The studio didn't sleep. It just changed temperature between three and six in the morning, when the generators cycled down and the Lagos humidity crept back through the walls. Akin was there for all of it, coffee in a thermos that never seemed to empty, eyes red but focused. He had stopped going home after the second night. The couch in the lounge had become his bed, his jacket his blanket.
Day Two
Faye stood in the vocal booth with her hands clasped in front of her like she was waiting for a bus. She knew the song. She had lived inside *Free Mind* for weeks, singing it alone in her apartment until the neighbors stopped knocking on the walls. But now Sarah was on the other side of the glass, waiting to come in on the bridge, and Faye's voice had retreated to a place she couldn't reach.
Sarah watched through the glass. She didn't signal to cut. She just let the take finish, let Faye sing the verse competently, technically correct, emotionally sealed.
