Chapter 6

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: "plus 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.