Chapter 34 - Overlapping Frequencies

The nights at Basement Studio Number Three grew increasingly dense with held breath and the sound of overlapping arrangements chasing each other around the room. Ever since the Vienna scholarship had become official, the academic weight on Michi's shoulders had lifted a little, but a new burden had arrived in its place, courtesy of the conservatory's mandatory end-of-semester collaboration project—a contemporary orchestral composition to be worked on in pairs. And, naturally, fate seemed to have deliberately paired her name with Rimba's once again.

Outside of class hours, the studio, filled with piles of audio cable and the smell of light tobacco, had transformed into their laboratory of creativity.

That night, the clock on the corner of the wall read ten past eleven. In front of the mixing desk, Rimba sat lost in thought, staring at the computer monitor displaying the audio waveform of a piano arrangement Michi had recorded that afternoon. His sharp eyebrows drew together deeply, reflecting a perfectionist's dissatisfaction.

"The transition right before the bridge sounds too clean, Michi," Rimba murmured, not shifting his gaze from the screen, his hand tapping the desk in a rapid rhythm. "Too sterile. Like there's some part of the soul you're deliberately holding back there. Even though our whole concept is supposed to be marrying classical grandeur with raw street-level energy."

Michi, sitting on her tall stool sipping the last of her black coffee, let out a soft huff. She set her cup down on the desk, then hopped down to join him. "Sterile how? I already added the staccato dynamics you suggested yesterday."

"It's not the dynamics that are wrong, it's the attack," Rimba countered, shifting slightly to make room for Michi to see the screen. His slender finger pointed at a specific peak in the audio waveform. "Look at the beat right at bar forty-two. Too spaced out. If I'm being honest... the way your hand strikes these keys actually resembles the pattern of a fast percussion hit. Like... like the way a drummer accents a snare beat."

Michi's heart nearly leapt straight out of her chest.

Instantly, the air inside the studio felt thin. Michi's fingers, which had been resting casually on the desk, curled into a tight fist without her realizing it. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her expression flat under the dim glow of the hanging lamp.

"A drummer?" Michi cut in, trying to force out a light laugh that came out sounding slightly strained. "You're overthinking it. Since when does a conservatory pianist like me understand drum rhythm patterns? Don't lump me in with those indie band kids who like to hammer the snare like they're doing manual labor."

Rimba turned his head slowly. His sharp eyes stared straight into Michi's, studying every inch of the expression on the face beside him with the kind of probing look that always managed to make her feel cornered. For a few seconds that felt unbearably long, there was no sound in the room except the faint hum of the computer's cooling fan.

"I don't know," Rimba whispered low, his voice close enough that his warm breath brushed against Michi's cheek. "You've changed a lot lately, Arunika. You're not just brave enough to challenge a professor anymore, but your hands..." Rimba reached for Michi's left wrist with a movement that was gentle but firm. His thumb accidentally traced across the side of her palm and the tips of her fingers, exactly where thin calluses and the faint marks of drumstick friction tended to leave their traces. "...your hands carry physical marks that aren't typical of a girl who's spent her whole life only ever knowing piano ivory."

Michi held her breath. Her skin broke out in a violent shiver. If Rimba had only looked a little more closely at those calluses, or if he'd simply unzipped the canvas backpack lying on the floor—where a pair of wood-carved drumsticks sat neatly tucked away—the enormous secret she had guarded so desperately for months would have collapsed right then and there, that very night.

But before Rimba could draw any further conclusions, the phone on the desk suddenly rang loud, shattering the tension that had nearly set fire to the studio's air.

The phone's screen lit up bright, displaying an incoming call from a contact name that made Michi breathe out with relief and tense up with wariness at the same time: Bayu.

Rimba let go of Michi's wrist, letting out a soft huff as he turned his face back to the computer screen, though his lips curved into a thin, secretive smile. "Your future brother-in-law's calling. He's probably going to remind you that your curfew's already crossed the limit of tolerance for a good girl."

Michi hurried to grab her phone, swiping the green button with a hand that was still slightly trembling, then stepped away toward the corner of the room to take the call. She leaned her back against the rough cement wall, trying to steady her heartbeat, still pounding violently from having nearly been caught out by the sheer brilliance of the man she loved most in the world.

"Hello?" Bayu's voice greeted her the moment the call connected, sounding flat but carrying the unmistakable complaint of a younger sibling. "It's almost midnight, Kak. Don't tell me you're still at that guy's studio working on some reckless arrangement?"

Michi let out a long breath, trying to steady her tone so it would come out as normal as possible. "I'm taking a break, Bayu. I'm about to head home. Why are you even still up?"

"Just checking, in case I have to come running for a second 'emergency hearing' tomorrow morning," Bayu shot back from the other end, followed by a small huff. "Anyway, hurry up and go home. Don't speed, or I'll tell Dad you're overtiring yourself."

The call was cut off unilaterally by Bayu. Michi stayed still for a moment, staring at her now-dark phone screen, before slowly lifting her face.

Across the room, Rimba was still seated on his tall stool. He hadn't gone back to working on the computer screen. Instead, he was watching Michi with a direct, searching look holding a thousand unspoken questions—the analytical stare of a genius composer whose instincts refused to simply accept the pianist's excuse at face value.

Rimba knew there was some enormous secret his girlfriend was hiding behind those slender fingers. And rather than push further, the corner of his mouth curved into a thin, riddling smile—a sign that the hunt to unmask the mysterious drummer had just quietly begun, starting from within Arunika herself.