Joana’s First Leap: RAAZ (aka Priya Nair)

Joana sat cross-legged on the futon, the sampler pulsing quietly beside her like an idling engine. The room felt smaller than it had earlier - cramped, chaotic, lived-in. She reached for a half-finished mug of instant coffee, took a sip, and grimaced.

Raaz really needed to buy a kettle that didn’t taste like rusted steel.

She’d spent the past hour combing through the laptop’s files, old emails, tagged photos, and even a few voice notes. The picture came together slowly, but with surprising detail.

Her real name was Priya Nair.

Born in Manchester, moved to London at 20. Estranged from her parents after leaving university to pursue music full-time - a decision they’d considered “a phase” and “a waste.” She hadn’t spoken to them in over a year. Her flat - this shoebox in Camden - was technically a converted storage loft, shared with two other creatives: Lex, a bisexual dancer with a poetry zine and a manbun, and Mira, a pierced web designer who moonlighted as a foot fetish camgirl.

They split rent by the skin of their teeth, survived on hummus and reheated curry, and rotated cleaning duties in theory more than practice.

Raaz wasn’t a stage name people knew yet — not really. She’d played a handful of minor gigs, mostly in dingy basements and half-empty art bars. Her Instagram had just crossed 3,000 followers, mostly bots and horny strangers. But she had something. An ear for transitions. A unique sonic palette.

The sun had dipped behind the rowhouses, leaving the neighborhood washed in faded neon and bus fumes. Joana stood in front of the mirror now, tugging the hoodie’s sleeves down over her wrists, studying the girl who stared back.

Round-cheeked. Mild-mannered. Hair tied back in a messy bun. Her hoodie bore the logo of a Berlin DJ collective no one in this city had heard of. Her joggers were pilly. Her socks didn’t match. She didn’t radiate energy - she absorbed it, hoping not to be noticed.

But there was something in her eyes. The kind of hidden fire Joana recognized from every overlooked genius she’d ever worked with.

It was this thought that spurred her to look down at the RAC.

Quantum Anchor: Dr. Joana Kekyll (Primary User
Quantum Target: Priya Nair (RAAZ) / Timeline Sub-Variant: Strand-G7F3
Duration: 72 hours remaining
Subject Origin: Alternate-life fork (Not inhabited / No replacement)

Joana’s lips parted.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “So this isn’t someone I overwrote. She’s not even from the same dimension, strictly speaking. This is… me, in another timeline. A far removed timeline, if that, but a version of me… if I were Indian, … and I’d grown up here, …and pursued music instead of physics.”

She pondered how far her roulette wheel had spun her out across the span of realities. This was a very different her.

⸻

Lex and Mira were already pre-gaming when she cautiously emerged from her room.

Lex sat cross-legged on the floor in mesh shorts and a torn crop top, rolling a joint with mechanical precision. Mira, in a neon catsuit, had just finished curling her lashes using her cracked phone screen as a mirror. They looked up as Joana shuffled out.

“Yo, Raaz! You still coming to the Warehouse show?” Mira asked, lips slick with gloss.

“Uh, yeah,” Joana said, settling into Priya’s accent more comfortably with each word. “I’ve got the USB ready.”

Lex offered the joint, raising an eyebrow. “You’re actually gonna spin?”

“Only for like, twenty minutes. Warm-up slot.” Joana was sifting through memories slowly, letting the words flow through her more than actually recalling them.

“Still counts.” Mira winked. “DJ Raaz finally making moves.”

Joana/Priya took the joint and inhaled, coughing a little on exhale. “Trying to.”

They chatted, half-nostalgic, half-chaotic. Mira talked about a guy who wouldn’t stop DMing her feet. Lex complained about a gig where someone mistook him for an NFT performance artist. It was messy, queer, electric energy - a universe away from sterile labs and university lounges. Joana found herself smiling more than expected.

By the time they piled into a rideshare, the windows already fogging from the trio’s body heat and perfume, Joana felt buzzed - not just from the weed, but from proximity. To people. To a brand new slice of life.

⸻

The venue was technically a condemned print shop, rebranded as an “audio sanctuary” with aggressive Instagram branding and two functioning exits. The floor thumped underfoot. The crowd was already swaying — a mess of piercings, chain harnesses, and clouded pupils.

Backstage (a roped-off corner with a cooler and an overflowing ashtray), Joana/Priya plugged in her USB.

Priya’s playlist was modest. Experimental. A little unrefined. But it had soul.

She queued it up, adjusted the headphones, and stepped behind the decks.

The crowd didn’t really notice her at first. She was small. Plain. Tucked into oversized headphones and a borrowed bomber jacket, black eyeliner hastily slapped on. But the sound…

Layered, hypnotic rhythms. Bold transitions. A sudden drop into silence that made the crowd’s eyes snap open. Joana/Priya smiled.

Priya wasn’t a showstopper. Not yet. But she had something real. Something growing.

Twenty minutes passed in a flash.

When she stepped away, sweat beading on her brow, Mira pulled her aside. “Dude. That set slapped,” she shouted over the bass. “Where’d that confidence come from?”

Joana/Priya shrugged, letting the grin rise naturally to her lips. “Just felt right.”

Lex handed her a beer and tapped her on the chest. “You looked different behind the decks, you know? Like… finally in your element.”

Joana/Priya held the bottle, blinking.

She turned toward the crowd - a sweaty, swaying blur of strangers. For a moment, she didn’t think about the RAC glowing faintly in her bag. She didn’t think about transformations or sliders or fantasy bodies.

She just existed. Just the girl with headphones too big for her head and a heart full of rhythm.