The hospital smelled like lemon-scented bleach. Jenny navigated the halls of the oncology ward like a seasoned pro, dodging a meal cart with a nimble side-step.
She burst into Room 402, still smelling like the blue margarita that had ended her career as an electric guitarist approximately one hour ago.
"Good news," Jenny announced, dropping her gig bag with a heavy thud. "The 'Bulldog' nurse is off duty. I saw her in the hall; she was distracted by a bagel. Your pudding is safe."
Her father, Thomas, was propped up against a mountain of pillows. He looked thinner than he had forty-eight hours ago—his skin the color of old parchment—but his eyes still had that restless, melodic flicker.
"I heard the equipment died," Thomas rasped, a weak grin tugging at his mouth. "I felt a disturbance in the Force. Or maybe that was just the hospital jello."
"It didn't die, Dad. It ascended," Jenny said, pulling a chair to his bedside and grabbing his hand. Her thumb traced the calluses on his fingers—faded now, but still there. "It realized it couldn't handle my raw genius and chose self-immolation. Very rock and roll."
Thomas chuckled, which turned into a wet cough. Jenny's grip on his hand tightened, her knuckles white, but her face remained a mask of breezy confidence. Optimism was the mission.
"Jen," he said softly once he caught his breath. "Stop running. You're playing dive bars and then sprinting here like you're in a triathlon. You don't have to prove anything to me. I'm proud of you if you play for ten people or ten thousand."
"Nice try, old man," Jenny said, leaning back and crossing her arms. "But 'good enough' isn't the family motto. The motto is 'Play it loud enough to wake the neighbors.' And you have an unfinished setlist. The Aethelgard Festival, Dad. The Main Stage. The one you told me about since I was five."
Thomas sighed, looking at the ceiling. "That's a dream for a different lifetime, sweetheart. That stage is for legends. It's for people who have been in the game for thirty years and have the scars to prove it. You're talented, but that festival is... it's a fortress."
"Then I'm a siege engine," Jenny snapped, then immediately softened her tone. "I'm going to get us there. One night. You, in the wings. Me, making sure everyone knows whose daughter I am."
"It's not that simple," Thomas whispered. "You don't just 'apply' for Aethelgard. You have to be anointed. There's only one man who signs the final roster. A kingmaker. Lev Andreev."
Jenny's ears perked up. She'd heard the name in hushed tones—the phantom of the industry. "Andreev. Right. The man who lives in the shadows and eats souls for breakfast?"
"Something like that. He's untouchable. He doesn't take meetings. He doesn't even show his face at his own events."
Jenny stood up, adjusted her leather jacket, and checked her reflection in the darkened window. She looked tired, a little messy, and absolutely terrifyingly determined.
"Perfect," she said. "I'll find him. I'll charm him. I'll tell him a few jokes, sing him a song he can't forget, and bam—that invitation is mine. He's just a man, Dad. And men are suckers for a good hook."
Thomas looked at her, a mix of terror and immense pride in his eyes. "He's not just a man, Jen. He's a wall."
"Then watch me learn how to climb," she said, kissing his forehead.
She walked out of the room with a spring in her step that lasted exactly until the door swung shut behind her. Then, she leaned against the cold hospital wall, closed her eyes, and let out a shaky breath.
"Step one," she muttered to the empty hallway. "Find out what the hell a 'Lev Andreev' actually looks like."