The air in the recording studio was thick with the scent of stale coffee and unspoken tension. Blake Everett, lead singer of Paper Parachute, leaned against the wall, a picture of practiced indifference, but his eyes, red-rimmed, betrayed the night's excesses.

"Blake, where the fuck are you? Our studio time starts in five minutes!" Kace Green's voice boomed through the phone, a clear mix of frustration and concern.

Blake merely grunted in response, his gaze fixed on the endless stream of city lights outside. He knew he was a mess. He knew he was an asshole. But he didn't know how to stop. Not yet. He just needed to get through this one song. The song that would tear open his carefully constructed facade.

Across town, in the cozy, familiar chaos of Deno's, Blair Andrews adjusted the mic, her apron discarded. The smell of frying food and beer was a comforting backdrop to the buzz of excitement building inside her. This was her stage, her sanctuary. She plucked a chord on her guitar, a soft, clear sound cutting through the chatter.

"My name's Blair and I've got just one song for you tonight. It's an original, and it's called 'Good Riddance'."

Her voice, pure and resonant, filled the room, carrying the weight of dreams and departures. She poured her heart into the lyrics, a story of leaving everything behind to chase a fragile hope. The crowd, mostly regulars, listened, captivated.

As the last note faded, applause erupted, a warm wave of affirmation. Blair smiled, a genuine, hopeful smile. She was stepping off the stage, but unknowingly, she was stepping onto a much bigger one. A well-dressed man, Damon Blackwell from Tidal Records, was waiting.

"Ms. Andrews, I work for Tidal Records. I'm very interested in having you record a sample of songs with us."

Holy shit. Her dreams, for the first time since she'd arrived in LA, felt real. Tangible.