Chapter 2 — Music Without Chorus

An doesn't open the attachment right away. She gave the phone to Vy, then placed it face down next to the coffee maker. Mach Nuoc had just finished the morning rental, outside the door were the sounds of customers playing the guitar and the sound of car mechanics calling each other. All the familiar sounds overlapped, enough for an anonymous message to become something easily forgotten.

“Who do you think sent it?” Vy asked.

“You want me to be afraid, or you can't say it publicly.”

“Those two types are usually the same.”

An plugged headphones into the audio analyzer, not connected to the network. The file is only four seconds long but weighs more than a normal recording. The frequency band is cut off at both ends, the file name contains an undated string of characters. She enlarged the chart. In the background there is the sound of metal hitting metal three times, the sound of an industrial fan, and a staccato tapping rhythm. That beat coincides with the bass part of the demo.

Vy tilted her head. “Is it the same place?”

“Not sure yet. But the sender wants me to join the two files.”

I can't hear through the speaker. She transmitted the signal through a vibration transmitter placed on the table. Vibrations pass through the skin in a clearer line. The audio was cut off before a female voice could speak. If paired with the demo, it will sit exactly in the space after the three notes going down.

“Is this the beginning or the middle?” Vy asked.

“The part that shouldn't be opened.”

The phone vibrates again. Khai Nam texted the studio address and working hours. He didn't ask if An had received the email or not. Maybe you don't know. Maybe he knew but waited for her to say it herself.

That afternoon, An brought a second vibration transmitter and a handheld recorder. She did not use the company's equipment before the contract was repaired. Nam sent an addendum at noon, adding the right to store original files and a clause prohibiting the exploitation of personal images. He did not edit the words about the source of the recording. An marked it in red and sent it back.

Room B has another young woman sitting in front of the microphone. She wore a black T-shirt, her hair tied up, her finger constantly twirling the silver ring. The male introduction was Gia Linh, the singer chosen for the album. Linh stood up and proactively raised her hand.

"An, I've listened to your harmonies. I like the way you let the sound of breathing be in the music."

"Thank you. But I haven't harmonized it for you today."

Linh smiled, not offended. "I know. Mr. Nam said I would check the demo first."

Nam gave An a multi-channel file. He divided the classes into eight tracks, with track number seven locked. The display name is “room tone”. An looked at him.

“Why lock track seven?”

“I have not been granted permission to open.”

“But you sent me the whole file.”

“I want you to see the missing part.”

An sat down. Nam did not turn on the loud speaker but connected the signal to her vibration transmitter. He had read the instructions An sent in the email: bass went through the tabletop, midrange through the left ear, vocals were set lower than usual so she could recognize consonants. The installation wasn't perfect, but he tried.

“Do you adjust it yourself?”

“Vy sent a diagram.”

“Do you even send harsh words?”

“She told me not to act nice.”

“So she was right.”

Nam turns on music. The first vibration passes through the tabletop like a train in the distance. An placed his left hand on the wood, his right hand taking notes. The strings were not where she expected. It does not lead to a climax but pushes the melody into another branch. Gia Linh sings a long sentence, breathing firmly, but at the end of the sentence it is compressed too deeply. An stopped the recording.

"Linh, don't try to drag out the last word. Just leave it as a sentence." singing falls.”

“If it falls, the card will have no highlight.”

“The emphasis is not necessarily on holding the listener back by the throat.”

Linh looked at Nam, as if waiting for him to judge. Nam just nodded. “Follow An.”

The second time recording, Linh let the lyrics fall. The space then sounds wider. An didn't hear the entire pitch, but felt it through the change of pace in Linh's shoulder and the way Vy placed her hands on the console. She wrote: “The verses do not need to return to the same place.”

After the fall, Linh went to get water. Nam stays behind to clean up the mess. An opens track seven with his administrator rights. Inside there is no room tone. There is a tape compressed to near zero volume. She gradually raised the signal. A rustling sound appeared, then a female voice said very softly: "Don't let them call it a prototype."

Nam turned around. “What do you hear?”

An did not answer immediately. She played it back through the vibration transmitter, then switched to a small speaker for Nam. The speech is distorted but is audible enough. He stood motionless, still holding one end of the rope.

“Le Chi's voice,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“I used to record with her.”

“Receipt does not mean you have the right to be identified.”

Nam sat down. “Le Chi doesn't want this version released. She said it was just a draft.”

“So why is it on your album?”

“I didn't include it.”

“But I received the file.”

“I thought the company sent a sample for reference. I only knew it had her voice when she played track seven.”

An looked at his eyes. There was fear, there was anger, but not enough for her to believe. She copied the file to a separate drive, recording the time, machine name, and data signature. Nam did not stop.

“Do you know the person who emailed me?”

"Are not."

“They told me not to trust you.”

Nam leaned back in the chair. “You should listen to them.”

I thought I heard wrong. “What did you say?”

“Don't believe me just because I tell the truth for once. Let's check each one.”

Gia Linh returned, holding three bottles of water. No one talks about track seven. Linh gave An a bottle and asked if the recording was good. An said no. Linh didn't ask further, just looked at Nam with unreadable eyes.

That same evening, An and Vy sat in a noodle shop at the end of the alley. An tells about the voice in track seven. Vy put down her chopsticks.

“If it's Le Chi, the first thing is to verify rights. The second thing is to find the original. The third thing is don't let Nam keep the key alone."

“He doesn't have the key.”

“You just said he has a locked track.”

“Locked by the company.”

“You have to be even more careful.”

An turned on the recorder and played four seconds of anonymous audio. Vy listened vaguely and frowned. “This metal span resembles the warehouse door of an old theater. A while ago I did a recording session out there. The exhaust fan sounds like a tractor.”

“Which theater?”

“Old Hoa Binh, next to Ben Thanh area. The backyard is being used as a prop warehouse.”

Write down the address. Before she could say more, a car stopped in front of the shop. The man in the blue shirt walked down and did not come in to eat. He looked towards An, then looked at the recorder on the table. When An returned, he was already in the car.

Vy pulled her hand. “Are you familiar?”

"Are not."

An's phone lit up with a new message, without a sending number: “Don't go to old Hoa Binh. That music caused one person to lose his life.”

An re-read it twice. She did not know who the person who lost his life was. But in the data section of track seven, the file creation date appears clearly: eleven years ago, the day Khai Nam first signed a contract with Milky Way.

An opened the audio folder and followed the time file creation time. The demo was exported from a shared server, but the anonymous four-second clip has a different device ID. It was recorded with a handheld camera, the type commonly used for field recording, and then compressed through old software. The sender can be a technician, journalist or someone who used to work in the company. There was no data enough for her to call them allies.

“Can you find the address?” Vy asked.

"You shouldn't. If I trace it back, they'll know I opened it."

“So just let them look at you?”

“Sometimes letting people know you're not hunting them is a way to get them to send more.”

Vy pushed over a small box. "Backup vibration transmitter. You take it to the studio. If they force you to use their headphones, you can refuse."

An opened the box and checked the connection port. “You fixed it?”

"I replaced the contact pads. The old one transmitted too much bass."

“You don't have to do it all for me.”

"I did it because I also want to know who cut the voice in the song. Don't turn any help into a debt."

An was about to say she didn't do that, but remembered the time she refused people to touch the device after the accident. She called it independence, while sometimes it's just fear of others seeing the weak part.

Nam texted that the fall session would have Gia Linh. An searched for her name online. Linh used to sing in a television competition, has a bright voice and a habit of bowing her head before entering high sentences. The interviews all mention that she was "discovered" by the Milky Way, not the person who wrote the songs.

“The company has prepared images for her,” An said.

“You see the problem again?”

“I see how one person can be placed in another's place.”

Vy did not laugh. “So when you meet her, don't consider her an accomplice before knowing what she knows.”

That afternoon, Nam called for the first time. He did not start by asking whether An had accepted the invitation or not. He asked her what she wanted to set up the studio, what the maximum volume was, and how long the breaks were in each session. An answered each question.

“Have you worked with people with hearing loss before?”

"Not yet."

“Then don't guess about my needs.”

“I will ask.”

“And if I say stop, you stop.”

"Okay."

The call only lasted seven minutes. Then Nam sent a plan of room B, marking the location of speakers, control desk and exit door. An enlarged the image and realized that there was a small camera in the back corner of the wall. She texted asking if she was recording.

Nam replied: "The company's camera only turns on when there is a press conference. I will ask to turn it off."

An didn't believe it completely, but she marked the camera in the book. In this profession, trust is not a nod; trust is a list of things the other person has allowed me to check.

The next morning, before leaving home, An met her mother in the kitchen. Mrs. Hoa was cutting vegetables and asked if her new job was the kind of job that makes people talk about accidents. An said he didn't know.

“You don't need to accept it if they want you to tell your life story.”

“I'll just try it.”

“There must be limits to trying.”

An placed his hand on the stone table. Her mother tapped the knife against the cutting board, creating a steady rhythm. “Do you think listeners need the story to love you?”

“No. I think you need someone to know you don't want to be pitied.”

An looked at her mother, then put the vibrator in her pocket. Before going out the door, Mrs. Hoa called out: "If people show you the part they want, just get up and go home."

An nodded. She didn't know if she would go home tomorrow or stay. But for the first time, Nam's invitation had a condition set by herself.