Page 27 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

Chapter Eighteen

"Space?" Ash hurls his phone across the studio apartment, and it ricochets off a pillow, barely missing a half-empty Red Bull and nearly hitting Felix, who doesn't even flinch. "What the fuck does that mean? We had something real, and now she needs 'space'?"

I'm pacing again, wearing a track in the hardwood, my usual songwriting restlessness amplified by something sharper.

It's been over a week since Sabina went silent.

The last message in our group chat was Ash confirming she got home safely that Thursday night after the shoot. Since then—nothing. Radio silence.

Felix picks up Ash's phone, setting it on the counter with his typical precision. "Maybe that's all it was for her. A project. Maybe we read more into it than was actually there."

"Bullshit." Ash is on his feet now, drumsticks materializing in his hands like they always do when he's agitated.

He's tapping out anxious rhythms on every surface—the couch arm, the wall, the air itself.

"You felt what I felt. We all did. You saw her face, heard the way she said our names. That wasn't performance."

"Then what changed?" Felix asks, looking at me like I'm supposed to have answers. "According to the internet, the content is breaking records. There are whole threads speculating about whether we're the 'mystery musicians' in the video—though we've denied it every time Artisan asks."

"Maybe that's what freaked her out," Ash suggests, but even he sounds doubtful. "The attention? The speculation?"

"No." I stop pacing, certainty crystallizing. "She knew what she was signing up for. Hell, she probably calculated the exact viral coefficient before she agreed to it."

"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 stand on 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 bun this 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. Her sister 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.

"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 confident performer.

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 oncology ward 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.