“Checked,” she says.
“Microphone pack?” Hana asks.
“Taped at four points.” Hana tilts her head forward to prove it. Aya tugs a single weft—gently, but with purpose. It holds.
“Hair unit secure?” Aya asks, not looking up.
“I’m nervous,” Aya admits.
“In-ears?” Aya touches Hana’s jaw, turning her face left, then right. Both clear plastic molds sit flush.