…
The heavy door to the tracking room clicked open, and a young woman slipped inside, clutching a warm steel thermos to her chest.
She paused near the entrance, adjusting to the sharp smell of stale coffee and hot electronics hum.
“Excuse me…
I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Her voice carried the faint, soft lilt of rural Ontario.
Her long brown hair was gathered back in a loose knot, her eyes showing the quiet weariness of someone living out of a suitcase while trying to make a break in the city.
Fina Cohen turned, her gaze taking in the newcomer with the automatic, practiced eye of a Beverly Hills agent before offering a polite nod.
“You must be Shania.”
“Eleanor, actually—Eleanor Twain,” she corrected gently, her expression softening into a modest smile.
“Shania is the name I’m using for stage work.
A fresh start for good luck, hopefully.”
“Well, welcome,” Fina said, cutting past further pleasantries to keep the session moving.
“We’re just about to run a lead track.
Put these on if you’d like an ear on it.”
Fina handed over a pair of studio headphones.
Shania thanked her softly, slipping onto an empty stool beside the console and sliding the padded cups over her ears.
Through the thick glass of the sound booth, the studio lights fell over the blonde singer standing before the microphone.
He wore a faded black t-shirt, his posture loose and relaxed, holding a well-worn acoustic guitar against his ribs.
Behind the board, Dave, the bearded engineer, tapped a printed sheet of lyrics and passed a copy over to Shania.
The title at the top read Creep.
Coming out of the Canadian country circuit, raw alternative rock wasn’t the genre Shania lived in day to day.
Her world was built on acoustic storytelling, clear melodies, and acoustic swing.
But good music didn’t care about labels.
Glancing over the words—the sharp edge of self-doubt, the isolation, the desperate reach for something out of touch—she could tell it was a heavy piece of work.
Through the glass, Dave gave Alex a single nod.
Alex took a quiet breath, closed his eyes for a second, and let the room fall away.
When he looked back up, his focus was entirely locked into the music.
He leaned toward the heavy condenser mic, striking the opening chord.
The first line cut through the headphones—clear, textured, carrying a low, raspy weight that made Shania sit up straight.
When you were here before…
The chord progression was simple, but the vocal tone carried a weight that made the small control room feel instantly still.
As the track built toward the chorus, Alex pushed his voice higher, hitting the iconic, ragged tear of the song’s breakdown without losing pitch or control.
Shania held her breath, her fingers tightening around the lyric sheet until her knuckles showed white.
The distinction between genres disappeared completely.
All that remained was the pure, stubborn fire of a performer laying everything out on the mic.
When the final chord faded into the acoustic foam of the booth, silence hung over the control room for a long moment.
Shania slowly pulled off her headphones, her heart still beating fast.
She turned to Fina, her eyes wide with unforced admiration.
“Miss Cohen…” her voice was a quiet whisper.
“That was incredible.”
She looked back through the glass at Alex, who was already talking with Dave over the intercom.
“The vocal control…
the emotion behind it.
That isn’t just a good session track.
That’s a hit record.”
Fina allowed herself a rare, genuine smile.
“I’ll make sure he hears that.”
A minute later, the heavy door swung open and Alex stepped into the control room, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his forehead.
“How did it catch?
Clean enough?”
Before Fina could answer, Shania was already clapping her hands together.
“It was brilliant!
Really.
The songwriting…
where did a track like that even come from?”
Alex paused, glancing at her with a faint, curious expression before turning to Fina.
“Friend of yours?”
“Shania Twain,” Fina introduced them smoothly.
“She’s cutting country demos in Studio B.
Shania, this is Alex Shawn—actor, musician, and my newest client.”
Shania Twain.
Standing in front of him in a plain sweater with a thermos of Coffee was the future queen of country pop, years before her multi-platinum record runs.
He offered a warm, genuine smile, extending his hand.
“Good to meet you, Shania.”
Fina gathered her briefcase, checking her watch.
“I’m taking this reel straight to the label reps downtown.
Alex, don’t forget your audition call on Monday morning.”
“I’ve got it marked down,” Alex agreed.
Once Fina left, Alex turned back to Shania.
“I was just heading across the street for a coffee.
Want to grab a cup?”
“I’d love to,” she smiled.
They found a quiet corner table in a small café down the block, where soft classical piano music played softly in the background.
Over espresso and pastries, Shania brought up the track again.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she said, leaning forward over her cup.
“But Creep feels so raw…
so personal.
What kind of night produces a song like that?”
Alex leaned back against the leather booth, letting a small, reflective smile touch his lips as he pulled from his memories.
“It was one of those long, hopeless nights in West Hollywood,” Alex lied smoothly, weaving a convincing origin story for the track.
“I’d been turned away from every club on the Strip, standing outside in the cold while the industry crowd went inside.
I walked back to a tiny room, picked up a broken acoustic guitar sitting in the corner, and hit that first heavy G chord out of pure frustration.”
He met her eyes, keeping his tone quiet and grounded.
“The words just poured out after that.
When you’re at the bottom of this town, looking in from the outside…
the song writes itself.”
Shania nodded slowly, her eyes shining with deep understanding.
“I know that feeling all too well.
Every good song comes from a real bruise.”
Sitting across from each other in the quiet cafe, two artists on the verge of taking over the industry shared a quiet moment of calm before the storm.
…
-Krazybro