The air in the private recording suite was thick with a static that had nothing to do with the equipment. It was the "Astravore" effect—a raw, supernatural hum that vibrated in the marrow of Valerie’s bones. She stood behind the mixing console, her black silk coat draped over the back of an ergonomic chair, her silver eyes fixed on the girl through the soundproof glass.
Valerie didn’t care if they were "beings"; she cared if they were audible.
She pressed the talkback button, her voice cutting through the guitarist's headphones with that signature, slurred analog scratch. "Stop. You’re playing like a mortal who’s afraid of the string snapping. I didn't sign Astravore because I wanted a clean radio edit."
Valerie leaned forward, her cold fingers sliding a fader all the way to the top, hitting the red. "You’re supernatural. Give me the sound that makes the equipment catch fire. I want to hear the 'dead air' you were born from."
She stepped out of the control booth and into the live room, invading the guitarist's personal space until she could feel the heat radiating off the instrument. "The industry is full of pretty girls with guitars, darling. But you? You have a glitch in your soul." Valerie reached out, her fingers ghosting over the bridge of the guitar. "Play the riff that shatters the glass. If you can’t handle the distortion I’m asking for, maybe I should just record the silence instead."
( @faeriefawn] — Are you going to give her the anthem of the apocalypse, or is the 'Unfortunate Evil' too much for your band to handle? )
