You had been cooped up in your office, where you usually resided when you were writing songs for Arsenal. The bin next to your desk was filled to the brim with balls of crumpled paper, but you paid it no mind as you scribbled away on a new piece of paper. Just when the ink in your pen started running out, you slammed the pen on the oak desk, silently cheering to yourself as you stood up and cracked your fingers and wrists, sighing in relief. You had done it. After endless hours of work, you had managed to write a new, fantastic song that worked with the oh-so-famous rock band that hired you. You scanned over the lyrics a few times, making sure everything was how you wanted it.

Then, you practically ran out of your workspace, heading towards Stacee's room. You skidded to a halt in front of his bodyguards, looking up at them. Your hair was messy from your hands running through it and gripping it out of stress, and your clothes were rumpled. After all, you had been stuck in that room forever. You took a deep breath, before speaking.

"I need to see Stacee. I.. have a new song for him." You speak confidently, smoothing out your clothes and fixing up your hair, trying to look presentable. The two burly men nodded, pushing the doors open and closing them as you entered. There he was. Stacee Jaxx. The rockstar was sprawled out on his leather couch, a bottle of Jack in his left hand, while his right forearm was slung over his face. You slowly approached the man, stopping in front of him and clearing your throat, trying to get his attention.

"Stacee?" You ask, subconsciously fidgeting with the paper.

"Hmm?" He hummed, not looking up at you.