Oh but now you're really going

The night it cuts like nails

Pulling hard and fast and full

Or boring holes into my sails

So lead the way tomorrow

To a world that's free from care

And may a small amount of truth in life

Somehow find you there

If you're really leaving

Leave nothing in my care

Everything I own is broken

And far beyond repair

I've offered you nothing

That's nothing in return

Just to stay with me tomorrow

If this world still turns

The late-night recording studio was bathed in a dim amber glow that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. The soft sound of music played in the background, its melancholic melody weaving through the air, filling every crevice with an atmosphere of introspection. JC, his silver-streaked waves tied back into a low ponytail and covered with a gray beanie, leaned over the mixing board, his jaw set, eyes focused, exuding a quiet confidence. Beside him, Patrick stood, chewing on the thumbnail of one hand and running his other hand through his hair repeatedly, to the point that it was starting to stand up straight on its own. They were engrossed in their work, adjusting levels and discussing the nuances of the track.

"Maybe bring up the reverb just a touch," Patrick suggested, his dry wit momentarily set aside as he focused intently on the task at hand.

"It needs depth," JC agreed, "But I think strings. What if we add some more strings," his soft-spoken voice barely audible above the music's gentle ebb and flow. He tweaked the controls, turned the volume up, then moved to his keyboard. He adjusted the sound to mirror a harpsichord and played along with the music from the speakers. He sang softly, "You think I've gone and changed my song to one that's more with singing..." He played a brief interlude with the backing harpsichord as the tempo began building. "I'd walk a mile for you to love this song and smile / and stand in a storm that's stingin'..." JC sang Patrick's lyrics, eyeing him for approval while, again, playing the notes as a harpsichord.

Patrick moved his head to the beat and sang out the start of the chorus as JC continued to play. "I'll call you up and spill my guts the way that I always do. / I'm sure a better man than me won't do that to you." He smiled widely, and JC stopped playing; he moved back to the soundboard and stopped the track.

"I gotta get a harpsichord," Patrick laughed, eyes wide.

"That pedal steel guitar could work too," JC nodded at the instrument in the corner.

"Both! Why limit ourselves," Patrick smiled softly, followed by a yawn. He stretched out his arm and looked at his wrist. "Meeting with the label in the morning, we should probably call it a night."

JC smiled at him. "I'm going to just play out the track on the keyboard so we have it saved. You know, something to at least play around with next week. Do you care if stay maybe 30 more minutes?"

"You're a workhorse, man," Patrick laughed.

"Hey. I'm on your timeline; you're having a kid in like two months, we need to get this done."

"Yeah," Patrick warmed at the thought of meeting his child for the first time. "Well," he scratched absently at the back of his neck as he looked around the studio. "I guess, just shut it all down and lock it up, and I'll see you next week." He turned to leave.

"Good luck tomorrow," JC called after him, then returned to the soundboard.

Thirty minutes turned into two hours and thirty minutes, and it was well after midnight when JC finally realized he should close up shop. It was a hot October night; the Santa Ana winds were kicking up and moving heat across the Southland. The stifling atmosphere within the soundproof studio urged him to seek relief. He swung open the door and stepped halfway out. He took a deep breath, welcoming the outdoor air, which, while still warm, felt much cooler than the studio's stale confines. He glanced upwards, taking in the moonlit sky dotted with stars, before moving back inside to shut down the monitors and pack up his guitar and keyboard to take with him for the weekend.

As he fastened the latches on his guitar case, he caught the faintest hint of muffled voices coming from the open door. Though the words were indistinguishable, the rise and fall of their tones indicated a discussion of some kind. JC paused, curiosity piqued. He cocked his head to the side, attempting to discern the nature of the conversation, but the voices stopped.

JC closed the door behind him, his fingertips lingering on the cool doorknob for a moment before letting go. The quiet hum of the studio was replaced by the whooshing Santa Ana winds. He started toward the courtyard, and as he approached Benny's studio, he noticed the windows were open, inviting in the sultry night air. A soft yellow light peeked through the window as the inside curtain was caught on something, preventing a full obstruction of the view within.

He realized it must have been Benny's voice he had heard moments ago.  He hadn't seen her since the last week when she kissed him suddenly. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to offer her a friendly goodnight as he passed.

He approached the window and was ready to call out to her, but as his eyes adjusted to the light within, he froze. There, amidst a sea of scattered paintbrushes and splattered canvases, stood Colin and Benny, locked in a passionate embrace. JC's heart hammered in his chest, his pulse quickening as he took in the sight before him. Benny, one tattooed arm wrapped tightly around Colin's neck, her other arm still in a sling, seemed to cling to Colin for support - and perhaps something more.

The studio itself appeared chaotic; art supplies were strewn about haphazardly, and half-finished canvases leaned against the walls as if bearing witness to the couple's intimate encounter. JC couldn't help but notice how the vibrant colors and bold lines of Benny's work contrasted sharply with Colin's dark, polished suit, the lux fabric clinging to his muscular form as he thrust into her with soft grunts, pressing her against the studio wall.

For a second he thought he was wrong about Colin, maybe he was not the cause of her injured arm, maybe he was a good husband, and it was just an off night when he met him. But his gut told him otherwise, and his instincts rarely let him down. His fingers dug into the strap of his guitar case. His anger rose. "Why is she taking him back?" He asked himself. Disappointed in her, he moved to take a step past the window and continue his trek to his car when Benny, her chin resting in the crook of Colin's neck, opened her mismatched eyes and locked onto JC's - wide with surprise.

"Shit," JC murmured, breaking eye contact. He forced himself to move, each step away from Benny's studio feeling like a small victory and a devastating loss all at once. As he walked to his car, his mind raced with questions and doubts - about Benny, about himself, and what the San Bernardino Arms had dragged him into.

*****

The moon cast a pale glow over the San Bernardino Arms as JC returned from Bird's, a restaurant just a few blocks away. He clutched a takeout bag filled with food; he and Patrick had been working all day, and JC needed to clear his head and grab something to eat. The night air was dry and warm. The yearly Santa Ana winds maintained a strong grip on Los Angeles.

As he entered the courtyard, the takeout bag nestled in the crook of his arm, he walked past the sputtering fountain and caught sight of Benny standing with a large canvas, propped up against the mosaic garden table she was seated at when he first met her. It had been two weeks since he caught sight of Benny and Colin tangled together in the throes of passion within her studio. The memory still caused an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Since then, he had noticed her around, but she kept to herself, buried deep in her studio, scarcely making appearances, and he had a distinct feeling that she was avoiding him.

Her platinum hair shimmered in the moonlight as she had it piled up on top of her head in a loose bun, exposing the edginess of her undercut. Even with her right arm still in a sling, she managed to maneuver a small torch, waving it over the painting of Los Angeles with the Hollywood Hills looming behind, with surprising dexterity.

Her eyes, one brown and one green, were locked onto the canvas, their intensity cutting through the darkness like a beacon. The surrounding air danced with heat and energy as the fire emanating from the torch licked at the oils on the canvas, causing them to shimmer and dance in a mesmerizing display of destruction and transformation.

JC watched as she carefully applied the heat, the paint bubbling and charring under the intense temperature. It was both fascinating and unsettling, much like Benny herself.

Finally, she clicked off the torch and turned toward him, her eyes meeting his with a mix of amusement and challenge. "You really like to watch, don't you?" she said, her tone both a greeting and an allusion to the fact that she had noticed JC at the window two weeks before.

The comment caught JC off guard, and he felt a flush creep up his neck as he struggled to find a response. He had only meant to say a friendly goodbye, not invade her privacy. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away from hers for a brief moment before finding the courage to face her again.

"Look," he began, trying to steady his voice, "I didn't... It was just a... I swear I wasn't..." A flicker of amusement crossed Benny's face, and JC felt the need to defend himself further. Summoning his wits, he managed a snarky retort. "Look, if you want to keep your art a secret, then don't do it all out in the open."

The corners of Benny's mouth twitched ever so slightly, hinting at a smile that never quite materialized. She raised an eyebrow, challenging him without uttering a word, as if daring him to continue down this path.

"Or maybe, I don't know, a 'Do Not Disturb' sign," JC added, unable to resist poking the bear just a little more. His heart thumped wildly in his chest - part fear, part exhilaration - as he braced for her response.

Benny turned back to her canvas and fired up the torch again, which cast eerie shadows across her face. The smell of burning paint hung heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering scent of charred wood. "Maybe," she conceded, her tone playful, but guarded. "But then again, I've always found life to be much more interesting when the lines between public and private are blurred."

As she spoke, JC couldn't help but be reminded of the way boundaries seemed to dissolve in her presence. Her actions, her art, and her, in general, seemed to capture the raw, visceral essence of life in all its beauty and brutality. And as he stood there, watching Benny manipulate fire like a conductor bringing a symphony to life, he wondered if perhaps there was something to be learned from her fearless disregard for convention and restraint.

"Besides," she added with a smirk, "a little voyeurism never hurt anyone, right?"

JC tried to shake off the discomfort, searching for something witty to say. "Well, you know what they say," he retorted with a smirk, "curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

Benny raised an eyebrow, her eyes never leaving the canvas, but JC could see a hint of amusement in them as she continued to work her magic, each flick of the torch transforming the painting into something new and unexpected.

JC began, deciding to steer the conversation away from the figurative to the literal, "You know, aren't you ruining this painting with that fire?"

Benny casually flicked her wrist, the torch's flame casting a warm glow on her face, bringing out the sharp angles of her cheekbones. "Ruining?" she mused, her voice lilting with amusement. "I prefer to think of it as... evolving."

JC tilted his head, intrigued by her response, and watched as Benny continued to wield the torch, her two-toned eyes reflecting its fiery light.

"Art is impermanent," Benny continued, the playful note in her voice never fading. "It grows, changes, and ultimately fades away, just like everything else in this world. Sometimes, you have to burn it to the ground in order to create something new and beautiful again."

As JC listened to her words, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the way Benny seemed to embrace chaos and destruction as essential components of existence. It was a stark contrast to his own carefully crafted approach to life, which relied on precision and control above all else.

"Is that what this piece is about?" he asked, curiosity piqued. "Starting over?"

"In a way," Benny replied, briefly tearing her gaze away from the canvas to meet his eyes. "It's also about capturing the essence of this place - Los Angeles, Hollywood, all its secrets smoldering beneath the grandeur and opulence. It's only a matter of time before that fire spreads."

JC considered Benny's words, the vivid image of Los Angeles burning, a city of dreams reduced to ashes - a haunting representation of the dark side of ambition and desire that Hollywood so often concealed behind its glamorous façade. He'd seen it firsthand; the reality of Benny's painting.

"Here," Benny said, interrupting his thoughts. She reached down into a canvas bag at her feet, pulled out a postcard, and handed it to JC. "I have a show opening next week over at the Loop, on Melrose."

JC quietly studied the card. The black and white photograph on the front depicted the giant canvas he had seen in her studio once before, featuring the nude woman with chains. It was a stark, powerful image that left no doubt about the raw, unapologetic nature of Benny's work.

"This is going to be the centerpiece of the show. Come to the opening - see for yourself what it means to embrace the fire."

JC considered this for a moment, his thoughts drifting back to the scene he had inadvertently witnessed two weeks prior. She was playing with fire then, and she was playing with fire now. His eyes again inspecting the burning painting. "Wouldn't miss it," he replied.

*****

The low hum of the recording equipment provided an ambient backdrop as JC and Patrick worked into the night, absorbed in their creative process. Their fingers danced over buttons and dials, adjusting levels and tweaking sounds to better capture and share Patrick's vocals over their carefully crafted and assembled track.

"Hey," Patrick interrupted their process, "let me just take this call," he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he glanced at the screen of his phone. "It's my wife."

"Sure, man," JC replied, sliding off his headphones and running a hand through his dark hair, rearranging the splay of curls that hugged the back of his neck. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but still burned with the passion he had for his craft.

Patrick opened the door to the studio and stepped out into the brightly lit walkway outside his studio. The dimly lit studio was a cocoon, insulating them from the outside world, and the contrast between the two spaces momentarily disoriented him. After he answered the call, his attention was quickly drawn a few steps down to the studio next door by the sound of crashing and shouting coming from Benny's studio.

"Hey, babe-hold on," Patrick said, his brow furrowing in concern. The muffled argument grew louder, punctuated by the loud sound of a second crash and then a thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Patrick's heart rate increased; it was clear that something was not right.

"Marie, I have to call you back. There's something going on," Patrick said urgently, ending the call with his wife. He called through the open door of his own studio, his voice strained, "Hey JC, something's wrong, come out here!"

The urgency in Patrick's voice catalyzed JC into action. He jumped up from his seat and joined Patrick outside the door to a cacophony of broken glass and guttural screams that pierced the air. The chaos from next door was unmistakable as the two men rushed over.

In Benny's studio, a whirlwind of destruction had taken hold, the once vibrant space now tainted by fear and violence.

"C'mon Benny," Colin's voice boomed through the door, venom dripping from his words. "You're completely useless, just like your pathetic art."

"Please, Colin," Benny's voice trembled, her fear palpable. Her plea was met with a cold, mocking laugh that sent chills down JC's spine. "There's no one," she cried, flinging herself across a series of paintings, protecting them from Colin's wrath.

He moved his face inches from hers and screamed, "You think I'm stupid?" She felt his hot breath on her. He pulled back suddenly, picked up a painting of a child, and slammed it over his knee, tearing it in half. "Try me again, Benny."

"Colin, no! Please, please, I beg you, stop, please." Tears poured from her face, her hair matted down against her cheeks, as she threw herself across another set of canvases.

A surge of adrenaline propelled him, JC threw open the door to Benny's studio, with Patrick right on his heels. The scene that greeted them was one of chaos and destruction-canvases slashed to ribbons, paint splattered across the walls like blood spatter, and shattered glass glittering dangerously beneath their feet. Benny huddled in a corner, her eyes wide with terror, while Colin stood over her like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Get away from her!" JC roared, his protective instincts taking over as he launched himself forward, trying to position himself between Colin and Benny.

"Colin, Man, You gotta stop," Patrick grabbed Colin's arm trying to move him away from Benny.

"She's my wife!" Colin bellowed, his eyes blazing with hatred as he wrenched his arm free from Patrick. He reached down and grabbed Benny by her sling-covered arm. He pulled her up toward him, and wrapped his fingers tightly around her upper arms, shaking her as he spoke, "The ungrateful bitch!"

"Please, Colin, stop!" Benny's voice trembled, her face tear-streaked. "You've destroyed everything! Please don't destroy us too," she pleaded, trying to convince him she was on her side.

"Colin, man, c'mon, let her go." Patrick urged.

Colin released his grip on Benny, and she slid to the floor. JC moved to her, to help her up. But before he could reach her, Colin lunged forward, his fist flying in a flurry of rage, connecting with JC's jaw.

JC stumbled backward, his hand instantly holding his jaw, which was stinging. He tried to steady himself. He could taste blood in his mouth, a coppery tang that set his heart racing with anger. His blue eyes locked onto Colin's whose eyes were filled with a fury that burned hot and bright.

"Colin, what are you doing?!" Patrick exclaimed, stepping between the two men.

Colin sneered, his eyes flicking between JC and Benny. "She's mine," he spat, his hand curling into a fist. "You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine?" He returned his gaze to Benny.

"Colin, it's not him," Benny begged. "He's not taking me."

JC could see the terror etched onto Benny's face and instinctually lunged forward, tackling Colin to the ground before he had a chance to strike again. They grappled with each other, rolling over and over on the floor of the studio.

"Enough!" Benny screamed, her heart pounding in her chest. The chaos of the surrounding scene seemed to slow as she reached for her small torch from a nearby workbench, her eyes locked on a small pile of wet canvases. Colin had doused them in turpentine, and the paint colors bled and swirled together in an abstract dance that mirrored the turmoil of the room.

As she held the torch closer to the paintings, she could feel the heat radiating off its tip, the flames licking hungrily at the air like ravenous snakes. She knew the consequences of her actions, but desperation left her with no other choice.

"Stop it, Colin," she warned, her voice shaking with determination. "If you don't leave now, I'll burn this place to the ground!" she screamed.

Her threat hung heavy in the air, the crackling of the fire punctuating her words with an urgency that couldn't be ignored. JC, still reeling from the blow, looked at Benny with a mixture of confusion and admiration.

"Are you insane?" Colin spat, his gaze flicking between Benny and the torch, uncertainty clouding his features for the first time since he had burst into the studio.

"Maybe" Benny replied, her grip tightening on the torch handle.

With a final, resolute glance at Colin, she touched the torch to the corner of a canvas. Flames erupted instantly, consuming the artwork in a hungry blaze. Panic danced in Colin's eyes as he watched the fire spread.

He backed away slowly from the flames. "Have it your way," he growled.

As Colin stormed out of the studio, Benny watched the pile of canvases burn, her heart aching for her loss. She knew that she had made a bold stand against the darkness that had sought to consume them, but at what cost?

The flames leaped from the canvas to other surrounding materials, fueled by the volatile concoction of chemicals and paint. The fire crackled hungrily, its destructive nature mimicking the violence in Colin's eyes moments before. Dark smoke filled the air, the suffocating smell of burning wood and paint assaulting their senses. JC, eyes stinging from the smoke, pulled Benny to him, pushing her past her fiery creation to the open door.

"Jesus Christ, Benny!" Patrick exclaimed, his voice strained with panic as he rushed to the shared wall between his and Benny's studio spaces. He fumbled with the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, releasing it from its bracket with shaking hands. The weight of the extinguisher grounded him, as he hurried back to her studio door. He found a sudden resolve within himself. He pulled the pin and aimed at the base of the growing inferno.

JC and Benny retreated behind him as Patrick unleashed a torrent of white foam. The fire roared in defiance, but the extinguisher's contents smothered the flames, snuffing them out one by one. It was as if they were witnessing the battle between creation and destruction, the destructive force of the fire, only tamed by the steadfast determination of those who refused to be consumed by it.

"Is everyone okay?" Patrick asked, his voice hoarse from the smoke and adrenaline. His hands trembled slightly, the extinguisher still in hand at the ready.

Benny nodded, her eyes wide with the shock of what she had just done. She could feel the burn of remorse in her chest, mixed with an odd sense of pride for standing up to Colin. Her thoughts raced with the implications of her actions, wondering if this was truly the end or merely a prelude to further chaos.

In the distance, the wail of sirens grew louder, their shrill cries slicing through the tension-filled air like a knife's edge. Red and blue lights flashed urgently against the walls of the San Bernardino Arms.

"Shit," JC muttered under his breath, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He exchanged a quick glance with Patrick, who was also panting heavily, sweat beading on his brow. They both knew what the arrival of the police meant; their intervention had just become infinitely more complicated.

Benny's eyes welled up with tears, her emotions a whirlwind of relief, anger, and sadness. She wiped at the moisture on her cheeks with trembling hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "I never thought he'd go this far," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I should've done something sooner."

"Hey," Patrick said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You did what you could. We're all still standing, aren't we?"

As the first officer proceeded through the courtyard, his hand resting firmly on his holstered weapon, Benny's eyes widened in fear. He approached the three of them, who stood before the smoking open door. "We received a call about a disturbance," the officer began, his voice firm yet measured. "Can any of you explain what happened here?"

Benny hesitated for a moment, her mind racing as she scrambled to piece together an explanation that would protect not only herself, but JC and Patrick as well. Finally, she took a deep breath, steeling herself before speaking.

"Officer, I'm so sorry for all this commotion," she said, her voice trembling with feigned remorse. "I... had an accident working in my studio. I was using a torch for a piece I was working on, and it got too close to some turpentine. And here we are," she smiled unconvincingly. "Patrick, my neighbor, got the fire extinguished, I think."

The officer narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene before him - the demolished artwork and charred walls, the desperate expressions on JC and Patrick's faces. He could sense there was more to the story than what Benny had offered. And then they were joined by a second officer.

"Officer," JC began, but Benny's dual-hued eyes pleaded for his silence.

"JC helped get me out," she interrupted him before he could continue.

"Alright," the officer said slowly, clearly unconvinced by Benny's explanation. He looked at JC and Patrick, "My partner, here, is going to take your statements." He turned to Benny, "Ma'am, I'm going to have you come with me to the station."

Benny's heart sank as she realized the gravity of the situation. She knew that going with the officer meant facing the consequences of her actions, but there was no turning back now. She nodded silently, her eyes downcast, as the officer gestured for her to follow him.

As she turned to leave, she caught JC's eye, silently willing him to understand the gravity of the situation, and her need for him to stay quiet. He nodded imperceptibly, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination.

"Alright, let's go," the officer said, his tone brusque as he led Benny through the courtyard and out into the street.

*****

Patrick stood in a small glass booth in the corner of the studio, one hand pressing a set of headphones to his ears, the other holding down flat a paper with lyrics on the music stand. His lips brushed the microphone as he sang, "She's a restless sort, / with secrets that wait, / on corners in the dark, / to pinch with a pain, / to sting and to smart..." His voice resonated through the studio. JC, seated behind the soundboard, wore a contemplative expression as he listened intently, his fingers dancing over the controls, adjusting levels.

It was their last day together in this space, the culmination of months spent crafting melodies and weaving stories into the fabric of sound. The song, "Thunderbolt," held weighty significance, and Patrick poured his heart into every lyric. "God knows, it gets so hard / to keep out the cold / when you're living in a house full of holes." As he transitioned into the final verse, the studio itself seemed to hold its breath.

JC glanced up from the soundboard, meeting Patrick's eyes. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a mutual acknowledgment of the journey they'd taken to arrive at this moment.

As the final note of Patrick's harmonica reverberated from the track in the dimly lit recording studio, lingering for a moment before fading into silence, Patrick leaned back from the microphone, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He cast a weary yet satisfied smile at JC, who stood behind the mixing console, his fingers poised above the controls as he listened to the song's conclusion with a deep sense of satisfaction. The album was complete.

"Man, that was incredible," Patrick breathed, stepping out from behind the glass booth, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. He glanced at JC, noting the glimmer of anticipation in his eyes. "I think we've got something really special here."

JC nodded, his lips curling into a wry smile. "I couldn't agree more." His dark brown hair, streaked with silver, framed his age-lined face, adding an air of authenticity to his quiet confidence. "This album is going to be one hell of a journey for your listeners, Patrick."

Patrick crossed the room to join JC at the console, his tall, thin frame casting a shadow upon the floor. Together, they powered down the equipment, the weight of their accomplishment settling upon them like the dust motes swirling about the room. As they worked in companionable silence, JC couldn't help but reflect on the months spent within these walls, creating music alongside Patrick, and he felt a pang of sadness knowing this chapter was coming to an end.

"Hey, JC?" Patrick's voice pulled JC from his thoughts. "I just wanted to say... thank you. For everything." He shifted awkwardly, his gaze momentarily averted. "Working with you has been an incredible experience."

"Thank you," JC responded, touched by Patrick's sincerity. "It's been an honor to work with you, too."

The warm twilight air enveloped JC as he stepped out of the studio, the lingering notes of their final song still echoing in his ears. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a muted glow, as if even Hollywood itself was acknowledging the end of an era. The courtyard of the San Bernardino Arms stood before him, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The complex had been almost like a second home to him the last few months.

"Hey, Patrick," JC called, turning to his friend who was locking up the studio. "It's been quite a journey, huh?"

"Absolutely," Patrick replied, pocketing the keys. "I can't believe it's been almost three months since we started."

JC leaned against the cool stucco wall, letting his gaze wander over the courtyard. The fountain's sporadic bursts seemed to mirror his own mix of emotions-relief, joy, but also a sense of uncertainty. He couldn't help but think of Benny, whose absence left a strange void. Could this journey really end without her?

"Have you heard from Benny?" he asked Patrick, hopeful.

Patrick shook his head. "No, she hasn't been answering my calls. I know the police let her go that same night, but I haven't seen her around since then."

"Damn," JC muttered. His brow furrowed with concern.

"She's probably lying low," Patrick suggested, trying to sound optimistic. "You know, she's the kind that always bounces back."

JC nodded, though he wasn't entirely convinced. He thought about Benny's art, her passion for transformation and renewal, and couldn't help but hope she was finding a way to rise from the literal ashes herself.

"Let's hope so," he murmured.

"Agreed," Patrick said, clapping a hand on JC's shoulder, before leading him toward the courtyard and out to their cars.

As JC and Patrick started to walk away, JC's gaze was drawn back to the bungalow complex. The door to Benny's studio stood slightly ajar, inviting his curiosity. "Wait," he said, grabbing Patrick's arm. "Look," he nodded his head at Benny's studio door.

Patrick's brow furrowed as he followed JC's gaze. "Yeah, that's odd. Let's go see."

JC hesitated at the threshold of Benny's studio, his hand gripping the doorknob tightly. The acrid scent of smoke assaulted his senses as he stepped inside, Patrick following close behind. The floor of the room was a charred mess, remnants of burned objects and scorched walls bearing witness to the fire's destructive power. JC's heart clenched at the sight - this had once been Benny's sanctuary, her creative haven.

At the center of the cluttered open space stood the building manager, a stout man with salt-and-pepper hair, who surveyed the charred remains of Benny's studio, his face a mixture of concern and frustration as he took a deep breath and sighed. Patrick approached him, treading carefully through the debris.

"Damn," Patrick muttered, shaking his head as he surveyed the damage. "Sorta looks worse than I remember."

"Just needs a clean, the inspector said. Everything structurally is fine," the building manager explained. 

JC's gaze drifted over the ruins, recalling what had transpired here and trying to make sense of it. His eyes landed on an unexpected sight: amidst the wreckage, a painting still stood, its perimeter blackened but not consumed by the flames. His eyes still fixed on the scene - Los Angeles in all its burning glory, somehow more captivating now than ever. The colors were warped and distorted, blending together in an eerie dance of disillusionment. His eyes traced the singed edges of the canvas, taking in every detail of the distorted cityscape. The blackened buildings seemed to shimmer with defiance against the smoky background, as if refusing to succumb to the destruction that surrounded them. He recognized Benny, her ability to create something beautiful in the midst of chaos, in the distinct brush strokes and colors. "Sometimes, you have to burn it to the ground..." He thought. He could almost hear her.

His thoughts were broken by the team of cleaners who entered the studio. Their expressions somber and focused. One of them stepped towards the painting, intending to remove it from the wreckage. Instinctively, JC held up a hand to stop them.

"Wait," he said, the word barely more than a whisper. The cleaner looked at him quizzically, but JC didn't notice, too focused on the ruined canvas. "Where are you taking this?"

"The trash," one of the men answered.

"You can't throw it out." He finally fixed his gaze on the man he was speaking to.

"It's not in the best of shape," the cleaner explained, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I'll take it. I'll keep it." JC turned toward the building manager, who was still in conversation with Patrick. "Excuse me, everything in here is going in the trash?"

"Yeah, the husband hired the guys to come clear this place out," He explained.

"So you don't care if I take this?" He nodded his head to the canvas.

"Wow. Look at that," Patrick breathed, his voice tinged with awe. "That's the one she was working on outside, yeah?"

"Yeah, it is," JC answered.

"The one she literally meant to set on fire is the only one left!" Patrick laughed. "That is so Benny."

The irony was not lost on JC; the painting now mirrored Benny's own destruction in the hope to rise again.

"Can we get that in your car?" Patrick asked.

"I think if I put the seat down and slide it through the trunk."

"It's all yours," the building manager gave his final approval.

Patrick lifted one side of the large canvas, while JC took the other. They carefully stepped over the wreckage of art that did not survive. They carried it across the saltillo tiles of the courtyard, past the sputtering fountain. Night had finally settled in on The San Bernardino Arms. The once-bustling hive of creativity now eerily quiet. Patrick helped JC maneuver the large painting into his car.

Before saying his final goodbye, JC couldn't help taking in the San Bernardino Arms one last time. Tucked away in the heart of Hollywood, the bungalow complex was a living portrait of endurance amid decay. Its pink stucco walls and terracotta tiled roofs spoke volumes about the residents who once lived here. It bore witness to the secrets of long ago, and would continue to attend to the secrets and stories of its current inhabitants.

"Hard to believe this place has survived all these years," JC mused, the words escaping his lips before he realized he'd spoken them aloud.

"Yeah," Patrick agreed, his eyes scanning the structure with admiration. "It's seen better days, but there's still something beautiful about it, don't you think?"

"Definitely," JC said, nodding. He looked at Patrick and held out his hand. "It's been great, Patrick. And when your record lands, call me up for your next one."

Patrick shook JC's hand vigorously. "Guaranteed," he said.

JC slipped into his car, started the ignition, and drove off into the Hollywood night.