Alex never used to have trouble with the high notes.

Her voice had always obeyed her—strong, precise, and elastic enough to roar and then drop to a whisper without losing control. But tonight, every time she reached for the upper edge of her range, her throat was like sandpaper.

Months of nonstop work had finally caught up with her.

The tigress had just come off a world tour— “The Striped Supremacy Tour”, 151 shows, 51 cities, in 19 months, most of them with three-hour sets, encores that went long, and crowds that never wanted to go home. Her voice had been her passport. And she’d used it almost to its limit.

Logan had told her this would happen.

“Take a break,” her manager had warned back in Bangkok, after the final show, while Alex’s throat was still sore from screaming over the sound of twenty thousand fans. “You’re not a struggling artist anymore. You can turn this all off for a bit.”

But Alex had never known how to turn it off. The momentum of the road was addictive: the lights, the noise, the blur of faces. If she stopped, even for a week, she was terrified she’d forget how to start again.

Now she was back in Los Angeles, back in Studio B, chasing the first single for her next album when her body clearly wanted her to stop.

“I’m telling you, Alex, we can do this another time.”

Andy’s voice crackled through the talkback mic, low and steady, but edged with the kind of concern only people who’ve worked together too long can get away with. The lion sat behind the glass, surrounded by LED glows and half-empty coffee cups, his fingers resting lightly on the faders.

“I’m fine,” Alex said into the mic, tugging her headphones tighter.

“You sound like a chain smoker,” he said. “In a cute way, sure, but still.”

“I’m chasing a feeling,” she shot back.

Andy sighed, pressing the button again. “You’re chasing vocal damage. Take a night off before Logan finds out I let you murder your range.”

That earned a half-smile. “Still scared of her?”

“I’m always scared of her,” the lion said sheepishly. “If she finds out you’re here right now, she’d tell me to shoot you with a tranquillizer dart, and I’d probably do it.”

Alex laughed under her breath — a short, rasped sound that hurt more than she wanted to admit. She swallowed, trying to ignore the ache at the base of her throat. “Relax, Handy Andy. One more take. Promise.”

He rolled his eyes. “You said that an hour ago.”

“I mean it this time.”

“If you say so.”

The red light above the glass blinked to life.

The tigress closed her eyes, waiting for the track to cue in. The beat started—soft synths under a steady snare—and she let herself sway with it. Her body still remembered how to perform even when her voice faltered.

The first verse came easy. She leaned into the lower tones, her voice smoky and sure.

“Champagne’s gone flat in a crystal glass,
We toast to the end while the cameras flash.
I built a house on a hill of debt,
And called it love, and called it respect.”

Then came the pre-chorus—the climb.

“Gold on my throat, diamonds on my wrists,
Singing revolution from a Forbes list.
If I’m the one who’s feasting, tell me—
Who’s starving for this?”

She braced herself, shoulders tensing, breath held at the top of her chest.

“If the rich get eaten, do I at least taste good?
Would th-hey—" The note cracked like a champagne flute in a too-tight grip.

“—savor the guilt like they said they would??
Am I the fire, or the—”

It wasn’t a pretty voice crack, not the kind that gives grit or emotion—it was jagged and thin, a sound that made her wince the second it echoed in the monitors.

“Shit,” she hissed, ripping the headphones off. The track kept playing, taunting her with the perfect pitch of what she’d done yesterday. She slammed her hand lightly against the booth wall, frustration buzzing through the multiple layers of soundproofed glass.

Andy’s voice came through the intercom, gentle now. “Hey. It’s okay. You’ll get it eventually.”

“It’s not okay,” she snapped. “I can hit that note in my sleep.”

Her voice was trembling, caught between anger and something smaller—fear.

Andy watched from the other side of the glass, expression softening. “You’ve been singing live every night for a year and a half, Al. Nobody’s body bounces back from that instantly. Not even yours.”

The tiger pressed her palm to her throat. It was tender to the touch, a dull, pulsing soreness radiating under her fur. “I just need to push through it.”

“Or,” he said carefully, “Hear me out. You could rest before it turns into a real injury. Logan’ll have my head if—”

“I’ll deal with Logan.”

He smiled faintly. “We both know I’ll deal with Logan.”

That earned a weak laugh from her. “Fair.”

The sound of her last take looped faintly through the monitors—her voice cracking, breaking mid-note.

She closed her eyes. “Fine. Next time.”

Andy leaned back in his chair, relief written all over him. “Next time,” he echoed. “After you sleep. Maybe after you drink something that isn’t Monster.”

Alex smiled, faint but genuine this time, tugging the cable from her headphones. “No promises.”

Her throat still burned. Her body wanted quiet, but her brain wouldn’t stop writing the next line. She turned toward the music stand where her phone vibrated again—the screen lighting up with Logan.

Of course.

She let it ring.

Once.

Twice.

She didn’t even move at first. For a second she let herself hope it was a butt dial—one of Logan’s accidental calls when she shifted her phone in that absurdly expensive handbag. That had happened once or twice before, when Logan had been juggling clients and caffeine.

But the screen didn’t go dark. The name stayed there, glowing against the cracked light of the stand lamp

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Alex muttered, staring at it. She considered letting it ring out, but the thought of the inevitable follow-up text—"Answer the phone.”—made her groan.

She cleared her throat quickly, twice, forcing the rasp away, and pasted on her performance smile even though no one could see it. Then she swiped to answer.

“Hey, Lo, what’s up?”

Even to her own ears, she could hear the rasp—the crackle in her throat.

“Still in the booth?” Logan’s voice was sharp and efficient, the kind of voice that cut through noise like a scalpel. In the background, Alex could hear faint city sounds—car horns, maybe the rush of people on the street. Logan was probably walking somewhere, heels clicking on pavement, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She rarely stood still while talking. “Inefficient” she called it.

Alex forced a small laugh. “Just finishing up. What’s up?”

“You sound awful. I thought I told you not to go in?”

Alex rolled her eyes and sank down onto the stool, crossing one leg over the other. “Nice to hear you too.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Logan replied. “You were supposed to take time off after the tour, not destroy your voice recording another album so soon.”

Alex rubbed her thumb against the condensation on her water bottle. “I’m fine, Logan.”

“You sound like a smoker,” Logan said. Then, quieter, “Andy told me you were in, go home.”

Alex’s eyes flicked toward the glass.

Through it, she could see Andy pretending to scroll through his phone at the mixing console. His shoulders hunched a little—guilty.

Of course he’d told her. Most likely accidentally. Probably some offhand text that Logan had read into. Or on purpose, he was scared of her after all.

“Did he?” Alex asked lightly, forcing a laugh that scraped at her throat. “Guess he’s trying to get me in trouble.”

“Guess he cares that you can still sing next month,” Logan shot back.

Alex stared at Andy through the glass, narrowing her eyes. He offered a small, apologetic look before pretending to check his phone again.

“Relax, Logan. I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re burning out,” Logan said. “You’ve been home from the tour for what, a week? That’s not rest.”

Alex tilted her head, her free hand sliding up to rub the back of her neck. “You’ve been talking to my doctor again?”

“I talk to everyone, but I didn’t need to this time. I can hear it.”

Alex glanced down at her lap. Her tail flicked once. She hated how Logan could still read her through tone alone. “It’s fine,” she said softly. “Really.”

There was a pause on the other end. Alex could hear the shift in Logan’s gait—the faint scrape of heels slowing against pavement. “Alex,” she said finally, voice lower now, quieter. “This isn’t a fight. I’m just telling you to slow down before you make it one.”

“I’ll sleep when it’s done,” Alex murmured.

“That’s what you said before Berlin. You lost your voice for two weeks.”

“That was different.”

“Everything’s different until it’s not,” Logan said. Her voice had softened, but it carried that managerial rhythm—direct, practiced, the cadence of someone used to being obeyed. “And that’s not why I called.”

Alex raised a brow. “No? Then why—”

“Your accountant’s been emailing me again,” Logan interrupted. “The Meadowbrook apartment.”

Alex froze. Her paw tightened around the bottle, plastic crinkling under the pressure. “What about it?”

“She’s confused,” Logan said, paper rustling faintly through the receiver. “You’re still paying full maintenance, utilities, insurance, cleaning— everything. It’s spotless, empty, and bleeding money. She thinks she’s made an accounting error.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “She hasn’t.”

“So you’re intentionally pouring money into a property you never use?”

“I like knowing it’s there,” Alex said quickly, the words a reflex.

“You haven’t lived there in five years.”

“I said I like knowing it’s there,” Alex repeated, sharper now.

Logan sighed, and Alex could picture her: pinching the bridge of her nose, tablet under her arm, hair perfect but slightly frizzed in frustration. “You don’t rent it out, you don’t visit it. It’s just… there. Collecting dust and eating money.”

“It’s not about the money,” Alex said.

“I know,” Logan replied. Her voice softened—the way it did when she realized she’d stepped on something delicate. “But maybe tell your accountant that before she has a nervous breakdown trying to reconcile your emotional attachment to an address. Or maybe rent it out, it’s a gorgeous time to be a filthy landlord.”

Alex didn’t answer. She was staring at the lyric sheet for the song “Dinner Party” that she failed to sing on the stand in front of her.

The raccoon filled the silence. “Just call her, okay? Tell her you want to keep paying for it. She’ll stop asking.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” Alex said quietly.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Do you?” Logan’s tone wasn’t mocking, just tired.

Alex rubbed the inside corner of her eye. Her eyeliner smudged onto her finger. “Fine, I’ll call her tonight. Happy?” she said again, a little frustrated.

“Yes, I am happy. Thank you, Alex.” Another pause. Logan’s footsteps started up again—slower, the echo more subdued. Then the raccoon said something that sounded a little forced. “Are you okay?”

Alex swallowed, immediately regretting it when her throat burned. “Yeah. Just a long day.”

“Sounds like it,” Logan said. “Go home. Sleep. Drink water. And stop working on the album. I mean it.”

That got a small laugh from Alex—a hoarse but genuine one. “You’re still good at guilt-tripping me.”

“Of course I am, that’s most of my job.” Logan chuckled a little, too. Then, after a moment: “Seriously, Alex. Don’t make me come down there and drag you out by the tail.”

“You’d hate the traffic.”

“Please, like I would make the drive when your plane is parked right at JFK.”

Logan’s tone softened again, and for a heartbeat Alex could hear the affection buried under all the professionalism. “Call the accountant,” she said gently. “And stop working on that album, it can wait.”

“Fine.”

“Goodnight, Al.”

The line clicked dead before Alex could reply.

She lowered the phone slowly, staring at the black screen. Through the glass, Andy was already watching her. His expression was halfway between guilt and concern.

She lifted the phone slightly, miming a mother throwing a flip-flop. “I can’t believe you snitched on me,” she rolled her eyes.

The lion gave a tiny, sheepish shrug.

Alex smiled faintly, but her throat ached too much to laugh. She rubbed at it again, the pressure a poor substitute for relief, and muttered under her breath, “Everything’s fine.”

She pushed open the heavy glass door to the recording booth, the hinges groaning faintly as she stepped out. The air outside was cooler, sharper—that particular blend of leather and coffee that every recording space seemed to share.

Andy was sitting at the console, pretending to organize take markers that didn’t need organizing. The glow from the screens cast shifting blues and greens across his fur, and the faint thump of the metronome still clicked in the background like a nervous heartbeat.

“Don’t even,” he said without looking up.

“Don’t even what?”

“Whatever you’re about to say.”

Alex leaned against the console, crossing her arms. “What, you mean ‘so you told Logan I was here’?”

Andy’s shoulders tensed, just enough to confirm it. “She asked. I didn’t tell-tell her.”

“She doesn’t just ask,” Alex said.

He gave a guilty smile. “Yeah, well. She’s got that manager voice. You try saying no to it.”

“I do all the time.”

“You also terrify her, so that’s different.”

Alex sighed and sank into the swivel chair next to him, spinning lazily once before stopping. “You know she thinks I’m self-destructive.”

Andy glanced sideways at her. “Are you?”

“No.”

Then, quieter: “Maybe.”

He watched her for a moment, the faint hum of the monitors filling the space. “You still paying for that old apartment?”

“Logan told you about that too?”

“No. But I can do math.” He nodded toward the open lyric sheet. “You only write that stiff when something’s eating at you.”

“My lyrics are not stiff, how dare you.” Alex smiled faintly. “You really can’t mind your own business, huh?”

“I can,” he said. “Yours is just too interesting.”

For a while they sat in silence, listening to the faint hiss of the speakers. The lights on the board flickered softly, a slow heartbeat of LEDs.

“She thinks it’s about money,” Alex said eventually.

“It’s not?”

“It’s not.” She rubbed at the side of her throat again, her voice almost gone. “It’s just… complicated.”

Andy nodded, letting it be. “Everything with you is.”

Alex shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. “You gonna close up, or you want me to?”

“I got it,” he said. “Go home. Sleep for a few days, we can have another session then, and I promise I won’t tell Logan.”

She smirked, grabbing her jacket off the chair. “Love you too, Handy Andy.”

“You, too, Pawpstar,” he called as she headed for the door.

“Yeah, yeah. Just enough to betray me,” she said over her shoulder through a rough chuckle.