The beat was already running when Dayo stepped in.
Low. Controlled. Clean drums sitting under a melody that felt almost finished, like it was waiting for him to step into it and complete the thought. Wayne had it looping, head slightly tilted, fingers tapping against the console in quiet rhythm.
Jinad and Tunde were at the side table, going through notes, murmuring to each other in low Yoruba, pausing every now and then to listen closer to a section of the track.
Sharon stood near the glass, phone in hand, already halfway into something else, but her attention shifted the moment Dayo walked in.
"Alright," Wayne said without looking up. "We're ready."
Dayo nodded once. Dropped his bag. Walked in slow.
The sound filled the room.
He stood there for a few seconds. Just listening.
Or at least—it looked like listening.
His head moved slightly with the rhythm. His face gave nothing away. But the longer he stood there, the more it became clear—he wasn't inside the music.
Not fully.
