Chapter 100: Working With Noah (1)
...
Miami International Airport was a sensory overload for a guy who had spent the last six months hiding in the perpetually grey, rain-soaked corners of Seattle.
Noah Billy stepped through the sliding glass doors of the arrivals terminal, and the Florida humidity hit him right away.
He squinted against the blinding midday sun, dragging a battered duffel bag over his shoulder. In his other hand, he tightly gripped the handle of his scuffed hardshell guitar case.
With his long, ssy brown hair tied back into a loose knot, a scruffy beard, a faded flannel shirt, and worn-out combat boots, Noah looked entirely out of place among the tourists in pastel linen and designer sunglasses. He looked exactly like what he was: a broke, grungy indie-folk musician who had just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
A sleek, matte-black Cadillac Escalade ESV Platinum pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows completely concealing the interior.
The driver’s side door opened, and Zack Tuna stepped out. Dressed in a sharp, tailored navy suit with a silver tie clip, the young Head of Legal looked like a corporate shark. Zack walked around the hood, sizing up the long-haired Seattle native.
"Noah Billy?" Zack asked, extending a hand. "I’m Zachary Tuna, Head of Legal for Absolute Records. Welco to Miami."
Noah quickly shifted his guitar case to shake the lawyer’s hand. His grip was firm. "Thanks, man. Seriously. It’s... it’s a lot to take in."
"My client is currently at the studio," Zack replied smoothly, gesturing for one of the airport porters to take Noah’s duffel bag, though Noah stubbornly refused to let go of his guitar case. "I’m here to provide your transport. We have a suite booked for you at The Setai for the week, but Von requested we head straight to the facility first. He wants to get right to work."
Noah climbed into the spacious, air-conditioned rear cabin of the Escalade, feeling completely alienated by the absurd luxury. The leather captain’s chairs had massage functions.
There was a chilled bottle of sparkling water waiting in the cup holder. As Zack rged the massive SUV onto the sun-drenched causeway, Noah stared out the tinted window at the yachts docked in Biscayne Bay.
His stomach twisted into a tight knot, but this ti, it wasn’t out of anger. It was pure, overwhelming imposter syndro.
He had spent the last half-year pouring cheap beer in a dive bar, completely giving up on his dreams. And now, the guy he had wrongly accused of stealing his song was flying him first-class to sing on a highly anticipated debut album.
Von Varley had looked past the lawsuit, past the internet drama, and saw his talent. The sheer grace of that gesture made Noah want to prove he belonged here.
Fifteen minutes later, the Escalade pulled through the security gates of Neon Sound Studios.
Zack led Noah through the heavy glass doors, down the platinum-lined hallway, and swiped a black RFID card against the scanner for Studio A. The heavy, soundproofed door clicked and hissed open.
The air inside the studio was cool.
Emily was sitting on the leather couch, typing rapidly on her Vanguard tablet. Patch was hunched over the massive seventy-two-channel SSL mixing console, tweaking a drum loop.
And standing by the vocal booth, holding a cup of hot tea, was Von Varley.
Von didn’t look like the polished pop star Noah expected. He wore dark, loose-fitting streetwear, and carried a quiet imposing authority.
Noah stopped in the doorway, suddenly feeling incredibly small in the multi-million-dollar room.
"Noah," Von said, setting his tea down and walking over. He extended a hand and a welcoming smile on his face. "Glad you made the flight."
Noah looked at the hand, then up at Von’s striking violet eyes. He reached out and shook it firmly.
"Von... man, I don’t even know what to say," Noah breathed roughly. He looked around the incredible studio. "Thank you. For the advance, the flight... for giving
this shot after everything. You really didn’t have to do this."
"You’re here because you have a gift, Noah," Von replied smoothly, completely dismissing any lingering awkwardness about the past. "The industry is missing your kind of soul. I want it on my album. We’re here to build your future. Are you ready to work?"
Noah nodded vigorously, setting his guitar case down on the floor. "More than ready. Just point
to a mic."
"Good," Von smiled, gesturing to the room. "This is Patch, my producer. And Emily, my manager. Take a seat on the couch. Let’s tune up."
As Noah walked over to the leather sofa and unlatched his hardshell case, Von took a step back, his curiosity getting the better of him. He hadn’t used his system on the Seattle native yet.
With a quick ntal command, Von activated [Inspect].
A translucent blue screen materialized in his vision, hovering just over Noah’s shoulder as the grunge artist carefully lifted his scuffed Yamaha.
[Na: Noah Billy]
[Vocals: B-]
[Skill: Rustic Storyteller (B)]
● Description: The user’s acoustic lodies naturally evoke deep nostalgia, anchoring the listener’s emotions to the organic sound of the instrunt.
Von nodded subtly. A solid B- in Vocals was incredible for an untrained artist who spent his life playing in dive bars. Combined with that specific, high-tier acoustic skill, it explained exactly why Noah’s future music felt so undeniably raw and authentic.
But then, the System interface did sothing it had never done before.
A secondary, smaller notification popped up, highlighting the beat-up, scratched wooden guitar in Noah’s hands with a faint, golden glow that only Von could see.
[Item Detected: Weathered Yamaha Acoustic]
[Status: Soul-Bound (Noah Billy)]
[Effect: The instrunt has absorbed years of the user’s grief and passion. When played by the bound user, it passively boosts emotional projection by 20%. If played by anyone else, the strings will sound dead, muted, and entirely off-pitch.]
Von blinked, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even know the System could appraise physical instrunts, let alone classify one as "Soul-Bound." It was a testant to how much Noah had poured his actual life into that cheap piece of wood.
From across the room, Patch turned around in his ergonomic chair, eyeing the heavily scratched guitar.
"Yo, Noah," Patch called out, pointing a thumb toward a glass display case near the vocal booth. "We’ve got a custom Martin D-28 in the back room. You want
to pull it out for the track so we get a cleaner sound?"
Noah paused, his hand resting protectively over the tarnished strings of his Yamaha. He looked at the multi-million dollar equipnt surrounding him, then down at his lap.
"Nah, man. I appreciate it," Noah said, shaking his head stubbornly. "But I need to use this one. The expensive stuff is nice, but
and this guitar... we’ve been through too much. The wood already knows the songs. It just feels right."
Patch looked a bit skeptical, opening his mouth to argue about audio fidelity and studio standards, but Von imdiately raised a hand to cut his producer off.
"Let him use his," Von said, a knowing smirk on his face as he looked at the golden glow still radiating from the instrunt in his vision. "The expensive stuff doesn’t always have a soul. That guitar does. Mic it up just the way it is."
Noah looked up at Von with gratitude in his tired eyes. Von wasn’t just paying him; he actually respected his artistry.
"Alright," Von said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch with a blank notebook. It was ti to match Noah’s level. With a quick thought, Von allocated a massive chunk of his saved EXP to boost his own [Composition].
● Composition: D
(15/100)
● EXP: 2260
[Stat Upgrade!]
● Composition: B- (0/1000)
● EXP: 1275
A sudden, clarifying rush of musical theory flooded Von’s brain. Chord progressions, complex ti signatures, and lyrical structures suddenly clicked into place like a perfectly solved puzzle.
"Alright," Von said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch with a blank notebook. "I want a song that starts off feeling like a lonely campfire in the freezing cold, but by the ti the chorus hits, it sounds like a sold-out stadium stomping their feet."
Patch spun around in his chair. "I have a drum skeleton ready. Heavy kick drum, raw tempo." He hit the spacebar, and a slow, echoing heartbeat began to thump through the massive studio monitors.
"I have this concept," Von started, tapping his pen against his notebook. He was pulling fragnts of a massive hit he rembered from his past life. He barely rembered the song, but from his knowledge it was another song Noah had written in the future, and it perfectly fit the vibe of the album.
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