The minibus arrived at exactly 9:57, slowly driving into the basement of an old-looking commercial building in Minato Ward.
In the last ten minutes on the vehicle, Haruka raced against time to learn about the industry ecosystem of record labels on her phone.
Although she had contributed to many major labels’ sales as a fan before, this was her first time transitioning from “someone being managed” to a “partner.”
She used to think that agencies managed everything for an artist, but after looking up information, she realized they were two different things.
Agencies were more like her “parents,” taking care of her daily needs, schedule, business, and image maintenance.
Record labels, on the other hand, were her “product managers,” responsible for polishing her voice and packaging it into CDs or digital streams to sell to fans.
After all, in this industry, few agencies had the confidence to handle everything from production to sales in-house.
But the relationship between the two was quite delicate.
Many agencies wanted their artists to maintain a long-lasting popularity without burning out too quickly, while labels preferred to release songs frequently when the artist was hottest, milking them for all they were worth.
This subtle tug-of-war over interests often became the biggest headache for agents in their daily work.
“We’re here.”
Ritsu gave a brief reminder.
Haruka took a deep breath, put on her hat, pulled the brim low, and followed him out of the minibus to the elevator.
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor.
As the doors opened, Haruka felt as if she had barged into a completely still, different world.
The corridor was extremely quiet.
The walls were plastered with gray damping material, and the floor was covered in thick, sound-absorbing carpet that seemed to swallow footsteps.
The deathly silence was so profound that she could clearly hear her own breathing.
On both sides of the corridor, the “ON AIR” red warning lights above rooms marked A, B, C, and D flashed on and off alternately.
Rooms A, C, and D all showed red lights, while only Room B’s indicator light was off and green.
“We’re here. Don’t forget what I said in the car. Also, keep quiet and say less.”
“I know, I know.”
’Come on, haven’t I been quiet enough all the way? You meanie.’
Ritsu knocked rhythmically three times and pushed open the thick soundproof door that looked as heavy as a bank vault.
“Excuse us.”
The control room that came into view was about twenty square meters.
Although not large, the space was packed with various professional equipment that she couldn’t name but could tell was expensive just by looking.
The density of top-tier industrial devices around her gave Haruka an inexplicable sense of oppression.
In front of her was a huge double-layer vacuum glass window, like an aquarium viewing pane.
Outside the window was an empty recording studio, with a single microphone standing alone in the center.
’That microphone… what was it called? U87? Whatever, it’s definitely expensive.’
Inside the window was a massive analog mixing console, with hundreds of knobs and faders densely arranged.
Although she was an outsider, she knew one thing: in this digital age, a top-of-the-line MacBook could handle most recording work.
She knew this because when she was in college, there was a roommate named Kurokami who specialized in this.
Back then, she had watched him countless times stay up all night wearing headphones and clicking away on his computer screen in the dorm.
When asked about recording equipment, Kurokami would always ramble on and say that computers were for amateur enthusiasts like them who couldn’t afford anything better; true industry veterans must use analog consoles.
Because the tactile feedback of manually pushing physical faders to fine-tune sound waves was an art that clicking a mouse could never simulate.
“It’s like playing an action game—no matter how good the keyboard and mouse feel, they can never give you the vibration feedback of a controller.”
Kurokami also said his dream back then was to save up and buy his own console.
And now, that “dream-level” behemoth was right in front of Haruka.
Behind the console sat two figures who exuded an imposing aura, clearly industry heavyweights.
One was a man in his forties, wearing a faded plaid shirt, frowning at the waveform on the screen.
That was today’s sound engineer, Katō, known in the industry as the “Golden Ears.”
The other man sat in a boss chair next to him.
He was around fifty, with graying hair, exuding a certain scholarly elegance in his dark blue turtleneck sweater.
When he saw Haruka come in, he stood up, the smile lines around his eyes showing an experienced gentleness.
“Haruka-chan, welcome back.”
This must be Producer Murakami, whom Ritsu had mentioned.
Although she had mentally prepared herself, the pressure of being “scrutinized by an industry elder” still made Haruka instantly switch into her obedient business mode.
“Mr. Murakami, long time no see! Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”
Haruka quickly offered a standard ninety-degree bow.
“Welcome back.”
Murakami walked over, not with workplace formalities, but like a concerned elder checking on her, looking at the bandage on her forehead.
“I heard from Ritsu that you’ve recovered well. So, has your voice quality deteriorated?”
“Hehe, I haven’t been idle in the hospital room either. I’ve been secretly practicing my vocals every day.”
Haruka lied without batting an eye, trying to lighten the mood.
“That’s good. No pressure today. You’ve sung this song hundreds of times. Just treat it like coming here for an afternoon tea.”
Murakami nodded, then turned to the engineer behind the console: “Katō, ready?”
“Give me three more minutes. I’m fine-tuning the input gain on the U87. The new vacuum tubes haven’t fully warmed up yet.”
Engineer Katō replied without turning around.
“Okay. Haruka-chan, go inside and sing a few lines to get used to it. Consider it a warm-up for your comeback.”
Murakami pointed at the transparent room on the other side of the glass window.
Haruka nodded and pushed open the soundproof door leading to the recording studio.
Thud.
The moment the heavy lock clicked into the slot, all outside sound completely vanished.
Before entering, she had thought that such a recording studio would require absolute silence, but this level of quiet was truly frightening.
No hum of air conditioning, no faint environmental noise—the whole world seemed to have been instantly vacuum-sealed.
At least in the corridor, she could hear the rustle of clothing and occasional faint ambient sounds from a distance.
But in here, she could even hear the dull thud of her own heartbeat from nervousness.
The recording area was only about five or six square meters.
The walls and ceiling were covered in dark gray sound-absorbing panels, and the microphone stood in the center.
It had a silver-gray metal shell, mounted on a stand via a shock mount.
In front of the microphone was a round pop filter, spaced apart from the mic.
She recognized this thing because once, when she went to karaoke with Ritsu, he had explained its function.
It started when she boredly asked Ritsu what the disposable foam covers at karaoke places were for, and whether professional singers used something similar when recording.
Ritsu rolled his eyes and told her that the foam covers from karaoke places were for preventing spit and dust, while professional pop filters were used to filter out the airflow from singing.
Without a pop filter, plosive sounds like “p,” “b,” and “t” would directly impact the condenser microphone, producing huge “popping” noises in the headphones that would severely affect recording.
On the music stand next to the microphone were the lyrics and sheet music for today’s song.
A pair of professional closed-back monitor headphones hung on the wall.
She walked up to the microphone, took down the headphones, put them on, and stood in position.
Murakami’s voice came through the headphones from the control room: “Haruka-chan, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you!”
“Good. Sing a few lines to test the sound. Anything is fine.”
Haruka took a deep breath and slowly opened her mouth toward the microphone.
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