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Obsessed, Mason stopped leaving the studio. He slept on the futon, living off instant coffee and the steady hum of the unit. The world outside blurred; his inbox filled with unread messages from clients that he never answered. The music he made during those nights was some of the most uncannily beautiful stuff he’d ever written—songs that felt like they had existed long before he did. Colleagues called it hauntological pop; fans said it sounded like listening to someone rediscover their childhood in real time. But for Mason, each track was a small theft: the Waves returned what it retrieved with a sheen of modern pitch correction, and in exchange it asked nothing. He rationalized it as trade. He justified it as research.