response
Amaya nodded slightly, though her lips pressed together, as if searching for another topic. Nothing came. Instead, she closed her eyes briefly, exhaled, and sat up straighter.
"Look… I want to talk about what happened that day," she said at last.
Ray's expression hardened immediately. He didn't even look at her. That memory, the words she had said, he'd tried to bury it, but it had never really left. It was still there, sharp and vivid, no matter how many times he told himself he'd moved on.
"I think you and I both know," he said slowly, "that what you said back then was something you truly meant. And I've accepted it. I accepted it a long time ago."
"Ray!" Her voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through. "You're not even going to hear me out before dismissing me?"
He turned to her, his calm cracking just a little. "Just because you want to talk about it," he said, his tone edged with quiet anger, "doesn't mean I want to."
"Why can't you at least listen to what I have to say before dismissing me!?" Amaya's voice rose, but she quickly lowered it, mindful of the quiet café around them.
Ray's shoulders stiffened. "It hurts just remembering it, okay? Talking about it won't make me feel any better."
He paused, his hands curling into fists on his lap. His voice wavered, quiet but raw.
"Every time I think about it… my chest hurts," he admitted, each word strained. "I can still hear it, the harsh words… the laughter. It won't leave me. No matter how much I try, it's burned into my memory."
His breath hitched, uneven. He looked down, unable to keep speaking. The weight of it pressed against his ribs, dragging him back to that day… and that feeling he wished he could forget.
Amaya sat frozen, her lips pressed together, guilt flickering in her eyes. She wanted to reach across the table, to say something, anything, but nothing seemed to feel right.
And then, "Hey guys!" Her manager returned, smiling as if nothing had happened. "Sorry for the wait. The line was way too long. What did I miss?"
Amaya's chance slipped away. She couldn't say it. Not now.
Ray stood abruptly, his chair scraping softly against the floor. "Uh… thank you for the meal. I'll email you the studio location once I book a room. I've got commissions I need to get back to."
He gave a quick bow, not waiting for a response, and headed straight for the exit. Amaya watched him leave, her chest tight with words she couldn't say.
"Well, he's a busy guy. We should probably go—" The manager stopped mid-sentence when he glanced to his side. Amaya sat there, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Ray…" she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling. "Please… just let me apologize properly."
She didn't care that he couldn't hear her now. The words spilled out anyway, quiet and raw, as if saying them to herself was the only thing she could do.
***
When Ray got into the car, his breathing was uneven, the memory of what had just happened replaying in his mind. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and focused on steadying himself. After a moment, his breathing levelled out, but the thoughts didn't stop, it played like a broken record.
He drew in a slow breath and started the engine. His mind wasn't in the best place right now, but work was still waiting at home. That was reason enough to keep moving. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Not long after, the rain began. At first, it was just a soft sound against the windshield, but as he drove, it grew louder. He switched on the wipers, the rhythmic scrape of rubber against glass filling the silence.
Normally, he'd have music playing by now. But with his head already a mess, he decided against it. Music could change your mood, for better or worse, and tonight he couldn't risk being dragged any deeper. Instead, it was just him, the hum of the engine, his hands gripping the wheel like it was his anchor, and the steady sound of rain hitting the car.
And even then, Amaya's words crept back in, her plea for him to let her explain. He clenched the wheel tighter. He didn't want to remember that day.
***
Amaya's tears had stopped, but she was still sniffling. Her manager glanced at her from the driver's seat, worry etched into his face. He'd worked with her long enough to know her moods, and seeing her like this, suddenly breaking down, was something entirely new.
For a while, the only sounds were the rain tapping against the windshield and the steady sweep of the wipers. Eventually, he couldn't take the silence anymore.
"Amaya," he asked gently, "did Sir Ray say something to you? Do you… want me to find another sound engineer?"
Amaya didn't respond. Her eyes stayed on the window, watching the city blur behind streaks of rain. Then, after a few quiet moments, she spoke softly.
"Have you ever… mocked your best friend? Laughed along with others who were mocking him too?"
Her manager frowned, his concern deepening. "Why are you asking me this?"
Amaya's hands curled in her lap, her voice trembling. "Ray was my best friend… years ago. And I made a mistake. A terrible one. Something that gave him trust issues. And today, I found out that mistake… that mistake gave him anxiety."
Her throat tightened. The guilt felt heavier than the rain outside, and for a second, she thought she might try again. The manager stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the road as he let the sound of the rain fill the silence. Then, finally, he spoke.
"Amaya," he said carefully, "can you tell me exactly what happened? I can't help you if I don't know the full story."
Amaya hesitated, her lips pressed together before she whispered, almost as if admitting it hurt. "It happened the day I got that massive offer… from a music company. We were thirteen back then. So… I guess you could say it was about eight years ago."
She paused, then added softly, "I still remember… the way he looked at me when I laughed with them. He didn't say anything. He just… stood there, staring at me like he didn't even know me anymore."
Her manager glanced at her, frowning. "If this was eight years ago, then it was a year before I became your manager… What exactly did you say or agree with them?"
Amaya's hands tightened in her lap. "I had just finished a modelling session… a summer campaign for kids' clothing. That's when I met some people from Hollowtone Records."
Her manager blinked. "Hollowtone? The music company?"
"Yeah…" Amaya's gaze shifted toward the window, her voice quieter now. "It went under three years ago, but back then… they were everywhere."
For a moment, her eyes unfocused, the rain outside blurring into a distant memory she couldn't shake.
"I was resting when they approached me… and they asked if I wanted to make music with them."
She let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. "Of course, I was desperate to become famous at that age, so I agreed immediately—without even stopping to think if I should."
Her voice faltered as she grabbed her sleeve, holding it tightly. "Ray… he was training to be a sound engineer back then because he promised me… he promised me he'd support my dream of becoming an idol."
Her manager nodded slowly. "So you requested that they allow him to mix your song?"
Amaya nodded back. "That's when it happened. They refused my request… and then they started saying awful things about him. That he was just a kid chasing dreams. That he'd never keep up with my career. That he was nothing but… a burden to me." Her voice grew softer with every word, guilt heavy in her tone.
Amaya's hands tightened around her sleeves, her eyes fixed on the rain-streaked scenery outside.
"And then… another idol from the company walked in. She looked straight at me, smirked, and said Ray's editing wasn't even considered real work in the music industry."
She took a shaky breath. "She called it cheap, amateur mixing, like something an unknown fan would throw together to steal my songs and pass them off as theirs. Then she laughed… and said my career would be over if I kept relying on a dead weight like him."
Amaya's voice cracked. "And… and I… I wanted to be famous so badly that I laughed along with them. I insulted his work. I said he didn't even know how to capture my voice properly. I said his mixing sounded like every instrument was playing a different song."
Tears began to stream down her face again. "Because of my selfish dream… I betrayed the one person who was willing to learn everything just to support me."
Her manager stayed quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable as he drove. "And Ray heard all of it?" he finally asked.
Amaya nodded, her breath unsteady. "After that," she continued with a few quiet sniffles, "I never heard from him again. I tried to go to his house, but… they'd moved. He didn't even tell me."
Her manager let the silence linger, giving her space to cry. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm. "I won't lie to you, Amaya. What you did was wrong. It'll never be right. But the best thing you can do now… is apologize to him."
Amaya clenched her fists, frustration bubbling in her chest. "How am I supposed to apologize when he won't even let me explain?!" she almost shouted.
Her manager didn't flinch. His response was steady, almost too calm. "If you were in his position, would you listen?" She froze.
"Look," he continued, "you have a chance to fix this. He's the one mixing your new song. Prove to him you regret it, not with your words, but with your actions." Amaya stayed silent. The question, and his advice, stuck with her.
The rest of the car ride passed quietly, only the rain filling the space between them. But Amaya's mind was already turning, desperate to find a way to mend what she had broken.
***
Ray parked his father's car in the driveway and let the engine idle for a moment before shutting it off. He stayed there, hands still on the wheel, exhaling slowly as if releasing the weight of the evening. With a quiet click, he locked the car and headed inside.
The faint sound of the TV carried from the living room, his parents' laughter mixing with the chatter of a late-night show. He didn't stop to greet them. Instead, he climbed the stairs carefully, almost on autopilot, moving with the same cautious steps a teenager might take when sneaking back home late.
The familiar creak of his bedroom door was oddly comforting. He closed it behind him and leaned against it for a second, letting the silence settle. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and sank into his desk chair, tilting it back until it groaned in protest. It felt good to be in his space again, away from everything else. But the quiet wasn't kind. His thoughts started circling, dragging him back to the café, to Amaya, to her words. His chest tightened. He needed something to shut it all out.
He leaned forward and opened his browser and started to look for Studio rentals. Thirteen tabs later, he'd seen places that were either absurdly overpriced or located halfway across the city. His frustration was beginning to rise, until he found one. A mid-sized studio. Affordable. Good equipment. And the reviews were all five stars.
"Finally," he muttered exhaustedly.
He booked it without hesitation, filling in the form and double-checking every detail. Once the confirmation email arrived, he opened his inbox and began drafting a message to Amaya's manager. His fingers flew across the keyboard: a polite greeting, an apology for leaving abruptly, a brief explanation, too many projects to finish immediately .He attached a few reference photos of the studio he'd grabbed from the internet, added the address, and read through the email one last time before hitting send.
With that out of the way, he slipped on his headset. The weight of it against his ears was familiar, comforting. He pulled up his unfinished project from earlier, the one waiting quietly in his commission folder, and pressed play.
The messy vocals hit first. He switched to the EQ panel, adjusting frequencies until the muddiness cleared. One track down, another waiting. His hands moved with quiet precision, isolating, tuning, and layering. He fixed the pitch, then moved on to the instruments, tweaking them until everything lined up seamlessly.
***
The next few days blurred together in a cycle of late-night mixing sessions and cheap cup noodles. Ray buried himself in work, driven by his habit of finishing every project properly and immediately. Tonight was the last night. He leaned back in his chair, stretching until his spine popped, fingers interlaced above his head. The clock in the corner of his screen read 2:00 AM.
"Five days…" he muttered.
As he stood, his body protested with a dull ache from sitting too long. He rubbed the back of his neck, but his eyes drifted toward the date on his monitor. That's when it hit him, today was the day. The studio session with Amaya. He froze, staring at the screen for a moment before his gaze shifted toward the photo on his desk.
It was old. The edges were worn from years of handling, but the image inside hadn't faded: him and Amaya as children, side by side, grinning wide at the camera. Both of them flashing peace signs like nothing in the world could pull them apart.
Ray stared at it for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and collapsed onto his bed, lying flat and staring at the ceiling. Her words from the café crept back into his head.
"Why can't you at least listen to what I have to say before deciding to keep ignoring me?!"
He exhaled through his nose, his voice quiet in the stillness of his room.
"What is there to listen to, Amaya…"
A beat of silence passed. His eyes shifted back to the photo, "…Even if you didn't mean it," he whispered.
The exhaustion from five nights of nonstop work and too much coffee finally caught up to him. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and before he realized it, he was asleep.
***
A few hours later, Ray's eyes shot open. He sat up too fast, almost tripping over his blanket as he stumbled toward his desk. Grabbing his phone, he checked the time, and his stomach sank. 2:20 PM, Forty minutes before the reservation. If he didn't move now, his studio booking would be gone. Without another thought, he yanked open his wardrobe, grabbed the first clothes he saw, and rushed straight to the bathroom.
Four minutes later, he emerged with damp hair, socks half-pulled on as he slung his computer bag over his shoulder. He shoved a USB stick into his pocket and bolted out of his room. Thundering down the stairs, he nearly collided with the railing. His mother peeked out from the kitchen, spatula in hand, catching sight of him putting on his shoes in a rush.
"Ray, are you done with work? Come eat with us before you go!" she called.
"Can't, Mom. I've got an appointment!" He jammed his other shoe on without looking up. "Tell Dad I'm taking the car again." Before she could reply, he was already halfway out the door.
"Wait, at least—" she started, but the door shut behind him with a quick click.
She let out a small sigh, turning back to the stove.
Her husband came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I heard you calling for him. Where's our son?"
"Took your car," she said, stirring the stew. "Said he had an appointment to get to."
***
Ray pulled into the parking lot with three minutes to spare. He put the car in park before grabbing his bag and hopping out. He locked the car before, he took off across the lot, the studio building looming ahead.
By the time he reached the front doors, his breathing was uneven, and a thin layer of sweat clung to his forehead. He rushed up to the reception desk, panting. The receptionist blinked at him, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. She gave him a look halfway between confusion and amusement, her brows slightly raised.
"Uh… sir, are you alright?" The receptionist asked, tilting her head slightly in concern.
Ray raised a hand, signaling her to wait, and took a long, steady breath before standing upright. "Yeah, sorry." He reached for his wallet, pulled out his ID, and handed it over. "I have a reservation today. A recording room."
The receptionist accepted it and began typing on her keyboard. The rhythmic clacking filled the quiet lobby. After a few seconds, she looked up. "You booked from three to seven-thirty, right?"
Ray nodded. "Yeah. I'll have some people joining me. Do I need to give their names, or can they just say mine?"
"It'd be faster if you write them down," she replied, already sliding a pen and notepad across the counter.
Ray scribbled down Amaya's full name without hesitation. But when it came to her manager, his hand stalled mid-air. He realized, for all the meetings they'd had, he'd never asked for the man's name—and the manager had never offered it. After a few seconds of silent debate, he sighed and wrote: "+ her manager."
The receptionist glanced at the note, then back at him with wide eyes. "Uh… are you sure you didn't write this name by accident?" she asked, half-laughing in disbelief.
"No," Ray answered flatly, waiting for the key card.
She blinked a few times, clearly trying to process it, before awkwardly nodding. "Alright then… Room 009." She handed him the card, still glancing at the paper as if wondering whether she'd just witnessed a prank, or if a famous person really was about to walk through those doors.
Ray accepted the card without another word and headed down the hall. The studio was spotless, every polished tile reflecting the overhead lights. After a short walk, he found Room 009.
He slid the card into the reader. The door clicked open, and he stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of clean wood and electronics. He placed his laptop bag on the floor and took in the setup - a sleek, full-length mixing console with more than enough knobs and sliders to work with, a plush chair positioned perfectly in front of it, and a wide soundproof glass window separating the booth from the control room. He tapped the glass lightly and he felt that it was solid.
Ray sat down and studied the console, mentally mapping every channel so he wouldn't waste time searching later. Then, he opened his laptop, launching all the software he'd need: one for recording, another for monitoring any rogue EQ peaks.
Before diving in, he quickly emailed Amaya's manager, asking them to arrive at 3:30. That would give him a little time to get familiar with the room.
He put his headphones and, began playing some deliberately off-tune tracks he often used for warm-ups. His fingers adjusted knobs and faders with precision, each movement calm and practiced. Slowly, the rest of the world faded away.
***
"Amaya, I'll go park the car. You head in first… maybe even have a little time alone to talk with him," her manager said with a soft, reassuring smile.
Amaya hesitated, her hand resting on the car door. "What if things go wrong?"
He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "If things go wrong, at least you can say you tried. Don't fill your head with those negative thoughts, they'll only get in the way of anything good that might happen."
A horn honked from behind them, pulling her out of her doubts. She nodded silently and stepped out of the car, the door closing with a quiet thunk.
Her heels clicked steadily against the pavement as she approached the studio's glass doors. Inside, the lobby was calm, and the receptionist was focused on her computer, her fingers tapping across the keyboard.
When Amaya walked up to the desk, her tall frame cast a shadow over the counter, drawing the receptionist's attention. The young woman looked up and blinked at the sight of her, a striking figure in a fitted black button-up with structured bishop sleeves, paired with high-waist tailored black pants. Her white hair framed her face, though much of it was hidden beneath a mask and sunglasses.
"Hello, good afternoon," the receptionist greeted politely, clearly unaware of who stood before her.
"I have an appointment with someone," Amaya replied, her voice calm but clear. "His name is Ray."
The receptionist picked up a paper from the counter, glancing at it before looking back at the tall woman. "May I ask for your name?"
Amaya had expected that. Without a word, she lowered her sunglasses just enough to reveal her sharp, unmistakable eyes. "Amaya Chiyoko," she said evenly.
The receptionist froze for a second, not at Amaya's identity, but at the realization that the quiet man from earlier really hadn't been lying. "Uh… Room 009," she finally said, handing Amaya a key card with an awkward smile. "The door should already be unlocked."
Amaya nodded once in thanks before turning toward the hallway, her heels echoing softly against the floor as she headed for the room. Amaya thanked the receptionist with a polite nod before making her way down the hall. The soft, steady click of her heels against the polished floor was the only sound accompanying her thoughts.
How am I supposed to make him listen… when he's been hurt this deeply?
Her fingers brushed lightly against her sleeve as she walked, her pace slowing with every step. I can't force him. I can't push him. Just like my manager said… I have to stay positive.
Then she saw it, room 009. She stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Her hand hovered over the handle for a brief moment before she pushed it open. The quiet hum of equipment greeted her first, followed by music, perfectly mixed, and beautifully balanced. She froze for a second, listening.
As a singer, she could tell instantly: the bass was present but not overwhelming, the kick and snare sat tightly in the pocket, the electric guitar cut through cleanly, and the vocals… they sat perfectly in the mix, clear and warm without clashing against the instruments.
Her chest tightened. It was everything she hadn't heard in years. The engineers at her old company had butchered her songs, each mix more lifeless than the last. Two years of her career wasted because no one there understood how to make music sound alive.
This was what she remembered. Even back when he was just learning, he always found a way to make every instrument, every vocal, exist in harmony. Quietly, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, letting the music wash over her. Her gaze settled on Ray at the console, completely lost in his work.
The song played on for another two minutes, filling the room with perfectly balanced sound. When it finally faded out, Amaya quietly stepped away from the door. Ray removed his headset and stretched, letting out a small sigh of relief.
He grabbed his phone, scrolling absentmindedly, while Amaya stood there, debating whether to announce herself. She liked this, this peaceful moment. For just a little longer, she didn't want to ruin it. Watching him like this, relaxed and unaware, reminded her of the simpler days.
"I need sweets…" Ray groaned under his breath, still looking at his phone.
Amaya couldn't stop herself from chuckling softly behind her hand.
Ray froze. Slowly, he spun his chair around, only to see her standing there. His expression was a mix of confusion and surprise, as if he was trying to figure out how long she'd been there.
"I see your sweet tooth has only gotten worse since…" Her voice trailed off, the unfinished words pulling up memories she wasn't ready to say aloud.
A brief silence followed before Ray spoke. "Where's your manager?"
Amaya's shoulders sank just slightly, her smile faltering for a moment. "He went to park the car."
"I see…" Ray turned his gaze back to the screen, clearly unsure what to say next.
Desperate to keep the conversation from dying, Amaya tried again. "Your mixing… it's gotten a lot better."
Ray gave a small shrug, his response flat but honest. "Thanks… I guess."
That didn't help much. Amaya's mind scrambled for something else, anything. Then it hit her. "Do you still remember that ramen shop we used to go to?"
Ray paused, finally looking up and meeting her eyes. He remembered. "What about it?"
"I kind of missed it. Want to go there this week?" Her voice carried a quiet hope.
Ray turned back to his laptop, his expression unreadable. After a short pause, he spoke: "Fine, we'll talk about it. When do you want to meet?"
Amaya blinked, stunned. She hadn't expected him to agree, at least, not so easily.
"…What made you change your mind?" she asked softly.
Ray looked at her from the corner of his eye, face still stoic. "Free food."
She blinked again. "That's it?"
And here I thought he actually had a change of heart… she thought, letting out a quiet sigh.
Ray turned back to his computer screen, his tone flat but sharp. "Plus… I am curious as to what your excuse will be."
Amaya stood there, silent. Talking about everything to him was already going to be difficult, but his words had made it even harder. He was giving her a chance—a small, fragile one—and she couldn't afford to mess it up.
Before she could respond, the door suddenly swung open.
"Sorry, I'm late. I had to—" Her manager froze mid-sentence, immediately sensing the heavy air between them. "Uh… did I come at a bad time?"
He rubbed the back of his head, his awkward smile doing little to break the tension. Amaya shot him a sharp glare that only made him grin nervously.
"No," Ray replied, his tone calm and unreadable. "I was just… setting things up."
It wasn't entirely true—he had only been opening his software.
The manager cleared his throat. "Alright then… should we get started?"
Ray gave a small nod. Amaya sighed quietly, gathering herself, before stepping into the vocal booth. She slipped on the headset that hung neatly from the mic stand, her posture straight but her hands tense at her sides.
"Any song request?" Ray asked, already queuing up his instrumental files.
"Kizuna no Kizu," she answered without hesitation. "One of my originals."
Ray didn't have the file saved, so he pulled it up on VidNova and loaded the instrumental. After a few seconds, he gave her a thumbs-up.
The track began to play in Amaya's headphones. Ray adjusted his own, setting the volume to seventy percent. As he listened to the opening bars, his brow furrowed slightly. The original mix was terrible, the vocals buried, the instruments clashing with each other.
He remembered the settings he used for her back then, back when he still mixed her songs. Without a word, his fingers moved across the console, recreating those adjustments almost from muscle memory.
When Amaya started singing, Ray immediately noticed the excess bass in her voice and adjusted it down. His fingers moved across the console instinctively, and his eyes drifted shut as he listened intently, hunting for every small imperfection.
Meanwhile, the manager quietly observed them both. He was proud of Amaya, she was finally singing a song she'd been waiting years to reclaim. But what caught his attention the most was Ray. The boy was utterly absorbed in his work, his calm precision was almost mesmerizing.
Halfway through the song, Ray's lips curved into the faintest smile. The PEQ was perfect now, clear, balanced, and everything was in harmony. They were ready to start practicing and recording properly. He was about to signal Amaya when he felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder.
Ray removed his headset and looked back. "Is something wrong, sir?" he asked, expecting a request or a complaint.
The manager shook his head. "No… not at all." He hesitated before adding, "Have you and her… talked earlier?"
Ray tilted his head, confused. "Talked about what?"
"I heard about what happened between you and Amaya," the manager said softly, withdrawing his hand.
"Ah…" Ray glanced at Amaya through the glass. She was smiling faintly as she sang, completely lost in the music. He turned back to the manager. "She invited me to a ramen shop we used to go to as kids. I guess… that's when we'll talk."
The manager's expression softened with quiet relief. Ray, reading his look, gave a small shrug. "I accepted it. Don't worry."
The manager was silent for a few seconds, then offered a gentle smile. "That's good… Listen, Ray."
Ray met his gaze, and the man's tone shifted—earnest and almost pleading. "Please… let her talk with you about what happened. I know how much it must hurt, but at least give her that chance. It would ease her heart to know you listened." He hesitated, then added quietly, "She's hurting too, you know. Whatever you decide in the end… at least think about listening to her."
Ray didn't respond to the manager. Instead, he turned back to his console and slipped his headphones on. The manager watched him for a moment, quietly hoping that Ray was at least thinking about what he said. With a small sigh, he shifted his attention back to Amaya, eyes closed, completely immersed in the music. Ray worked silently, adjusting the levels and smoothing the mix all the way through until the song ended.
Two minutes later, Amaya finished the final line in a soft whisper. She opened her eyes slowly, breathing out as she caught her breath. Through the glass, she saw her manager clapping, while Ray stayed focused on the console.
"So, how was it?" she asked, her voice slightly winded.
The manager gave her a big thumbs-up. Ray simply pressed the talk button on his mic. "You're paying me extra for having to remake the entire mix," he said flatly.
"I don't mind paying extra," she replied with a small smile.
"Do you have the lyrics for your new song?" Ray asked, already resetting the faders to zero.
The manager opened his briefcase and handed two printed sheets, one to Ray, and the other to Amaya inside the booth. Ray skimmed over the title and lyrics, already wondering how to build the instrumentation around her vocal tone, but he knew that step would come after.
Once the manager stepped out of the booth, Ray gave a nod. "Alright. Whenever you're ready."
Amaya took a deep breath, steadying herself. Then, she began to sing, starting at the tone and pitch she envisioned for the track. Ray adjusted the EQ and gain in real time, syncing her voice with what he heard in his mind.
***
Several hours later, the recording was finally done. It had taken Amaya countless takes before Ray managed to mix a version she was satisfied with. By the time they wrapped up, it was already 6:50.
With only ten minutes left in his booking, Ray knew there wasn't much else he could do. Synthesizing the instruments would take far longer than that. So, he packed up, slipped the studio card from the door reader, and made his way to the reception desk.
The receptionist had changed with the shift, and Ray wordlessly handed the new clerk the card. Then, stepping out of the studio, he started toward the parking lot, only to be halted when a black car pulled up abruptly in front of him.
Ray tensed, ready to defend himself, until the window slid down… and Amaya's familiar face appeared.
"Get in," she said, tilting her head toward the back seat.
Ray frowned. "Why?"
"Because I'm hungry," she replied matter-of-factly.
Ray stared at her, deadpan. "I'm a sound engineer, not a chef."
Before he could turn away, her manager leaned over from the driver's seat. "Just get in, Ray. Trust me, you'll want to come. If she starts drinking, I'm the one who has to deal with her."
"Don't listen to him," Amaya interrupted, shoving her manager back into his seat. "Just get in."
Realizing resistance was pointless, Ray exhaled sharply and opened the door, sliding into the backseat. "Fine. But you're dropping me back here later. I still need to pick up my dad's car."
"Alright," the manager said with a quick nod, then glanced at Amaya. "So, where to?"
"To Izakaya Ramen Atelier," she answered without looking back, her gaze fixed on the passing streetlights outside the window.
***
They arrived at the location after a few minutes of quiet in the car. When they stepped out, Ray adjusted his backpack and stared at the building.
"Well, this sure brings back memories, huh?" Amaya said softly, gazing up at the sign.
"It's not exactly the same," Ray replied, his tone neutral. "Looks like they renovated it." The walls were clean, the sign illuminated with new lights, and the faint smell of broth drifted out every time the doors opened.
The passenger-side window rolled down. Her manager leaned out, smiling. "Hey, I'm needed somewhere else. Is it alright if I leave you two here?"
Ray opened his mouth to answer, but Amaya covered it with her hand before he could speak. "It's fine. I'll call you once we're done eating," she answered to her manager.
"Alright then. Don't get into trouble," her manager chuckled before rolling the window up and driving away.
Ray shot her a flat look, and she tilted her head. "What?"
"You know," he started as they walked toward the entrance, "he's probably just as hungry as you. You could've let him eat first."
Amaya smirked faintly. "He'll survive."
Inside, the restaurant was warm and lively, but it had changed. Wooden beams lined the walls, soft lights hung from the ceiling, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air. Ray looked around, almost as if he was searching for something familiar, while Amaya's expression softened with nostalgia.
A cheerful employee approached. "Good evening! Would you prefer a dining hall table or a private room for two?"
"A private room?" Ray raised a brow. He'd never heard of such a thing in a ramen shop.
The employee nodded. "Yes, we're currently testing it out."
"We'll take it," Amaya said without hesitation.
Ray didn't argue. He simply followed as they were led upstairs, where small rooms lined the corridor, each one with a sliding door. The staff member stopped at an open one.
"Here you go. You can order using this." The employee handed them a sleek tablet. "Your selections will be sent straight to the kitchen, and we'll deliver your food once it's ready."
Ray took the tablet from the employee, who gave them a polite bow before leaving. Amaya gestured toward the door with a small smile.
Ray looked up, confused. "What are you doing?"
"Boys first," Amaya said, closing her eyes dramatically and leaning halfway into the room as if inviting him in.
Ray blinked. "Isn't it supposed to be ladies first?"
She opened one eye, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "If you insist, thank you."
Ray froze. "Wait—"
Before he could react, Amaya strode in with a smug look of victory.
Ray stared after her, dumbfounded. "I cannot believe you made me say that."
She slid into her seat. "Now… let's order first." Then, her playful tone faded, replaced by something quieter, more serious. "Before we talk."
Ray exhaled slowly, tapping the screen of the tablet. "Fine…"
Amaya leaned slightly forward, eyeing the screen. "Can I look first? I'm starving."
"Should've grabbed it faster," Ray said flatly, selecting his order and placing it in the queue before handing the tablet over.
Amaya smirked faintly but didn't argue. She knew exactly what she wanted and tapped in her choices quickly. Once she pressed "Order," the tablet lit up with a green check mark and displayed a timer: 25 minutes. Amaya stared at it for a moment. Just enough time to finally apologize properly.
The air between them felt tense, almost suffocating. "I… I don't know how to say it without sounding like I'm making an excuse," Amaya began.
Ray didn't answer. He only kept his eyes on her, waiting, wanting her to say everything before he spoke.
"First," she said carefully, "can you tell me what you've heard?"
"The last thing I heard before I ran away, the thing that's been stuck in my head ever since, was…" He shut his eyes, inhaling slowly as if bracing himself. "…you pity me. That you only stuck around because I was your childhood friend. And that you agreed I was unworthy to be the one mixing your music."
Amaya's eyes widened. She remembered it perfectly, her mocking tone, the way she had laughed. The memory made her stomach drop. Her throat tightened until she could barely breathe.
"You know I would've accepted any criticism," Ray continued, his voice trembling, "but those words… they hurt. Knowing that's what my childhood friend thought of me, and finding out like that…" Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn't look away from her.
"Ray…" Her voice faltered. She didn't know where to start, but she knew she had to try. "Please believe me when I say this… I—" She swallowed hard, guilt pressing heavy against her chest. "I never meant those words. And I never will."
Ray's jaw clenched. "How can you not mean it when you said it in that tone? How can you say those words while laughing your head off!?" His voice wasn't loud, but the anger in it was sharp enough to cut.
Her eyes brimmed with tears she tried to hold back. "I mean it, Ray…" Her voice cracked. "I never… meant a single word of it."
"Then tell me why you acted like you enjoyed mocking me to others! Explain!" His voice stayed controlled, but the tension in his expression gave him away.
"I was desperate!" she blurted out. "That company was so famous for hiring talented people, when they recruited me, I couldn't think about anything except…" Her voice broke completely as the tears finally fell. "…except the fame I'd get just from joining them."
Ray sat frozen, his chest rising and falling faster. He wanted to respond, but his anger was pulling at him, twisting with something else, something heavier. Finally, his eyes softened, and when he spoke again, it was almost a whisper.
"I knew you were desperate. That's why I was willing to always support your dreams." His lips trembled as he added, "I wanted you to keep that smile on your face. That's the reason I learned how to be a sound engineer in the first place."
Upon hearing Ray's confession, Amaya felt her chest tighten even more as guilt piled on top of guilt.
"I'm sorry, Ray… I know I don't have the right after betraying your efforts and trust, but…" She lifted her gaze, locking eyes with the sadness in his. "I love you."
Ray's eyes widened, shock flickering across his face. "What… did you say?"
Amaya's gaze dropped again, her tears falling freely now. "Yeah… Ever since I saw how dedicated you were in supporting me, I started to have feelings for you. I liked how kind you were to me. I liked how you always knew what to do when I was stressed with my modeling and acting career." She gave a small, trembling smile, knowing these words might mean nothing to him now. "I know it's too late to say it… but I truly love you, Ray."
Silence. Only their quiet sniffles filled the space. Amaya stared at the table, bracing herself for rejection.
"I…" Ray's voice broke the stillness after what felt like forever.
Her heart sank. She shut her eyes, more tears spilling as her chest grew tight.
"I love you as well," Ray said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide and glistening with disbelief.
"But…" Ray continued, and her heart lurched again. "I don't want to get into a relationship—"
Her breath caught.
"Yet."
She froze, blinking at him before her expression twisted into frustration. "Can you finish your damn sentence in one go?!" She swiped at her cheeks, careful not to smudge her makeup.
Ray chuckled, the sound light in a way she hadn't heard from him in years. "You know, if social media saw you like this, they'd call you a baby."
"And whose fault is that, idiot?" she shot back, but there was no heat in her tone.
They sat together in a comfortable silence, the tension from earlier gone.
Amaya exhaled and leaned back slightly. "Well then… shall we restart as friends before going into a relationship?" She held her hand out for a handshake.
Ray took it, smiling warmly. "I hope our friendship this time will be stronger… I love you, Amaya."