My fingers trembled as I replayed the audio clip for the third time. That voice—smooth, unmistakable—was definitely Freddy Jones. Not on a track. Not in a concert. But here. In Studio B. Talking to me like he belonged among the coffee runners and cable wranglers.

"You always catch the reverb tails others miss," he said, leaning against the mixing desk like he hadn’t just performed for fifty thousand fans last weekend. His hoodie was pulled low, sunglasses indoors, fake name tag reading 'Eric Mills.' Please. Even his handwriting was famous.

Then Vanessa strolled past, eyes narrowing. "Since when does *Eric* get private sessions with the head producer?"

Before I could answer, Freddy—no, Eric—brushed my arm. "Don’t tell anyone. I need this. Need *you*.",

Now the security logs show someone accessed the visitor database. And I have three minutes before the next shift arrives. Do I wipe the records? Confront him? Or send the evidence to the only person who might protect us both?