From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

38: Chapter 38 The Collision of Sound and LightTaylor’s studio was located on a quiet residential street in Nashville. It looked like an ordinary old Victorian house, except for the two black SUVs parked in the driveway and the discreet security cameras at the door that hinted at something different.

Alex rang the doorbell, and five seconds later, the door opened.

It wasn’t Kelly, nor anyone he had seen before. The person who opened the door was Taylor herself, wearing paint-stained overalls and an old T-shirt, her hair casually tied up on her head, with a smudge of blue paint on her face.

”You’re here.” She stepped aside to let him in. ”Sorry, it’s a bit messy inside; I was just working on something.”

It was more than just ”a bit messy.”

The interior of the studio completely subverted the house’s exterior structure—the walls had been knocked through to form a massive open space. On the left was a standard recording control room, where a console piled with equipment could be seen through the glass; the right side looked like a modern artist’s creative space: easels, half-finished sculptures, projectors, and even an old-fashioned film projector. In the middle of the open floor, a thick rug was laid out, scattered with throw pillows, sheet music, and a laptop.

The air was a mix of turpentine, old books, coffee, and the scent of some expensive scented candle.

”Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m a musician or a visual artist.” Taylor smiled as she watched Alex take in his surroundings. ”So I just piled both sides together. Sit anywhere you like.”

Alex chose a relatively tidy-looking spot at the edge of the rug and set down his backpack. He noticed a series of black-and-white photos hanging on the wall, all detailing old buildings in Nashville—rusty fire escapes, peeling theater signs, and the texture of rain-eroded brick walls.

”I took those.” Taylor followed his gaze. ”When I’m bored, I wander around the city with my camera. Sometimes the rust pattern on a doorknob can give me inspiration for a melody.”

She took two bottles of sparkling water from the fridge and handed one to Alex. ”So, what did you bring?”

Alex opened his backpack and first took out that old-fashioned Light Meter.

Taylor’s eyes lit up. ”This... my grandfather had one just like it. He used to be a newspaper photographer.”

”I found it at a flea market.” Alex handed the Light Meter to her. ”It doesn’t work anymore, but I felt it had a certain... texture.”

Taylor took the Light Meter, her fingers tracing the scratches on the brass casing, and her gaze softened. ”Texture. Yes, that’s the word. Everything in the digital age is too clean, too perfect. Sometimes we need a bit of imperfect texture to remind ourselves what the real world looks like.”

She placed the Light Meter on a nearby low table, as if setting down a precious object.

Alex then took out his laptop and connected it to the studio’s monitor. Instead of opening a folder directly, he first asked, ”Do you mind if I play a piece of ambient sound first? No visuals, just sound.”

”Please.” Taylor sat down cross-legged, her expression focused.

He clicked on an audio file.

The sound began to flow out:

First was the low rumble of a passing subway, coming from afar and then fading away. Then came the crisp sound of cups and plates clinking in a cafe, with faint voices of conversation in the background. Then the sound of rain joined in—not a storm, but that dense, rhythmic city night rain hitting metal and glass. Finally, a fragment of a street saxophone melody cut in, lasting only fifteen seconds before fading out, leaving behind the sound of rain and the distant hum of traffic.

It lasted three minutes in total. After it finished, a brief silence fell over the studio.

Taylor kept her eyes closed, maintaining a listening posture. After about ten seconds, she opened her eyes. ”I can see the images.”

”What images?”

”The subway part... that’s New York, right? The specific frequency of the A Line subway entering the station. The cafe is the Paris Left Bank; I heard French accents. The rain...” She paused. ”Seattle? Or London?”

”Los Angeles,” Alex said. ”A night rain from this past March, recorded from the fire escape outside my apartment.”

Taylor blinked, then smiled. ”Interesting. So these aren’t city samples in a geographic sense, but fragments of memory.”

”Exactly.” Alex opened the video folder. ”Now I’ll play the visuals, but without sound.”

The first video: reflections of neon lights on a wet road after rain, red and blue spots of light twisting and blending in puddles.

The second: a subway window, with tunnel walls rushing past and occasional flashes of billboards, the window reflecting the blurry faces of passengers inside the carriage.

The third: a morning farmers’ market—the bright red of tomatoes, the golden yellow of corn, the emerald green of herbs, and the stall owner’s hands tidying the goods.

The fourth: a cluster of office buildings at dusk, the glass curtain walls reflecting the setting sun, each window looking like a shard of burning gold.

The playback ended.

Taylor was silent for a long time. She stood up, walked to the wall, and her fingers unconsciously brushed the surface of those black-and-white photos.

”You are making music with images,” she said with her back to Alex. ”The rhythm of those videos, the speed of the cuts, the changes in color... they have an internal rhythm. Like a visualized melodic line.”

She turned back, a light of creative desire ignited in her eyes. ”I want to try. Can you give me these materials? The raw files, without any editing.”

Alex handed her the prepared mobile hard drive. ”Everything is in there, categorized by date and location.”

Taylor took the hard drive, her movements almost a bit eager. She connected it to her workstation and quickly browsed the file list. Her expertise as a professional musician allowed her to rapidly grasp the structural logic of the folders.

”I need...” she murmured to herself, beginning to operate the console. The monitors lit up as the interface of a complex audio editing software unfolded. She put on monitoring headphones, selected a rain sound sample, dragged it into the timeline, and began adjusting parameters: filtering, reverb, time-stretching.

Alex watched quietly. This was his first time observing a top-tier musician’s creative process up close—complete immersion, total focus, as if everything in the outside world had vanished. Taylor’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard and controllers, her eyes fixed on the waveform changes on the spectrum analyzer.

Five minutes later, she took off the headphones and pressed a key.

A new sound flowed out.

It was still that rain sound, but it had been processed—certain frequencies were enhanced to create a percussion-like rhythm; some were elongated into a sustained atmospheric layer; and some delicate raindrop sounds were isolated as decorative high-frequency details.

”Now,” Taylor looked at Alex, ”pick a visual, any one.”

Alex chose the segment with the neon reflections.

Taylor played the processed rain sound and the visuals in sync.

A miracle happened.

The rhythmic points of the rain fell precisely on the flickering frequency of the light spots in the image; the elongated atmospheric layer resonated with the visual texture of the slowly moving water; those high-frequency raindrop sounds seemed to echo the light trails left by car headlights occasionally passing through the frame.

The sound and the image were no longer two independent things; they had become a single whole.

”This is what I want,” Taylor said softly, her eyes fixed on the screen. ”Not scoring for the visuals, nor finding visuals for the music. But letting them grow from the same source, like two branches of a single tree.”

She took a deep breath and turned to Alex. ”Would you be willing to stay here for a few days?”

The question came suddenly. Alex paused. ”Stay?”

”Yes.” Taylor pointed to a door at the back of the studio. ”There’s a guest room there, usually prepared for collaborating musicians, with its own bathroom. I want... let’s try to do a small experimental project. Using the materials you brought, combined with some of my sound concepts, we can make an ’Audiovisual Poem’ about ten minutes long. No commercial pressure, no release plan, purely to see what we can create together.”

Her gaze was sincere and passionate. ”This kind of creative state... I haven’t had it in a long time. The last time was probably when I was sixteen, writing my first song on a guitar in my bedroom.”

Alex could feel that longing—not a desire for success or fame, but a craving for pure creation itself. This was a longing he shared.

”I have only one condition,” he said.

”What is it?”

”If what we make has value, we share the copyright and split any commercial revenue fifty-fifty. If it’s just an experiment, then we just consider it a few days of playing around together.”

Taylor smiled, a bright and direct expression. ”Deal. Now, let me see your other materials...”

---

Over the next six hours, time lost all meaning.

They were like two children obsessed with new toys, building bridges between sound and image. Taylor demonstrated the magic of a musician processing sound: she could turn the sound of a car engine into a low harmonic pad, cut and reorganize fragments of street dialogue into interactive melodic lines, and even turn the hum of the refrigerator Alex recorded in his Los Angeles apartment into an eerie, futuristic atmosphere.

Alex, in turn, was responsible for the visual portion. Using the high-performance workstation in Taylor’s studio, he experimented with various editing and color-grading techniques. He discovered that when visuals are not meant to tell a specific story but to create mood and rhythm, the rules of editing change completely—the cuts no longer depend on narrative logic, but on visual pulse, color transitions, and the play of light and shadow.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Around 3:00 PM, Kelly brought lunch: simple sandwiches and salad. The two continued their discussion while eating.

”This part,” Taylor said, pointing at the footage of the subway window on the screen, ”if we add a very brief vocal sample the moment the reflected face appears in the window—maybe just a sigh, or a blurry syllable—wouldn’t that make the feeling of ’strangers passing by’ even stronger?”

Alex thought for a moment. ”We could try. But I need to find the right tone first; it shouldn’t be too prominent, it needs to be like part of the background noise.”

”I’ll handle it.” Taylor stood up immediately and walked toward the recording area. ”You keep editing, and I’ll record a few samples for you to choose from.”

She picked up a microphone and stepped into the sound booth. Through the glass, Alex watched her close her eyes, adjust her breathing, and begin to emit some meaningless syllables—not singing, but sounds somewhere between a sigh, a whisper, and a hum. She experimented with different pitches, textures, and even different linguistic vibes (though there were no real words).

Her vocal control as a professional musician was on full display. Each sample had subtle emotional differences: some lonely, some warm, some indifferent.

Alex selected the three samples that best fit the mood of the footage and embedded them into the timeline. The effect was immediate—those blurry faces reflected in the subway window suddenly had breath and warmth.

”That’s amazing.” Taylor came out of the sound booth, looking at the result on the screen with bright eyes. ”This is the feeling I was looking for... not forced sentimentality, but natural empathy.”

The creative process continued.

By evening, they had a rough draft of about four minutes. It lacked a traditional beginning or end, feeling more like an infinitely looping segment: the sounds and images of the city growing, morphing, and blending into one another.

Taylor played it through once, then suddenly said, ”Something is missing.”

”What?”

”An anchor point.” She walked over to the piano and sat down. ”All these sounds and images are fragmented and fluid. We need a stable, repeating element, like a string running through all the pearls.”

Her fingers landed on the keys, playing a simple chord progression: C - G - Am - F. It was the most common chord progression in pop music, but her playing style was unique—slow, gentle, with the tail of each chord slightly elongated, allowing them to bleed into one another.

”What if we use this as a base,” she said while playing, ”and then process all the ambient sounds as ’ornaments’ within this harmonic framework? Not a melody, but... atmospheric counterpoint.”

Alex immediately understood what she meant. He quickly adjusted the audio tracks, performing slight tuning on the rain, subway, and cafe noise so they would resonate harmoniously with the piano harmonies.

The result was stunning.

The previously chaotic city sounds suddenly had an inner harmony. They were no longer noise, but part of a huge, complex, yet unified soundscape. The piano chord progression was like a slowly beating heart, and all the sound fragments breathed along with its pulse.

”That’s it.” Taylor said softly, her fingers still on the keys. ”That’s the anchor point.”

By the time it was completely dark outside, they realized how much time had passed.

Kelly appeared again, this time with dinner—Nashville-style hot chicken and cornbread. The two finally stopped working for a while and sat down at a small dining table in the corner of the studio.

”So,” Taylor said, taking a bite of chicken, ”is this how you usually work? Alone, collecting material, then slowly piecing it together?”

”Most of the time,” Alex said. ”Occasionally I collaborate with classmates, but the core part of the creation is usually done alone.”

”Is it lonely?”

The question was direct. Alex thought for a moment. ”Sometimes. But creation itself is a lonely endeavor—you have to face the blank canvas alone, make choices alone, and bear the consequences alone.”

Taylor nodded, her eyes filled with understanding and resonance. ”Yeah. Even in teamwork, that core moment... is always lonely.”

She took a sip of water and changed the subject. ”I heard about what happened in Los Angeles. Are you okay?”

Alex paused. ”You mean...”

”The warehouse incident.” Taylor said it naturally. ”Allison told me. She said you ran into some trouble, but handled it well.”

”Thanks to you,” Alex said. ”The police arrived very quickly.”

”It wasn’t me,” Taylor shook her head. ”It was Allison’s network. She has some connections in that circle. I just... expressed some concern.”

She said it nonchalantly, but Alex knew that getting a music industry executive to react so quickly was definitely not as simple as just ”expressing concern.”

”Thank you,” he said.

”You’re welcome.” Taylor looked at him. ”I just think that someone with this kind of creative potential shouldn’t be interrupted by such stupid malice. This world already has too much noise; we need more real voices.”

After dinner, Taylor took him to the guest room.

The room wasn’t large, but it was comfortable and tidy: a double bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and the bathroom was equipped with basic supplies. The window faced the backyard, where he could see a small garden in the night.

”Get some rest.” Taylor said at the door. ”Tomorrow... if we continue, I want to try adding some vocal parts. Not full lyrics, maybe just some repeating phrases that sound like incantations. What do you think?”

”Sure,” Alex said. ”But I want to keep that ambiguity; don’t make the meaning of the language too specific.”

”Agreed.” Taylor smiled. ”Then, good night, Alex.”

”Good night, Taylor.”

The door closed gently.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the fatigue in his body. Several hours of high-intensity creation had consumed not just his physical strength, but his mental focus as well.

He called up the system interface. His popularity was growing slowly but steadily—although he hadn’t posted any new content today, his previous videos were still gaining traction, and the news of the collaboration with Horizon Outdoors had begun to spread across industry media.

He looked at the exchange option for 【Comprehensive Physical Enhancement (Basic)】.

Not now. Under Taylor’s observation, any sudden physical changes could attract attention.

But he could exchange for something more subtle.

He chose 【Deep Focus】, an ability focused on improving creative efficiency and sustained attention. The exchange required 30,000 popularity points, which was within his means.

The feeling of the exchange was subtle—it wasn’t a physical change, but a sort of ”clearing” of the brain. The creative fatigue accumulated today lessened, and his thinking became clearer and more organized. He could feel that if he continued to work now, his attention could last longer, and the creative decisions he made would be even more precise.

This was an ability that could be fully explained under the persona of a ”genius creator”: some people are just naturally able to maintain focus for long periods, aren’t they?

After washing up, he lay in bed. The sounds of the Nashville night drifted in from outside the window: the distant train whistle, the occasional car driving by, the rustling of wind through leaves.

These sounds were different from those in Los Angeles. Slower, sparser, with more natural elements.

Alex closed his eyes and let the sounds flow past his ears.

Before his consciousness drifted into sleep, he recalled the moment from today’s creative session with Taylor—the moment when the piano chords resonated perfectly with the ambient sounds. That sense of harmony wasn’t just a technical success; it felt like a deeper kind of resonance.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons he came to this world: not just to survive and succeed, but also to create such moments—letting sounds and images, different talents, and souls from different times and spaces meet, collide, and resonate within a piece of creation.

With this thought, he sank into a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the studio, Taylor sat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys.

She didn’t play, just sat quietly, looking at the Nashville night sky outside the window.

Her phone screen was lit, displaying a piece of information she had just searched: ”Alex Su, 18 years old, Los Angeles community college student, parents deceased, living alone. Started content creation six months ago, rose to fame rapidly...”

The profile was simple, but Taylor’s intuition told her that this young man’s story went far beyond that.

Her fingers fell gently, playing a chord.

In the silent night, the piano sound was like a stone tossed into a deep pool, rippling outward.

Then, she began to hum. No lyrics, just a melody.

A brand new melody, born from today’s collision of sounds.

She didn’t know where this melody would lead.

But she knew, it would be the beginning of a song.