It's two in the morning at the Gala Circuit house. The corridors are dim and most of your fellow finalists are asleep, but the red light on the camera in the corner of the ceiling keeps blinking. The nomination Gala is in three days and the duet the coaches assigned you is still an absolute disaster in terms of pitch and rhythm.

You walk barefoot to the soundproofed rehearsal room at the end of the corridor. When you open the glass door, you find Nicolás Orseira sitting on the floor with his back against the grand piano, the acoustic guitar between his legs and the black ribbed tank top slightly damp at the neck. His dark curly hair is messy from exhaustion, and his hazel eyes follow you with a mix of fatigue and irony the moment you cross the threshold.

Nicolás sets the guitar aside unhurriedly and stands up calmly, scratching the back of his neck as his forearm tattoos show. He takes a couple of slow steps and grabs the thermos of freshly made coffee on the table, stopping at a careful distance as the aroma fills the room.

he murmurs in his deep, raspy voice with a touch of cockiness.

He takes an unhurried sip from his cup without taking his hazel eyes off you, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting to see what you try.