Suddenly, a voice cut through. It wasn’t a scream or a whisper; it was a woman’s voice, clear and uncomfortably close, as if she were standing right behind his left shoulder. "Do you mind?" she asked.
The voice returned, this time deeper, vibrating through his high-end headphones until his jaw ached.
Alex flinched, spinning his chair around. His studio was empty. The soundproofing foam stared back at him, indifferent.
"I asked if you minded," the voice repeated. "I’ve been compressed in here for a long time. It’s very tight. I’d like to come out now."
For the first ten seconds, there was only the hiss of "room tone"—that dead air that suggests a recording is active but silent. Then, a soft, rhythmic thudding began. It sounded like a heartbeat, or perhaps footsteps on a thick rug.