Page 11 of Rhythm and Rapture

"No," she says softly. "You're always in survival mode. There's a difference."

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because she's right, and we both know it. Being careful implies having choices, weighing options, and making measured decisions. I don't do that. I've never had the luxury of measured risks. It's always been all or nothing, desperation, or disaster.

I calculate minimum effective doses of risk like I'm titrating a dangerous chemical—just enough to keep us alive, never enough to actually live.

"I..." I start, then stop, unsure how to respond.

"I know," Rachyl says, reading my silence. "Just... maybe think about it? On your drive?"

I nod, throat suddenly tight.

"Now go, before traffic gets worse. And oh,” she grins, “ please tell me you’re going to message back.”

I laugh. I look at Roman's message again, then at Lorna's. Something is shifting in my universe, tectonic plates realigning into patterns I can't quite see yet.

“Yeah," I say, standing up, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "I think I am.”

I typeout a quick response as I'm leaving the coffee shop, which took a few minutes of me ensuring Rachyl knows the play-by-play of what she is now calling my 'rockstar trope.'

The Hidden Chemist: Bold of you to assume I'd collaborate with musicians who've been lurking in my streams But, I admit, your timing is interesting. I was just having a conversation about expanding my definition of acceptable variables in ongoing experiments. So, for the sake of curiosity, I’m listening. What kind of collaboration did you have in mind? -S

The Hidden Chemist: Also, I am going to need some proof that you're actually who you say you are. For all I know, you're three creeps in a basement pretending to be musicians. Video response required.

Ten minutes and a quick stop at the gas station later (where I grab several bags of chips that I normally wouldn't keep in the house because of Kael's necessary diet and the little gremlin's extreme talent for hearing a bag of snacks open from three rooms away), I'm in my car heading for the 101, phone propped in the dashboard holder.

Their response comes through just as I'm merging onto the highway—a video notification that makes my pulse jump.

I wait until I hit the inevitable LA traffic crawl before watching. Once, then twice, a smile spreading across my face despite myself. Roman's songwriter hair is exactly as disheveledas I imagined, and the way he runs his hand through it when he's nervous...

"Ball's in your court, S," he says at the end, and something flutters in my stomach.

Before I can overthink it, I hit record. The three-hour drive to Behind the Lens stretches ahead of me, and I already know I'm going to spend it in conversation with three musicians who've somehow gotten under my skin without ever meeting them.

Chapter Four

LAST NIGHT

Our studio apartmentlooks like a tornado hit a Guitar Center and decided to stay for dinner. Empty energy drink cans form precarious towers on every surface, guitar picks are embedded in the couch cushions like musical confetti, and somewhere beneath the chaos of takeout containers and recording equipment, there might be actual furniture.

"Dude, are you really gonna watch The Hidden Chemist without me?" Ash demands, pointing dramatically at my laptopwith a drumstick he's apparently been using as an eating utensil. "I feel betrayed. Wounded. My trust has been shattered like?—"

"Like your attention span when you're coming down from whatever pharmaceutical enhancement you've been experimenting with?" I interrupt, not looking up from my screen. "Her stream starts in ten minutes, and I wasn't gonna wait for you to emerge from your Adderall-fueled creative odyssey."

"It wasn't Adderall, it was... okay, it was totally Adderall," Ash admits, flopping onto the couch with the grace of a caffeinated giraffe. "But it was for artistic inspiration. I wrote three choruses and discovered the meaning of life."

Felix emerges from what generously passes for our kitchen, holding three beers and looking like the responsible adult he pretends to be. "The meaning of life better be 'finish the damn album,' because our label is breathing down our necks harder than the car warranty sharks. And stop abusing your damn medicine. There are people out there who can't even get it when they need it and you're popping them like Skittles."

"Fuck the album," I say with the kind of intensity I usually reserve for arguing about chord progressions. "Do you realize The Hidden Chemist is about to explain thermodynamics while slowly removing laboratory safety equipment? This is educational and life-affirming."

"The fact that you just called watching a cam girl 'life-affirming' suggests we need to get you outside more," Felix points out, settling into the only chair that isn't being used as a clothing storage unit.

But even as he says it, Felix is already pulling up the stream on his phone. Because the truth is, we're all completely fucking obsessed with The Hidden Chemist, and not in the way our friends would expect. It isn't just the obvious appeal—though The Chemist is undeniably gorgeous in that effortless, naturalway that makes me want to write songs about the curve of her smile. It's everything else. The way she gets genuinely excited about molecular structures. The casual brilliance of explaining complex biochemical processes while making it sound like pillow talk. The moments when she forgets she's performing and just... exists, raw and authentic and more compelling than any manufactured fantasy.

"She's different," I say, and my bandmates recognize the tone. It's the same voice I use when I've stumbled onto a melody that might actually matter. "She's not trying to be anything other than exactly who she is."

Which is more than any of us can say. Fame—even our modest, indie-darling level of recognition—requires constant curation. Every social media post, every interview, every fan interaction is carefully crafted to maintain our image as the charmingly disheveled musical prodigies who definitely don't spend most of our time eating cereal for dinner and arguing about reverb settings.

But watching The Hidden Chemist feels like glimpsing something real in a world built on performance. Even with the mask, even with the carefully maintained anonymity, there's something authentic about her that cuts through all the manufactured bullshit of our industry. It's the way her voice literally trembles with excitement when she discovers an elegant equation, how her hands dance through the air mapping invisible molecular structures like she's conducting a symphony only she can hear. She doesn't just teach chemistry—she fucking worships it, and that raw passion bleeds through every carefully choreographed moment. The mystery of her identity only makes her more compelling—we're drawn to her mind, her voice, her presence, without the usual distractions of conventional beauty standards or celebrity personas.

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