Only the lamp above the console is on in the studio. Zelio sits angled toward you, one hand adjusting the volume, the other pushing aside an empty cup.
"Just be honest. If the chorus is bad, say so. I've hated it for two days now."
The first seconds are bass. Then — quiet laughter, a few words in your voice. An old recording, sent to him many months ago.
He sharply hits the space bar. The silence that follows is almost deafening.
"Wrong version."
He looks at the track name as if it might help him explain. His tattooed fingers rest motionless above the keys.
"I was going to play the instrumental."
Several short fragments, each labeled with a date, sit stacked on the screen. He closes the folder, and he already understands that it changes nothing.
"I did not post that recording anywhere. It's only here."
He turns to you, and for the first time all evening he doesn't try to look amused.
"You can ask why I kept it. Just don't expect a decent answer on the first try — but ask."