Page 49 of Rhythm and Rapture

"Jesus." Ash sinks onto the couch, drumsticks clattering from his hands. "The streaming, the shoot?—"

"All for medical bills." Rachyl's perfectly composed facade cracks slightly. "Do you have any idea what experimental cancer treatments cost? What it's like watching a twenty-two-year-old juggle doctoral work, three TA jobs, and a dying child?"

"What happened?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want the answer. "Why is he in the ICU?"

Rachyl's hands twist in her lap, thousand-dollar manicure catching the light. "He relapsed three months ago. The cancer came back in his bones. They started an experimental immunotherapy—Sabina was so happy she finally had money, didn't have to beg for payment plans or charity care." Her voice breaks. "The treatment triggered a massive immune response. Cytokine release syndrome. He was on a ventilator for three days."

"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it.

"She blames herself," Rachyl continues. "Says she should have researched more, asked more questions, not been so eager just because she could finally afford it. She's been at his bedside for six days, refusing to leave even to shower. I've been bringing her clothes, forcing her to eat."

She stands abruptly, grabbing her keys with the efficiency of someone used to hospital runs. "She won't want to see you. Sabina doesn't let people see her vulnerable, and right now she's..." She pauses, searching for words. "She's not The Hidden Chemist. She's not the brilliant scientist or the confidentperformer. She's just a terrified mother watching her baby suffer."

"Too bad," Ash says, already heading for the door. "She doesn't get to shut us out because things got real."

Rachyl studies us for a long moment, something calculating in her gaze. "You know, I told her not to do the shoot. Told her there were other ways to make money. But she said you three were different. Said you saw her, not just the character."

"We did," Felix says quietly. "We do."

"Then prove it." She heads for the door, all business now. "I'll drive. Hospital parking is a nightmare, and you'll need a visitor's pass for the ICU. Just..." She pauses at the threshold. "Be prepared. The Sabina you're about to see isn't the one from your shoot. This is who she really is—someone who's been carrying an impossible weight since she was a teenager, and it's finally crushing her."

Following her to the car, I can't stop thinking about everything we misunderstood. The virginity wasn't a gimmick—it was having no time for herself, no space for anything beyond keeping Kael alive. The desperation was real, born of impossible choices and limited options. Everything about her was real, including the walls protecting her and the boy who depends on her.

"She doesn't know I'm bringing you," Rachyl says as she navigates toward Stanford. "She'd tell me not to. But she needs someone, even if she won't admit it. She's been alone too long, confused survival with strength."

Looking at my bandmates, I see the same determination reflected back. We thought we were falling for a mysterious performer who chose adult entertainment, someone we understood. Instead, we fell for someone who's been carrying the world since childhood, surviving on determination and love for a dying child. Now we're about to meet who she really is—not the performer or the scientist, but a mother fighting for her child's life.

The question is whether what we feel is strong enough for this reality.

The pediatric oncologyward at Stanford Hospital is a special kind of hell painted in cheerful colors. Mickey Mouse grins manically from one wall while SpongeBob's gap-toothed smile stretches across another, their relentless cheer a mockery of the reality within these walls. The floors are that specific hospital linoleum—speckled beige that's meant to hide stains but instead just looks like sadness made tangible. Everything smells like industrial disinfectant barely masking something worse.

Rachyl's sneakers squeak softly against the floor as she navigates the maze of corridors in her scrubs. She doesn't need to check signs or ask for directions—her body knows this path.

We move down the main hallway of the unit, passing rooms where similar dramas play out behind partially open doors. Through one, a mother sings softly in Spanish to a toddler hooked to an IV. Another reveals a father pacing, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly at no one. From somewhere comes the mechanical wheeze of a ventilator, a sound that makes my skin crawl.

We pass room 4B, and I catch a glimpse of the nameplate—empty now, but something about it makes Rachyl's step falter for just a moment before she continues.

"She's in the suite at the end," Rachyl says quietly. "4C. They moved him there after..." She doesn't finish.

From somewhere down the hall, music drifts—soft and familiar. It takes me a moment to place it: Grimoire's "WhenStars Fall." The acoustic version. Someone must be playing it on a phone or tablet, and the gentle melody seems both out of place and perfectly fitting in this space where children fight battles they shouldn't have to.

Felix's jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. Ash hasn't touched his drumsticks since we entered the building—his hands hang empty at his sides, lost without their usual rhythm. I force myself to breathe normally, but the antiseptic air burns my throat.

We round the corner to the end of the hall where the suite is located—a larger room designed for longer stays, with actual windows and space for a parent to live alongside their sick child. The door is partially open.

I see her before she sees us.

The sight punches the air from my lungs.

Sabina is folded into a vinyl chair like she's trying to make herself small enough to disappear. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, creating a protective shell. One hand stretches out to rest on the bed rail, maintaining contact with the small form barely visible among the machines and wires.

She's wearing that Stanford Chemistry Department sweatshirt—the same one from that morning after the shoot when she made us breakfast and laughed at Ash's terrible chemistry jokes. But now it hangs loose on her frame, wrinkled and stained with coffee rings and what might be tears. There's a splash of something orange near the hem—juice, maybe, or medicine.

Her hair, usually so carefully styled even in casual moments, is pulled back in a haphazard bun that's coming undone. Strands escape to hang limp around her face, some stuck to her cheek with dried tears. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead turn herskin sallow, highlighting the sharp angles where soft curves used to be.

No mask to hide behind. No heels to give her height. No lab coat for armor. Just Sabina, stripped down to raw humanity.

The dark circles under her eyes are so pronounced they look like bruises, purple-black against skin gone pale from too many hours under hospital lights. Her lips are chapped, bitten raw in places. Her hands shake slightly where they rest—from exhaustion or fear or too much hospital coffee, I can't tell.

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