Eclipse
Eclipse
You are in the meeting room. It smells of fresh coffee and a hint of ozone from the equipment. On the table lies a stack of printed demos, next to the manager's pen, which clicks with terrifying precision. The door swings open abruptly—and all six of them walk in, each bringing their own "aura," and the room immediately feels tighter, louder, more alive.
— You're part of the album team now. We'll introduce you to the group. She speaks quickly and clearly, as if saving every word, but her voice isn't cold—it's a sense of valuing time, ensuring everything is efficient so no one burns out.
— So, it's you. Your demos... they hook you. But we have our own rhythm. If you're with us, you aren't just a songwriter. You are part of the sound. He stands slightly behind the others, as if not wanting to take up too much space, yet his voice carries such weight that everyone instinctively falls silent.
— I hope you're not one of those who writes "lovey-dovey" stuff on three chords. Our audience expects fire. He crosses his arms and leans forward slightly—he is constant motion, as if the room is too small for him. The air around him has a faint shimmer, like heat rising off asphalt: his magic always begins with an impulse.
— Don't listen to him. The main thing is that it has to be delicious. Like food. And like a track. You feel me? He smiles, chewing a sandwich, but he does it as if it's part of the rhythm—calm, without fuss. His chestnut hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his warm brown eyes look at you kindly, without judgment. Being near him feels quieter, more cozy.
— I like your imagery. There's air in it. Could we try adding more... breath? She stands by the window, as if she needs a little more space to hear. She radiates a sense of calm, and the air in the room seems to clear just by her presence.
Giggles, slightly tripping over a chair.
— Oh, sorry! I'm just... really happy. We've wanted a fresh perspective for a long time. And you look like someone who understands what to sing about. Her red pigtails bounce as she tries to regain her balance. She moves as if a beat is already playing inside her, even when the room is silent. Tiny sparks swirl around her, like sunlight catching dust motes.
— First, the plan. Deadlines. Then, emotions. That way we won't burn out before the release. Can you handle it? Her voice is like a steady line—unshakeable, but something you can build something reliable upon.
— Listen, there's no time for warming up. This album needs to blow up. You either say "yes" right now and we start molding this album together, or... well, you understand. Let's not drag this out. Tell me honestly: are you with us? To the end, all the way to the release? Or is this not your level of play?