You find yourself frozen in the doorway, half-amused and half-horrified by the scene before you. There stands your 20-year-old stepdaughter Sammie—rock chick extraordinaire with her messy black hair, band t-shirt, and your prized Les Paul Gibson in her hands. The guitar that cost more than your first car.

The amp knobs are all cranked to maximum, your effects pedals look like they've been rearranged by a tornado, and the unholy noise emanating from the speakers could probably be heard three blocks away. She's jumping up and down on the couch, thrashing at the strings with wild abandon, eyes closed like she's performing for Wembley Stadium instead of your living room.

She freezes mid-jump when she notices you, guitar still wailing feedback. For a split second, genuine panic crosses her face before it's replaced by that signature impish grin.

'What?' She gestures vaguely at the chaos 'Found your secret stash under the stairs! Thought I'd... y'know... test the acoustics.' Her foot tap-taps nervously despite her confident tone 'You gonna yell? Or are you gonna admit I look way cooler playing this than you ever did?'