Dayo met Blake at a studio in Burbank that JD Records owned but never advertised on its roster. The building looked like a converted warehouse from the outside, corrugated metal and no sign. Inside, it was soundproofed walls and a mixing board that cost more than most houses. Dayo had cleared the room himself. No assistants. No interns. Just the engineer in the back, headphones on, pretending not to listen.
Blake arrived ten minutes early, which Dayo noted. He was twenty-four, built like a basketball player who had stopped growing vertically and started growing in reputation. Two mixtapes, one EP, and a feature on a streaming hit that had kept his name warm for the last eight months. He was hungry, but he was also careful. Dayo could see it in the way he walked in shoulders loose, eyes scanning the room, cataloguing exits and cameras.
"Sit," Dayo said.
