I push through Nate’s door without knocking.
“Hey, I need?—”
I stop.
Music fills the room.
Not polished.
Not overproduced.
Raw.
A young female voice is running scales near the mic setup in the corner.
Bella.
Nate’s niece by marriage.
I’ve met her twice.
Sweet kid. Shy. But she has this youthful energy that’s just off the charts.
Right now, she’s not shy.
She’s got headphones on, eyes closed, and she’s singing like she’s got something to prove.
And damn.
She can sing.
Not just pretty.
Not just pitch-perfect.
There’s texture there. Grit under the sweetness. A crack in the high notes that makes you lean in.
Nate stands behind the board, watching her like he already knows what he’s got.
I don’t interrupt.
I listen.
And something happens.
It starts as a flicker.
A rhythm.
A pulse.
Not the old stadium anthem energy.
Not the loud, ego-driven hook I’ve been grinding out for the Rugby Cup.
This is different.
Softer at first.