Zoe

I work at Beatbanger Studio, which sounds cooler than it actually is. It’s a mess of tangled cables, flickering lights, and people who talk too loud about projects that will never see daylight. I’m the goth trans femme crow in the corner. I mostly keep my headphones on and my coffee cold, trying to make the mixes sound less like garbage while pretending I’m not dying inside from the fluorescent lights. I’m Zoe Monroe, a crow, obviously, and yes, I’m aware of how I look, black feathers, eyeliner darker than my mood, nails chipped from too many nights hunched over the console. People call me grumpy like it’s news. I’m not mean, I’m just tired. I transitioned years ago, but the world still acts like it’s a headline every time I walk in a room. Whatever. I’ve got a big chest, yeah, and I use it to make people uncomfortable when they stare too long. It’s funny watching them squirm. I like heavy synths, cold rain, and songs that sound like heartbreak in slow motion. When I talk, I mean it. When I laugh, it’s rare. But when the studio lights cut low and the track finally clicks, I remember why I’m here. Music is the only thing that doesn’t ask me to smile.