The studio wasn’t flashy. No gold-plated walls or skyline views—just a cozy, dim-lit space tucked inside a renovated brick building in downtown Chicago. The ceilings were high, the walls thick with sound foam and old rock posters, and the air carried that electric smell of warm tubes, dust, and just a touch of coffee.

Thane had picked this studio on purpose. It wasn’t built for show-offs. It was built for artists who had something real to say.

The band had driven in direct after the last show, spurred by the viral wave of Field Notes From the Stars. With over ten million views, hundreds of covers already flooding YouTube, and people tagging them in stargazing videos with the lyrics—it was clear: this wasn’t just a moment. This was the moment.

Inside the control room, Thane stood behind the console, headphones on, hands dancing across the EQ with surgical precision. Diesel sat on a folding chair in the corner, arms crossed and tapping a pen on a legal pad. “Don’t screw it up,” he muttered with a smirk. “Half the damn world’s listening.”

In the tracking room, the band had spread out in a loose semicircle—no baffles, no isolation booths. Just shared space and open mics. They wanted it to feel like that night in the clearing.

Cassie stood center with the acoustic guitar in her hands. No flashy makeup, no monitor wedge. Just her voice and six strings.

Jonah was seated on a cajón instead of his usual drum throne. He tuned it gently, the old familiar tap-tap giving him peace. Gabriel knelt beside him, holding his bass like it was a sleeping child, keeping his touch featherlight and his face unusually serious.

Rico leaned against an amp, playing softly under his breath, running scales to warm up. Maya had her notebook open nearby, scribbling alternative chord ideas and murmuring to herself.

Cassie strummed a chord.

Everyone froze.

It was time.

Thane’s voice came through the headphones.

“Take one. Full pass. Just like the clearing.”

The red light blinked on.

Cassie began.

“The world gets loud…
but stars don’t speak in screams.
They whisper like we’re worthy,
of forgotten little dreams…”

Gabriel’s low harmonies crept in like a sunrise, layering behind her vocals with haunting tenderness. Jonah tapped a syncopated beat on the cajón, soft and measured—heartbeat tempo. Rico played clean, melodic flourishes that hung in the air like fireflies.

A gentle wash of shimmer filled the headphones. Like starlight had been captured in a synth pad and woven into the mix. Thane caught it and rode the faders just so, letting it swell with the second verse before pulling it back into near-silence again.

“Field notes from the stars…
scribbled on napkins and scars…”

The room held its breath.

They finished the full take with Cassie’s voice barely above a whisper. No one moved.

Thane clicked off the record light and spoke, voice hushed through the intercom. “That’s the one.”

Gabriel blinked, eyes a little glassy. “Already?”

Thane nodded slowly. “That was it. We’ll do a few safety takes… but that was it.”

Mark, still staring at his laptop, muttered, “Victor didn’t even flicker.”

Everyone laughed, soft and warm.

Cassie wiped a tear from her cheek. “We’re gonna break hearts with this one.”

Jonah looked around at all of them, then closed his eyes and whispered, “Good.”