Chapter 454: Telepathic Billboard Hit

Chapter 451: Telepathic Billboard Hit

"I am a pioneer of contactless compassion. Now, please resume chewing your pizza. Just do it with your mouth completely closed. I need total silence to maintain this wireless connection."

The room held its breath for exactly four seconds. Then, Mariah deliberately picked up a perfectly spherical, completely frozen piece of ice from her water glass and placed it between her molars.

Crunch.

The sound shattered the quiet like a localized explosion.

Alex let out a long, heavy exhale. The faint blue light of the empathy node on his forehead flickered slightly. "Mary. That acoustic disturbance just disrupted my frequency. A golden retriever on the conveyor belt was just deprived of a telepathic behind-the-ear scratch because you lacked the discipline to let your ice melt naturally. You are actively hoarding joy."

"The puppies will survive," Mariah laughed, tossing the rest of the ice back into her glass. "I, on the other hand, am facing a localized crisis. Tommy Mottola’s replacement at the label sent over the schedule for my next album. They expect me to be in a physical recording booth tomorrow at noon. I have to do vocal warm-ups. I have to stand in a soundproof box for six hours."

Alex didn’t move his head, but his tone instantly dropped into a register of profound pity. "A soundproof box. They are intentionally locking you in an unventilated cube and demanding that you aggressively expel oxygen from your lungs. Singing is just controlled hyperventilation, Mary. You are subjecting your trachea to severe biological friction just to hit a whistle register."

"It’s called making music, Alex," Courteney argued, leaning over to steal a piece of pepperoni from Gillian’s plate. "She’s a generational talent. The fans need to hear her voice."

"The fans are greedy," Alex countered flawlessly. "They demand that she violently vibrate two tiny folds of tissue in her throat simply to provide background noise for their morning commutes. It is an ergonomic nightmare. A true artist should not be required to engage their respiratory system to prove their worth."

"If I don’t sing, there is no album," Mariah pointed out, highly amused by his anti-respiratory manifesto. "And if there is no album, we lose our dominant market share."

Before Alex could formulate a logical defense for abandoning the Billboard charts entirely, Snoop Dogg leaned forward, adjusting his glowing silver headband.

"Nephew," Snoop drawled, a wide, deeply satisfied grin breaking across his face. "The Vanguard boys already solved the tragedy of the recording studio. Keanu, hand Mary the patch."

Keanu drifted closer, reaching into his pocket. He produced a small, translucent silicone patch, roughly the size of a postage stamp. He held it out with the reverence of a monk presenting a sacred relic.

"What is that?" Angelina asked, narrowing her eyes at the tiny square.

"This," Keanu whispered softly, "is the ’Neuro-Acoustic Extractor’. We found a prototype in the engineering wing. Standing in a booth and projecting your voice requires unacceptable core engagement. You have to brace your abdominal muscles to sustain a high note. It is basically a specialized form of Pilates."

"A barbaric practice," Alex murmured in agreement. "How does the patch eliminate the workout?"

"You just place it directly over your larynx," Snoop explained, gesturing to his own throat. "It reads the micro-electrical impulses of your vocal cords before you even open your mouth. You don’t have to sing, Mary. You just have to think about singing. The AI captures your internal monologue, synthesizes your exact vocal tone, and projects it directly into the mixing board."

Jennifer gasped, dropping her pizza crust. "You automated a recording studio?! She can sing an entire album without making a sound?"

"Absolute vocal stasis," Keanu nodded solemnly. "You can record a multi-platinum ballad while taking a nap."

Mariah’s eyes lit up with sheer, unadulterated competitive joy. "Give me that patch."

She snatched the translucent square from Keanu’s hand and pressed it gently against her throat. It adhered seamlessly. She settled back into the cushions, closing her eyes and taking a slow, deep breath.

"Vanguard AI," Snoop commanded lazily. "Route the extractor patch to the primary living room speakers. Drop a heavy, mid-nineties R&B backbeat underneath it. Let’s see what the Queen is thinking about."

A soft chime echoed from the ceiling. A second later, a flawlessly produced, incredibly smooth bassline filled the room, layered with a slow, sultry drum loop.

Mariah kept her lips completely sealed. She didn’t hum. She didn’t move.

Suddenly, her signature, multi-octave voice blasted through the speakers in absolute, studio-grade perfection. The vocal run was impossibly complex, hitting a flawless high note that hung in the air like acoustic velvet.

But it wasn’t a song about heartbreak or romance.

"Ohhhh... the cheese is melting right off the crust..." the synthesized Mariah crooned through the speakers, her voice dripping with profound, soulful emotion. "Pepperoni in the evening light... I don’t ever wanna stand up..."

Gillian choked on her water, collapsing against Angelina as she shrieked with laughter. "She’s singing about the pizza! The supercomputer is turning her dinner into a Grammy-winning single!"

"Extra garlic on the side..." the speakers continued to blast, executing a flawless, five-note descending trill. "No delivery fees tonight..."

"The pitch modulation is mathematically perfect," Alex noted, his face entirely blank, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "She is currently conceptualizing carbohydrates, and the machine is converting it into pure, unadulterated commercial gold. The emotional resonance of the extra garlic line was truly moving, Mary."

Mariah opened her eyes, pulling the patch off her neck as the music instantly faded. She was laughing so hard she had to clutch her ribs. "I didn’t even open my mouth! I literally just looked at the pizza box and thought about how good it tasted, and it sounded like a number-one hit!"

"You have conquered the global music industry without expanding your lungs," Alex praised lazily. "You never have to step foot in a soundproof box again. Just send Vanguard a file of you daydreaming about Italian food, and we will press a million CDs by Tuesday."

"It’s terrifying," Monica giggled, wiping a tear from her cheek. "You have removed the art from the artist. What happens when the public realizes her new love song is actually an ode to a slice of pepperoni?"

"The public consumes what we tell them to consume, Monica," Alex reasoned perfectly. "If they wish to cry over a ballad about melted mozzarella, that is their right. I refuse to judge their emotional fragility."

Keanu nodded in quiet respect, reclaiming the silicone patch from Mariah. "The tragedy of the concert tour is next, Alex. If we can extract her voice while she sleeps, we can simply project her hologram onto a stage in Tokyo while she remains safely on this sofa. We can eliminate the concept of jet lag entirely."

"One industry at a time, Keanu," Alex murmured, closing his eyes once more and tapping the empathy node on his forehead to reconnect with the puppies. "Now, please lower your voices. The beat drop on that pizza song distracted me, and I owe a golden retriever five minutes of telepathic affection. Do not interrupt my philanthropy."