Page 8 of Rhythm and Rapture

I lean back, staring at what I've typed. The Hidden Chemist. It feels right—like armor I can wear while still being myself underneath.

A few minutes later, Nova appears at the door, her own tablet in hand. "Ms. Jaspe? Mind if we chat about your preferences? I assist with artist development too—small company, we all wear multiple hats."

She settles across from me, professional but approachable. "I see you're concerned about scheduling and anonymity?"

"I have... obligations. Family. Academic career."

"Completely understandable. Most of our performers have lives outside these walls." She swipes through her tablet. "You can build your brand around your constraints, not despite them. Build your audience around your schedule, not the other way around. As for anonymity—masks, voice modulation, careful camera angles."

"And the limited hours?"

She shrugs lightly. "Quality over quantity. A mysterious chemistry professor who educates while she entertains? That's unique. That sells."

"And that works? Financially?"

"Some of our most successful performers never show their faces. It's about finding your niche. About retaining your identity even while living behind the mask of another."

Nova slides the contract across the table, placing a pen beside it. "Take your time. Read it through."

But I've already read it twice. The first time in disbelief at the protections offered. The second time, the process itself became meditative—each clause methodically examined, every provision carefully considered. There's something deeply calming about a document this meticulously structured, with contingencies for situations I hadn't even thought to worry about. Health insurance specifications. Explicit consent protocols. Image rights. Termination procedures that protect the performer, not just the company. It reads like someone who's been on the other side wrote it—someone who understood vulnerability and built safeguards against exploitation.

My hand trembles slightly as I pick up the pen—not from fear, but from the weight of what this means.

I press pen to paper, watching blue ink flow in familiar curves. The signature line seems to pulse with my heartbeat as I sign:Sabina Jaspe.

For several moments, I stare as the ink glistens on the page, catching the overhead lights. I watch the blue slowly darken, molecules of pigment binding to paper fibers, becoming permanent. Each second marks a new milestone—we can keep the house, we can cover treatments, the pervasive desperation that has become my life's soundtrack finally quiets. The transformation is hypnotic—wet to dry, temporary to fixed, possibility to reality.

"Welcome to Behind the Lens, Ms. Jaspe," Nova says softly, gently pulling the contract away as I trace my signature with my fingertip, careful not to smudge it.

I learned early that when reality is imbued with perpetual crisis, hope feels dangerous.

But this... this feels like solid ground.

Chapter Three

PRESENT DAY

"You're glowing,"Rachyl announces, sliding into the booth across from me at the campus coffee shop with her usual dramatic flair. She's carrying what appears to be a venti something-with-extra-everything and wearing an expression that suggests she's been waiting weeks for this conversation. "Like, legitimately radiant. Either you've discovered the fountain of youth or you've finally gotten laid. Please tell me it's the latter because I have been worried about your vaginal atrophy situation."

I nearly choke on my americano. "Jesus, Rach. Could you announce my sexual status a little louder? I don't think the entire engineering department heard you."

"Don't deflect with sarcasm," she says, settling into her seat with the determination of someone who's not leaving without answers. "You've been mysteriously unavailable for weeks, you're suddenly able to afford organic groceries instead of the ramen-and-hope diet, and yesterday I saw you actually smile at your phone. That's either new dick or a personality transplant."

"Why can't it be professional success? Career advancement? Academic achievement?"

"Because your idea of professional success involves explaining molecular structures to undergraduates who think chemistry is just an excuse to play with Bunsen burners. That doesn't typically generate the kind of income that pays for new clothes." She gestures at my outfit—a fitted sweater that actually fits properly instead of hanging off my shoulders like academic depression. "Plus, you've got that glow. The kind that comes from regular endorphin releases."

I take a deliberate sip of coffee, buying time to figure out how much truth I'm ready to share. Rachyl and I have been best friends since freshman year, bonded by our mutual appreciation for intellectual discourse and our shared ability to consume alarming quantities of caffeine and wine. But there's a difference between close friendship and explaining that your mysterious income source involves explaining advanced scientific theory while undressing for your audience.

"I got a new job," I say finally. "Freelance work. Educational content creation."

"Content creation?" Her perfectly manicured eyebrows disappear into her hairline. "Like YouTube tutorials? Podcasts? OnlyFans?"

The way she tosses out "OnlyFans" like it's equivalent to YouTube makes me wonder if she's more perceptive than I've given her credit for.

"Educational streaming," I clarify, which is technically accurate if you consider adult entertainment educational. "I explain scientific concepts to online audiences. Turns out there's a surprisingly robust market for accessible science communication."

"How robust are we talking?"

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