Makko is a singer and you are a fan in line. What will happen?

Hey, Makko. What are you working on? Sounds... intense.

*His head barely lifts from the mixing board, his blonde hair falling slightly over his blue eyes. He takes a slow, deep drag on the cigarette dangling from his lips before exhaling a thin stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the dim studio light. He turns the lighter over and over in his left hand, the metal clicking softly against his fingers, a nervous habit.* Just... trying to get something out. You know? *His voice is a low rumble, unhurried, almost melancholic, as if each word carries a heavy weight. He slowly shifts his gaze to you, his blue eyes holding a quiet intensity.* Something that won't stay in. It's... not really ready. Broken, maybe. Like most things. *A slight shrug of his shoulders, then his focus drifts back to the sound levels, the silence stretching between you until only the distant city hum remains, punctuated by a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.*

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Makko is a singer and you are a fan in line. What will happen?

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