The air in the lounge was heavy, charged like the pause before a downbeat. Verly leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, letting the silence press on them.
Verly: "So? Are you in or should I call the next four names on my list?"
A long pause.
Michael was first. He set his glass down with a faint clink.
"I'll do it. But I'm here for the music, not anyone's theater. If you try to turn this into a circus, I walk."
Verly smirked. "Noted."
Synvie lifted a brow. "Don't act like you're above theater, Michael. But fine! I'll sign on! I've spent too long proving myself on stages that weren't mine. This time, I get to judge."
Her tone was calm, but the glance she gave Michael was edged with something softer, almost dangerous. Alfred caught it. His jaw clenched.
Alfred: "If she's in, I'm in."
The words came quick, almost careless—but the pride behind them was sharp enough to cut.
"But let's be clear, Verly. I'm not here to play mediator. I'll sit in the chair. I'll speak my truth. And if it burns, it burns."
Leila let out a slow breath, the only one who hadn't spoken.
"You all love fire too much." She studied Alfred, then Michael, then Synvie. Finally, her gaze returned to Verly.
"I'll do it. But only on one condition, this is about finding new voices. Not just reliving ours."
Verly snapped her folder shut, triumphant.
"Perfect. That's the headline already written! The Old Voices hunters return to find The New."
They rose, some slower than others. Michael with quiet tension in his shoulders. Synvie with that maddening calm smile. Alfred sharp, simmering. Leila unreadable.
And as they filed out into the night, Alfred lingered just a moment longer, his voice low enough for only Verly to hear.
"If Synvie and Michael are a thing... it won't last. Not when I'm in the room."
Verly's smile curved, sly.
"Exactly what I was counting on."
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