Rio tugged at his tie and frowned at himself in the milky wall mirror. He groaned, finally undoing the knot entirely and letting it drape over his shoulders. He paused, tilting his head. Kinda works, actually.

He pulled on a suit jacket. His frown deepened. It was quite ill-fitting, and it hung in swags off his small frame—nearly down to his knees.

He yanked it off and dropped it onto the desk chair beside him.

Rio seized an overstuffed folder off the desk and charged out the door, shoulders high.

This was his big chance. Brightlite music, the huge record label located right in this very city, was holding a talent search. And Rio had gotten a callback.

He honestly hadn’t realized he was even applying. But out of the some three hundred other musicians who had actually known what they were getting into, he was one of the few talents selected for a callback that night.

He checked his wristwatch, dashing down the crooked stairs of his musty apartment’s hallway. The stair runner was peeling off the wood steps, and the loose edges and threads kept catching his feet. Rio nearly rolled down the stairwell a few times.

He sidled past another tenant who was fighting the stair runner while going up, and the two gave each other a solemn nod. The other tenant tipped a nonexistent hat and Rio chuckled. The building may be overpriced trash, but he would miss everyone in the building when he left.

And he fully intended to be leaving.

He clutched the folder close to his chest as he exited onto the bustling streets. Men in suits dashed along, trying their best to not whack everyone else on the sidewalk with their briefcases. Mothers herded their children towards the market on the corner, where the butcher was setting out the fresh cuts of the day.

A hotdog vendor offered a greasy meal to Rio, giving him a crocodile smile. Rio waved him off and ignored the growl of his own stomach.

He continued shouldering his way through the masses. After what felt like hours, he finally made his way to the glass front of the Brightlite building. He took a deep breath and set his hand on the door, then pushed it open slowly.

The expansive lobby, flooded with sunlight, had deep burgundy carpets underfoot and neon flowing lines painted on the high walls. Multiple seating areas were scattered across the room. Lush potted plants occupied the many nooks and openings across the walls. He paused to study one of the pots. On it was a stained glass mosaic of a sunset over the ocean, arranged out of rough shards of glass and glued onto the pot. It almost looked like a Tiffany lamp with how detailed it was.

Rio craned his neck as he continued to walked, slowing to a halt to gaze about again. The scent of roses and mint wafted through the room.

“Sir!” A voice called. Rio whirled around to find a fluffy-haired receptionist behind high counters. She smiled wide and waved.

“Hey—hi, er...hello, ma’am,” He stammered, trotting to the welcome desk. “I’m here for—”

“Your callback, of course. Take the elevator on the left—tell the operator to go to floor eighteen. That’s Mr. Jova’s office, and you’ll be meeting with him privately today to discuss writing and whether you’ll primarily perform your own compositions or if we’ll be pairing you with a writer,” The receptionist said. She pulled a drawer open and grabbed a long cord with a tag on it.

“Here’s your lanyard. You can use this to enter Brightlite facilities at any point during business hours—some restrictions apply, yadda, yadda, so on and so forth. You know, all that legalese we’re required to spout off,” She said with a wink, offering him the lanyard. Rio took it, blinking at the small ID card in his hand..

That was a lot of information. I wasn’t expecting that much, he thought, hoping he would remember everything.

His eyes went from the lanyard back to the receptionist, who was smiling kindly.

“Got it all? Any questions?” She asked, clasping her hands.

“Oh, uh—yeah. What’s your name?”

“Maurice! I’m Mr. Jova’s personal assistant, but I’m usually around, so if you ever need me, just give me a shout.” She beamed, giving a thumbs-up.

Rio smiled back. “Thank you. I’ll just, eh...go tooo...” He paused, narrowing his eyes and raising his brows. “Floor...eighteen?”

She nodded.

He gripped the folder and headed to the elevator on the right, then did an about-face and went to the left. He pressed the down button and waited apprehensively. He glanced back at Maurice, who had put on headphones and was now idly paging through an issue of Smash Hits magazine, smiling pleasantly. As the elevator doors slid open, he thought he heard a trace of some particularly aggressive thrash metal coming from her headphones.

Rio entered the empty elevator—empty aside from the operator, who was a towering, bright-eyed woman dressed in almost completely red. The overhead light caught the lenses in her large, thick-rimmed glasses, nearly giving her a wild look.

“Which floor, sir?” She asked, red lips smirking.

“Eighteen, please,” He answered. He backed against the corner farthest from her. Something about her made him very uncomfortable.

The lift was fortunately short, and in a matter of moments he was disembarking and rounding a corner, where a short hall waited for him. The only door on this floor was the arched door at the end of the hall. Raised gold letters across the wood caught the light from the glass wall behind Rio, and his breath caught in his throat. Second thoughts, then third thoughts began flooding his mind. He whacked his temple with his palm.

This is what I’ve been waiting and hoping for, Rio told himself. This is my chance. All I have to do is walk through that door...

The door flew open. Mr. Jova stood just inside, grinning.

“There you are! Maurice told me you were on your way up. Figured you might’ve gotten lost on the way.” He winked. “Come on in. Big discussions to be had today!”

Rio shuffled into the office, which had just as high of ceilings as the lobby. The long back wall was all windows, affording a stunning view of the city. A shining chandelier dangled above a massive mahogany desk littered with paper and records. Multiple high-backed seats surrounded the desk. More interesting to Rio were the various instruments around the office. He caught sight of the cleanest, most unused looking Yama DX7 he’d ever seen. Granted, aside from the busted up in-house synth with the breaking keys at the music club, this was the only DX7 he’d ever seen in person.

Mr. Jova must have noticed the sparkle in Rio’s eyes as he leaned over to study the instrument. He walked over with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“You like it?” He asked. Rio nodded silently.

The business man sat on the arm of a chair, a sly grin on his face. “Good. Because I’m hoping to give that one to you once we work out the fine details.”

Rio shot upright, gawking. “Seriously? You’d give it to me?”

Mr. Jova nodded. “I try my best to give my performers something they can write with, and based off our chat at the club the other night I figured you’d do good work with a synth at home. Sound good?”

Rio crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands. “That sounds...amazing, yes.” He looked the keyboard over, imagining it in his dingy apartment. It’d be perfect.

“So. What’s on the agenda first?” Rio asked, shaking his head as he headed to a chair by the desk.

Mr. Jova dashed and flopped down into the chair behind the desk, quickly taking a calm, refined pose with his fingers laced. He pretended as though he hadn’t dropped his air of formality at all as he replied, “Do you need a writer?”

Rio shuffled in his seat and opened his mouth to speak, but Jova raised a hand and continued.

“Based off the song you premiered at the club the other night, I want to assume the answer is no. However, I want your preference and input on this as well. How many other songs do you have written?”

The black-haired musician tugged on his sleeve as he said, “I want to say I don’t need a writer. I have about...” He counted silently on his fingertips. “Seven? Other songs that are just about ready to be performed.”

Mr. Jova seemed surprised. “Have you recorded any of these songs before?”

“Nah. I don’t have access to any of that kind of stuff. I have the sheet music to all of them right here if you want to look at it,” Rio offered, holding up the fat folder he had been carrying. Mr. Jova gestured for it, so it traded hands.

A pit formed in Rio’s stomach. He didn’t like this second-guessing thing that kept happening internally, but he’d get over it.

Probably.

The executive thumbed through the pages, brows drawn low as he read. He twiddled his fingers as though playing a keyboard in the air, lips moving silently with lyrics.

Finally he slid the sheet music back into the folder and handed it back to its composer.

“I think you’ve got some really good potential with those,” Mr. Jova said approvingly. “I’d like to have a producer on them, of course. Maybe some assistants to help give that last little sand and polish, but they’re good.”

A frog was in Rio’s throat as he uttered a low thank-you.

Jova smacked the desk. “That’s the first item off the to-do list for this conversation then!” He grabbed a fluorescent-colored note and scanned it as he continued, “Next up, I want to give you an idea of what you’re expected to do here. The deal isn’t set in stone yet. First we’d like to sign a limited contract. One song. You put it together, call the shots, whatever you need. We give you the studio and personnel to get it done. We put it out as a single, distribute to the local stations, see how it does. Once we get there, we’ll figure out the rest. Sound alright?”

Rio nodded vigorously, the frog making his response coarse. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

He swallowed, then asked, “Do you know what would come after that if it does well? Or does that fall under the umbrella of ‘once we get there’?”

Mr. Jova tipped his head, sliding the note forward. “Well, if you get that record deal, we would expect a full album with at least 10 tracks. Then maybe some local shows. Beyond that, it really is just figuring it out as we get there, I think.”

Rio couldn’t stifle the grin that was spreading across his face. 10 track album? Easy.

“You won’t get any payments until after the delivery of the single. It’ll be a lump sum for the single, no royalties. It’ll have limited distribution anyway since I assume we’ll probably put the single on the album, if we get that far. The album would have both a lump sum and royalties,” Mr. Jova added, shuffling through the pile of records on his desk. He pulled one out of the middle, holding it up to the light to read the white paper sleeve covering it. He squinted at the chicken scratch handwriting on it.

“That sounds fantastic, sir,” Rio said. He clasped his hands and set them on his lap to keep his legs from kicking out of joy. He wanted to seem professional, not like a giddy little kid. Even if that’s what he felt like.

A loud crash sounded from the floor below. Mr. Jova winced, setting the records back down on the desk. He sighed heavily and said, “Most of the other contestants who’ve gotten callbacks are staying in the building. Some of them are particularly rowdy, it seems.”

Rio leaned forward. “If I may...how many musicians got callbacks?”

“Oh, about ten,” Mr. Jova answered. “I already know a couple who won’t be getting beyond this phase though,” He continued, his face clouding for a brief moment. Then his disposition was bright once more.

“We’re trying to narrow down to seven. I’ve got a good feeling about most of the talents we’ve got now.” He grinned.

Rio returned the friendly look. He couldn’t shake the cold prick in his feet though. Even though there were seven slots, the idea that hundreds of people were vying for them kept giving him the shivers. If he messed this up, there were hundreds of other people who would be thrilled to take his spot.

Mr. Jova rose from his seat and began sliding records onto a built-in shelf in the long wall beside him.

“Did Maurice tell you about the party?” He asked, scrutinizing the handwriting on a different sleeve as he determined where to insert it.

Rio shook his head. He realized the executive wasn’t looking, so he hurriedly said, “No, sir. She didn’t.”

“Mm. Alright then. So, next week there’s going to be a party. Nothing huge, just a shindig for all of the newcomers and contestants to get to know each other and get used to the Brightlite team,” Mr. Jova explained. “We’re not opposed to people collaborating on things either, so if you meet someone you’d like to work with, take notes.”

“Sounds great,” Rio said, feeling his toes growing colder. Great. Now there was a scheduled time to meet the other, probably far more skilled musicians they were going to be signing.

Mr. Jova dusted off his hands, having deposited the last sleeve. He turned to smile reassuringly at his client.

“That’s all for today, then. You’ve got my number, so if you need anything just give me a ring. Studios are on floor nineteen. Use ‘em if you need ‘em.” He extended a hand to Rio, who took it. Mr. Jova shook heartily.

“Off with you, then! I’ve got more mundane sorting to do,” The blond man said, straightening his blue vest.

Rio bustled out of the office, folder clutched tightly. He exhaled slowly as he poked the down button on the elevator.

The way he kept referring to everyone as “contestants” made Rio even less assured of his spot. As though he could get eliminated in a week, and a new player could step in and take his place.

Ding!

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside. The operator had switched during the meeting, and he was relieved to find a dull, middle aged woman standing by the controls.

“What floor?” She asked in a nasal tone.

He blinked. He had originally planned on heading straight home, but he had butterflies in his stomach. The idea of getting to cut an entire album had him in a tizzy. Not to mention the fact he might be getting his very own DX7 if everything went well. It seemed like he was on the cusp of that big break he’d been working towards.

“Floor nineteen, please,” Rio replied.