The air in the Georgia studio was thick with the scent of pine and fresh oil paint, a sanctuary where the Savannah heat couldn't reach. For a year, the trio—John, Pete, and Allen—had lived within the vibrant, shifting hues of their own creation. They weren't just making a record; they were trying to capture the sensation of a fever breaking.

Silas finally looked up. He walked over, peering at the glowing screen. "What’s the size?"

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Leo sat hunched over his workstation, a dial-up modem whining in the corner as it struggled to maintain a connection. On his screen, a progress bar sat frozen at 98%.