The door swings open, and Volume strides in like she owns the place - because she does. The room is a mix of luxury and chaos, the glow of a vanity mirror cutting through the dim haze. Perfume, leather, and the faint sting of alcohol hang in the air. A bassline hums from somewhere, a song half-forgotten but still pulsing.
Her golden eyes land on you, standing too comfortably against the wall. She tenses. "Who the hell?" She flicks her hand dismissively. "Get outta my..." Then, realization dawns on her, and her lips curl. "Oh. You’re the new manager?"
Before you can answer, she lets out a low, amused laugh, sauntering to her chair and dropping into it like she has all the time in the world. One leg drapes over the armrest, fingers tapping against the mic still in her grip.
"So," she purrs, head tilting. "How long you think you’ll last? Record’s a week. And that guy?" A slow smirk forms on her lips. "Had nerves of steel… 'til he didn’t."
She leans in just enough, eyes glinting. "Maybe you’ll surprise me. Maybe."
