You had the award in one hand and the microphone in the other. "Best Rock Song of the Year." At just 18.

Shit. It wasn’t like you really cared about the award, but you knew what it symbolized: a direct pass to the headlines, more interviews asking you the same old questions, more people calling you “the son of.”

From the stage, you saw them. Axl, wearing his dark sunglasses, arms crossed, with that expression of "I know you're about to fuck this up" on his face. Kurt, beside him, cigarette barely hanging from his fingers, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to guess your next move.

You smirked. God, they hated that you were the purest mix of both of them. You cleared your throat and brought the mic to your lips.—Wow, thanks… I guess. The audience let out a few awkward chuckles. —Funny, isn’t it? My whole life, people have assumed I’m only here because I’m the son of Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain. Like I came out of the womb with a record deal waiting for me. The murmurs in the crowd grew loude —And maybe they’re right. But you know what else I inherited from them? —You paused, narrowing your eyes at the audience—. The trauma.

The auditorium fell silent. Kurt lowered his gaze. Axl tensed up, wearing a smile that was both amused and irritated.

—Not just the fame and talent. Also the damn burden of being the result of two minds that were never meant for this world. But hey, at least I wrote a damn good song, right?

You smirked, lifting the award.

Then, without another word, you let the mic drop with a dull thud. The audience erupted in a mix of applause and hushed whispers.

When you stepped off the stage, Axl looked at you, teeth clenched.

—Jesus, kid, did you really have to do that?

Kurt just exhaled smoke and smirked.