My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

In the afternoon, there were special classes—more specifically, introductory singing lessons. Which was a bit ridiculous, since Emilia had told me that most students here already knew how to sing quite well. It wasn't even aimed at people like me, who knew almost nothing. Though I was exempt from this kind of class, I still had to attend to keep an eye on Maria. In any case, it was a useless formality—or so I thought.

This wasn't a quiet class, as I was used to. It seemed like most students were in their own imaginary soundproof studios, humming and lightly tapping their fingers on their folders to a catchy melody. But in the grand scheme of things, it was all incomprehensible—a fusion of independent sounds coming from every direction.

I couldn't hear anything from outside, which made me realize how soundproofed the room was. It was noticeable… and a little unsettling. So I was relieved that my sister's plan to soundproof her bedroom had failed spectacularly.

This place was an acoustic sanctuary, a space where even the softest sigh resonated with crystal clarity. The walls were lined with oak wood panels and diamond-shaped acoustic foam, designed to kill echoes without suffocating the warmth of voices.

At the center, a Steinway grand piano dominated the room, its black lacquer gleaming under dim lights.

On it lay an open score of Schubert's Der Hirt auf dem Felsen, with red pencil notes in the margins: "More air here!", "Vibrato, not trembling." The keys showed decades of wear from eager fingers, some yellowed with age.

One wall was covered in full-length mirrors—angled like in a ballet studio—reflecting not just faces but likely meant to critique each student's posture: slumped shoulders, tense jaws, hands unconsciously seeking their diaphragms.

But the most intriguing detail was by the door: a Neumann U67 microphone, one of the most expensive in the world, encased in glass with a sign in cursive: "Only for those who dare to deserve it."

It was the first thing Emilia had noticed, and she told me there were legends about who had last used it. The most popular rumor being that it belonged to a star who had lost her voice, and that her songs were still stored somewhere in this academy.

"Silence."

The word cut through the air like a Stradivarius violin in an empty room. It wasn't a shout or a whisper—it was acoustic perfection. Every syllable resonated in flawless legato, the vibrato trembling faintly at the end like a sustained note on the edge of fading.

The woman had entered seconds ago, but no one but me had noticed her presence—even as the sound from outside briefly seeped in. She was like a ghost dressed in black, her hair pulled into a painfully tight bun, her face deathly pale—even more so than my sister's.

She radiated arrogance, with that dark, amethyst aura you'd only expect in fiction—like Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.

It might sound strange, but I felt the sound before I understood it.

I was fascinated by that first impression.

Maria, however, watched her warily, almost frightened—as if she were seeing a real ghost.

"Noah Valdez."

She wrote her name on the board, just like I'd seen in movies.

I hadn't paid attention to her clothes before—they were sophisticated. No, that word wasn't enough. Her elegance unfolded in every detail of her attire, a symphony of darkness and sophistication woven with threads of danger.

"Vocalization isn't singing—it's applied mathematics."

I felt suffocated.

"Today, we'll work on the singer's formant as if your lives depended on it. Because technically, your careers do—or at least, for those of you focused solely on singing. I know there are lyricists and composers among us, maybe even some who are all three. Perhaps you should've chosen a different department."

Like a spell, she drew at lightning speed a diagram detailing the vocal tract with surgical precision. Red arrows marked the soft palate, nasal resonators, and epiglottic space. By the window, a life-sized skeleton highlighted in red showed the intercostal and abdominal muscles involved in diaphragmatic breathing.

"Place your index and middle fingers on your thyroid cartilage," she ordered, demonstrating on her own neck.

For a moment, I thought her gaze flickered toward me.

"Now produce an [a] in mezza voce. If your larynx rises, you're cheating."

I glanced at Abantino—he produced a crystal-clear sound. His larynx stayed as still as a rock.

Valdez's eyes, like mine, turned to him, her expression briefly approving.

The teacher moved through the room like a vortex of voices, a chaos of sounds where she alone could navigate. She knew exactly where to listen, as if every sound had been pre-isolated and ordered—her brain interpreting them effortlessly.

She stopped beside one student, and a digital tuner beeped aggressively, marking an accidental sharp. The student flushed red with embarrassment.

Then she ordered them to perform one by one, listening to each for a few seconds before cutting them off.

She deliberately ignored me.

Valdez connected an oscilloscope to the microphone. On the screen, each student's sound waves unfolded like mountainous landscapes.

"Look here," she pointed to a peak at 2800 Hz.

She activated a frequency generator.

"Now sustain this [i] while I adjust the filter. When your resonance matches the 3000 Hz peak, you'll feel vibration in your cheekbones."

"What if we want a dirty sound? Like Janis Joplin or Tom Waits?" a student asked—cleverly. It was that Alex Nowak guy.

Valdez smiled for the first time that day.

"Healthy distortion requires millimeter control of the vocalis muscle."

Then, without warning, she slid a nasal endoscope into my nose, connected to a screen.

"Eh, what?" I got scared

"See these folds? The false vocal cords must vibrate over the true ones, not instead of them. A poorly executed growl will leave you voiceless forever."

To demonstrate, she produced a guttural snarl that shook the room, followed by a pianissimo that wouldn't have been out of place at La Scala.

"For tomorrow, a spectrographic analysis of three recordings. Identify the formants of each voice."

Yeah… I definitely don't know what's happening here.

Again—there it was. A fleeting glance from that woman.

Then, the class continued until the bell rang. But by no means did this feel like an "introductory" lesson.