Page 48 of Rhythm and Rapture

"So what then?" Felix's calm is fraying. "We just wait? Hope she decides we're worth talking to again?"

The silence that follows is heavy. We've all been checking our phones obsessively, sending messages that go unread, calls that go unanswered. It's not like her to just vanish. Not after what we shared.

"Something's wrong," I say finally. "This isn't about us or the content. Something happened."

"Or," Ash says slowly, "we go find out what."

Felix looks up. "You want to just... show up?"

"We know where she lives," I point out. "The address was on the paperwork at Behind the Lens."

"That's..." Felix pauses, considering. "Actually not the worst idea. If she's in trouble?—"

"She'd never ask for help," Ash finishes. "Too proud. Too used to handling everything alone."

The idea should feel absurd—three grown men chasing down a woman who clearly wants nothing to do with them. Except that's not what this is, not really. Even in this short time, it's become obvious that Sabina is the smartest person in any room, but also the loneliest, even if she'd never admit it.

This is us refusing to let her drown alone. Refusing to let her run from the one good thing she's let herself have in years.

"What is she running from?" Ash asks quietly, voicing what we're all thinking.

The decision makes itself. Within an hour, Felix has booked flights. Within three, we're in the air, heading toward answers we're not sure we want.

We standon the porch of a small house in Palo Alto, the address from Behind the Lens paperwork burned into Felix's photographic memory. The neighborhood is quiet, tree-lined, full of families living normal lives that don't involve adult content or medical crises.

Ash knocks with more confidence than any of us feel. The porch light glows uselessly in the afternoon sun, and wind chimes play discordant notes above our heads.

The door opens, and it's not Sabina.

The woman looks exhausted but expensive—designer scrubs that somehow still look put-together, perfectly manicured nails in nude polish, diamond studs that catch the afternoon light. Her dark hair is pulled back in what was probably a neat bunthis morning but now shows the wear of a long shift. Despite the fatigue etched in her face, there's something sharp in her eyes as she takes us in.

"You're the musicians," she says, no surprise in her voice. "From the shoot."

Not a question. She knows exactly who we are, which means Sabina talked about us. That should be encouraging, but her expression promises nothing good.

"Is Sabina home?" Felix asks, his usual calm cracking slightly. "She's not answering our calls."

Something flickers across her face—relief mixed with resignation. "She's at the hospital. Stanford. Been there for six days straight."

The words hit like ice water. Hospital. Six days.

"What happened?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Is she?—"

"She's fine. Physically." The woman steps back, a silent invitation. "I'm Rachyl. Her Bestfriend. And occasional roommate, when she actually comes home."

We follow her inside, and the evidence is everywhere—toy dinosaurs lined up on the coffee table in perfect formation, a child's raincoat hanging by the door, artwork covering the fridge in chaotic glory. A life we knew nothing about.

"Sabina's not the one in the ICU," Rachyl continues, sinking onto an expensive-looking chair that seems at odds with the toy-strewn living room. "It's Kael. Her son."

Son.

The word rearranges everything.

"She has a son?" Felix's control slips completely, hurt bleeding through. "She never mentioned—she said she'd never?—"

"Been with anyone?" Rachyl's voice gentles, but there's steel underneath. "She hasn't. Kael is her nephew, technically. Hersister Maria died during childbirth—overdose. Sabina became his legal guardian at seventeen. She IS his mother in every way that matters."

Seventeen. Still in high school. The number hits like a physical blow.

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