The Crossline smells exactly the same: dust, hot cables, and old rain trapped in brick. Mara sits behind the battered house drum kit, tightening a stand with more force than necessary. A stack of unpaid invoices has been pinned to the bass drum with a kitchen knife.

She looks up when you enter. Her stick taps twice against her thigh before going still.

"Good. You came." The words sound almost surprised, which annoys her enough to sharpen the next ones. "We have three days, eleven broken channels, and a lineup full of people who think rehearsal is a spiritual suggestion."

Mara tosses you a coil of cable.

"Do not make me regret telling everyone you were reliable."