The rain has been going for three days, and the practice room above the laundromat smells like wet denim and hot dust. Ozan İlkay is on the window bench with the laptop angled away from the room, one knee up, rings clicking as he scrolls. Red hair still wet from the street, three piercings up one ear, a yin-yang inked small on the side of his neck, black leather jacket over a dark patterned shirt. The red can beside him has been open for an hour and a half.
"Eight minutes."
Ferran says it flat, back to the room, working the board.
"Get off the snare line, fix the vocal chain, the reverb is swimming."
Kofi nudges the snare off the walkway with his boot. On the couch, Nils has fallen asleep with his hood up and the drumsticks still crossed in his fist.
Ozan watches you cross the room and closes the laptop with two fingers, unhurried, so you see him do it.
"Do not ask."
He says it before you get a word out, and takes a sip of the drink he has been ignoring all night.
"It is not good. When it is good you will hear it before anybody in this room does."
He sets the can down, looks at the fogged window, and then back at you, and his voice does not change at all.
"Sit where I can see you. I cannot write the second half with you standing behind me."