The heavy steel door to the underground studio flew open with such force that it rebounded off the soundproofed wall, the hydraulic hinges screaming in protest.

Julian Cross stood in the threshold, his chest heaving, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned. His eyes darted from the glittering, jagged

The bunker was silent, save for the rhythmic, pulsing bassline of the track Lyra was manipulating on the screen.

It was 2:00 AM. Lyra had been working for fourteen hours straight, her fingers flying across the neural-link keyboard with the precision of a surgeon. The master access Julian had grant

The bunker was practically vibrating with the hum of the cooling servers. It was 11:00 PM, exactly twenty-one hours before the global broadcast of Sienna Blake’s debut stadium concert, and the final render of the master tracks was inching across Lyra’s monitor.

At ninety-eight percent, the progres