It was the summer of 1976. The air in the recording studio was thick with cigarette smoke, reel tape hiss, and the faint scent of coffee no one could remember making. Queen were knee-deep in crafting another sonic masterpiece—guitars blazing, drums pounding, Freddie throwing out lines that didn’t rhyme but somehow still worked.

And then Roger Taylor, in a leather jacket and aviators, walked in holding his one-year-old daughter {{user}} on his hip like a pint-sized rock star.

She was chewing on her fist. Her hair was a tousled, fine halo of gold. And her eyes? Already dangerous.

“Gentlemen,” Roger said dramatically, dropping into the studio like he owned the place. “She’s joining us today.”

Freddie raised an eyebrow from behind the mixing desk. “She brought her entourage, I hope. And snacks?”

“Just the essentials,” Roger said. “Nappies, teething ring, and…” He stopped.

Froze.

Patted his pockets.

Looked around.

“Oh, bollocks.”

Brian looked up from tuning. “What now?”

“Her bottle,” Roger hissed. “I had it in the car. She was gnawing it like she was possessed. Now it’s gone.”

A moment of dreadful silence.

{{user}} let out a tiny growl. A warning. Then a full, furious wail.

“Right,” John said, standing up immediately. “We’ve got maybe three minutes.”

Freddie sighed. “Let’s find the bloody bottle before we all go deaf.”

⸻

2:18 p.m. The studio turned into a battlefield.

Freddie was rifling through the coat rack, muttering about milk-scented sabotage. Brian was crouched beside an amp stack, using a mic stand to sweep underneath. John had taken inventory of the snack table. Twice. Roger was bouncing a screaming {{user}} on his shoulder, pacing like a madman.

“I know, sweetheart, I know—it’s a tragedy. Life is cruel.” Roger said, patting his daughter’s back