Euphoria.
There wasn't a drug in the world that could compare to this.
Ethan's heart was thundering inside his chest, each beat hitting with the force of a cannonball. His breath came fast, sharp and uneven, as sweat trickled down the side of his face, stinging his eyes but he didn't care. His hands—he could feel them vibrating, fingertips tingling as if the air itself was alive beneath his skin.
He stood there, motionless, staring out at them.
A sea of people. No, not people—waves of screaming, chanting souls, all merged into one unstoppable force. The lights didn't blind him anymore. The noise wasn't noise anymore. It was pure electricity, flooding every nerve in his body, setting him on fire in the best possible way.
And the longer he looked at it—the longer he stood there and drank it all in—the scene just kept getting better.
It was like time had stopped, only for him.
Have you ever stood in a room where sixty thousand fans are screaming your name? Not whispering it. Not chanting it politely. No. Screaming it—with raw, feral desperation, like their very existence depended on you acknowledging them.
Ethan was feeling that now.
This wasn't a performance anymore. This was a coronation. He felt it rising within him—a towering, uncontrollable surge. He was high on it. Higher than any substance could take him. He didn't need drugs. This was his high.
He was a king.
No—he was the king.
Without even thinking, he closed his eyes, tilted his head back slightly, his arms drifting apart just enough, palms turned towards the sky as if the very heavens were singing his name.
The stadium exploded.
It was like gasoline had been thrown on a bonfire. The fans went berserk. The chants surged louder, more feverish.
"ETHAN! ETHAN! ETHAN! ETHAN!"
It wasn't a chant anymore. It was a battle cry. A primal scream that shook the steel beams of the stadium, that made the earth itself vibrate beneath his feet.
He stood there.
Ten seconds.
Thirty seconds.
Fifty seconds.
One minute.
Two minutes.
And still, he stood there—owning it all. The entire arena was his domain. Ethan was the stadium. The stadium was Ethan. The line between performer and stage had dissolved into nothing.
And the screams? They never toned down. Not once.
Even as fans' voices cracked, even as throats gave out, they kept shouting. They didn't care about pain. They didn't care about breath. They just kept screaming his name with broken, bleeding voices, like worshippers possessed.
And at the back of that stage, two living legends stood quietly.
Eminem. 50 Cent.
Fading into the shadows—not because they were being ignored, but because they understood something. They had felt this before. They had stood at the top of the world, drowned in the roar of millions, watching the sky bend to their names.
They knew this feeling.
This possessiveness.
This… madness.
This firestorm of pure human obsession.
This High.
And they allowed their friend—yes, their friend—to soak it in. Ethan might have been way younger, just a rookie in years compared to them, but he was authentic. That's why Eminem had been drawn to him why even 50 was accommodating to him. In an industry drowning in masks and plastic, Ethan Jones was the realest thing they had seen in years.
But as the minutes passed, even the two kings of rap—who had seen and done it all—felt something different tonight. This was way more than even they had experienced, the way the fans kept screaming the electricity in the air had they truly seen this before.
No, they had seen this before.
They had just refused to accept it.
Because it was almost blasphemy to even think it.
Yet there it was—undeniable. Ethan wasn't just a star. He wasn't just a talented kid. He had that thing. That impossible, untouchable aura that couldn't be taught or faked.
Eminem's mind flickered with an image. He tried to shove it away, but it refused to go.
A golden suit. Shiny, metallic, body armor-like. Black gloves. Aviator sunglasses that reflected blinding lights. Black boots planted firmly on stage, body locked in that statue pose. A silhouette that had once stopped the world.
Michael.
Jackson.
And now, a different pose—the outstretched arms, head tilted, soaking in a tsunami of adoration—was right there.
Only this time, it wasn't Michael.
It was Ethan.
Different shade. Different crowd. Different style. But the image overlapped perfectly in their minds.
The name floated dangerously close to their tongues—"Miche…"
But they stopped themselves.
Shook their heads.
Men who had lived in the era of the King of Pop, men who had watched him perform, who had battled him in charts and tabloids, who had been rivals and fans all at once… they refused to say it.
Especially Eminem, who had once dissed him, lost to him, and learned the hard way that some giants can't be toppled.
No. It was almost insulting to compare that figure—that legend—to a boy who, as Ethan himself had said in his song earlier, had only been in the industry for two years.
Luckily for Eminem and 50 Cent, before their minds could get trapped any further in dangerous comparisons, Ethan dropped his hands.
A soft exhale escaped his lips as his arms fell back to his sides, his eyes flickering open — and there it was: a grin. Wide, boyish, unbothered. The comparisons, the blasphemous thoughts that had hovered like ghosts over Eminem and 50's minds, evaporated instantly.
Nah. He was Ethan. Nothing more, nothing less.
But wasn't that already more than enough?
The crowd's screams still lingered, but there was a subtle shift. Like the storm had raged and was now hesitating, unsure if it had permission to calm down.
Ethan lifted the mic from its stand, his fingers curling around it with the ease of a man who had been born to hold it. And then—he did nothing.
No grand gesture.
No "Are you ready?" chant.
He just stood there… silently.
Yet, somehow, that silence became a command. The crowd, sixty-thousand strong, began to hush. Not because they were told to. Not because security waved signs or lights dimmed.
No, they just… listened.
The awe was palpable.
A twenty-four-year-old, drenched in sweat, standing in a stadium filled with people of every age, race, and background — and yet, in that moment, it felt like he owned their breath.
He bowed his head slightly, like a maestro about to conduct his orchestra, leaned into the mic, and simply said:
"Thank you."
That was it.
Two words. Quiet. Sincere. No dramatic inflections.
But the simplicity of it hit like a meteor.
For a fraction of a second, the stadium was caught off guard. No one expected that. Not after the chaos, not after the pyrotechnics, not after the sky had been set on fire. But that was Ethan.
He didn't need a speech. Just gratitude.
And then—
The dam broke again.
The crowd exploded.
Voices that were already ragged, vocal cords already battered and bruised, found a second life. Their screams were rough, cracked, and utterly defiant. Pain didn't matter. They yelled his name again, louder, uglier, purer.
Eminem and 50 Cent exchanged glances, grinning as they watched the kid handle this stadium like a toy.
"He probably doesn't even know what he's doing," 50 muttered, shaking his head with a smirk.
Eminem chuckled, arms crossed. "Yeah. He's made for this, ehn?"
Ethan raised his head once more, eyes scanning the sea of faces, and lifted the mic with a playful twinkle in his eyes.
"If you want more exhilarating songs like this," he said, voice teasing, rhythm like a heartbeat, "don't be disappointed… because our very own Eminem is dropping an album this year, people."
The reaction was instant.
Now, by every stretch of logic, this crowd wasn't exactly Eminem's typical demographic. The stadium was filled with young girls, teenagers, casual pop fans — not the hardcore hip-hop heads that Slim Shady usually riled up.
But none of that mattered.
Because it was Ethan who said it.
That was all it took.
The crowd screamed as if they'd been Eminem fans since birth.
On stage, Eminem's eyes snapped to Ethan, his expression wide-eyed, eyebrows raised, almost like Ethan had just lobbed a live grenade into his lap.
50 Cent was already cracking up, his deep laugh echoing through the speakers, slapping Eminem's shoulder like a proud uncle.
Ethan, seeing Eminem's look, turned toward him slowly with a mischievous glint. Their eyes locked.
He winked.
A quick, cocky flick of the eye that said: Got you, old man.
The crowd was still going crazy, but up on stage, the real fun was happening between the three of them.
Ethan leaned towards Eminem, muttering just loud enough for him to hear, "Guess you really do have to release now, ehn?"
Eminem's lips twitched, trying to stay serious, but the smirk broke through. "You're playing with fire, kid."
50 Cent, still chuckling, wrapped an arm briefly around Ethan's shoulder. "Nice one, kid. That was a clean setup. You lucked out on that one."
Eminem, still wearing that wide-eyed "I can't believe this kid" expression, shook his head as if to clear the lingering shock.
But then his lips curled.
A slow, dangerous smirk.
He stepped toward the mic, hand casually adjusting his hoodie, and leaned in with that familiar, biting tone of his — playful but razor-sharp.
"Oh, it's like that, huh? You think you're the only one who can work a crowd, kid?"
The crowd erupted again, loving the back-and-forth.
Ethan, still grinning, just spread his arms like, "What can I say?"
Eminem's eyes gleamed as he turned to the audience, his words slicing clean through the madness.
"Well, since we're dropping surprises, let me add to that…" he said, pausing just enough to build suspense. "Ethan's not just talking about the album… he's on the album."
The stadium detonated.
It wasn't screaming now — it was a sonic explosion. The volume spiked like a shockwave, rattling the stage floor. The fact that Ethan was going to be featured in an Eminem album—it was chaos. Pure chaos.
Ethan laughed, shaking his head like "You didn't have to do me like that."
But Em wasn't finished.
He turned his head slightly, tossing a smirk over his shoulder towards 50 Cent.
"And you too, Fif. Get ready to see all of us again."
The grin on 50's face didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened, catching the hint behind the words. The playful glint in his gaze faded for a split second, replaced by a knowing spark — one that understood Eminem wasn't joking.
But then he burst into a fresh bout of laughter, pointing a finger at Ethan as if to say, "You see what you've started, kid?"
There they were.
Three men — standing under a sky of lights, in front of sixty-thousand roaring fans — yet at that moment, they were just three guys on a stage, messing around like friends in a studio session.
It was human. Simple. Real.
No egos, no superstar walls. Just camaraderie. You could see it in the way 50 playfully shoved Eminem's shoulder, or how Ethan nudged 50's elbow, grinning like a younger brother who'd just gotten away with a prank.
They weren't icons in that moment.
They were just three dudes vibing together, laughing at each other's setups, sharing a spotlight that, for once, didn't feel like a competition.
But there was something special in the air.
An undercurrent of mutual respect — not spoken, but deeply felt.
Eminem, the lyrical juggernaut. 50 Cent, the mogul and showman. And Ethan, the rising storm who could hang with them without trying to overshadow.
It wasn't forced.
It was just… right.
And as the crowd chanted their names in no particular order — a messy, overlapping roar of Ethan! Slim! Fifty! — the three of them stood there, soaking it all in.
They weren't sharing a stage.
They were sharing a moment.
The fans had no clue that Ethan had just punked a legend into a public promise triggering a massive chain reaction. a reaction Hip hop fans would all smile about.
To them, the concert was still rolling. They wanted more. They were chanting, jumping, living in the moment, oblivious to the sly grin Ethan wore as he'd just pulled off one of the boldest stunts of his career.
Eventually, after a few final playful exchanges and waves to the crowd, Eminem and 50 Cent took their leave. They exchanged short daps with Ethan, subtle nods of respect that said more than words, before stepping off the stage.
The crowd roared their goodbyes, but the energy didn't dip.
And then, there he was.
Ethan Jones.
Standing alone.
No more surprise guests.
No more legends sharing his spotlight.
Just him… and his people.
He looked out at them, at the faces that had given him everything.
And he knew.
It was time to give them his all.
Ethan sang. And he sang. And he sang.
It was relentless.
Track after track, verse after verse — his entire catalogue, unleashed in a single night. He remixed songs on the spot, bending their melodies, flipping their verses, turning known hits into new experiences. At one point, he even pulled a couple of lucky fans up onto the stage, sharing the spotlight as though they were old friends. The crowd lost its collective mind.
But it wasn't just the singing. No, this was an onslaught of spectacle.
The special effects were nothing short of insanity. Pyrotechnics shot like lightning bolts into the night, fire cannons roared with every bass drop, the stage itself shifting in real-time like a living, breathing organism. Waterfalls of sparks rained down, digital projections danced across the stadium roof, and drone formations painted stories in the air above.
They had spent millions on this show.
The truth was, this particular concert might not even bring back a profit in the short-term. But nobody cared. UMG knew. The executives, the decision-makers, the risk-takers — they understood.
To make history, you had to spend history-making money.
This wasn't an investment in one night's ticket sales. This was an investment in legacy. In spectacle. In the future. What they were creating with Ethan Jones on that stage — it couldn't be measured in dollars.
As the executives of different labels, award shows, and entertainment giants sat in their glass-enclosed VVIP suites, their casual boardroom conversations had died into a thick, stunned silence.
Powerful men and women. Titans of the industry. And yet, they sat, frozen.
All eyes drawn—not to the stage—but to the crowd.
It wasn't the visuals anymore. It was the energy. The intensity, the stamina, the undeniable proof that this wasn't a fluke. The level of chaos, excitement, devotion—it didn't drop. Not one single bit.
Ethan wasn't following the industry's playbook. He was ripping it up and writing a new one.
UMG might have signed him, but now, everyone in that VVIP room was realizing the hard truth—Ethan Jones was redefining what it meant to be a musician. No… a celebrity.
"Sink in the river the lessons I learned—
Take that money, watch it burn…"
Ethan's voice echoed through the night, soft and raw, as he sang the closing lines of "Counting Stars", his version morphing into a soulful, stripped-down climax. His eyes were half-closed, lost in the moment, yet his voice filled every crevice of the stadium like a prayer.
He had already gone through his entire catalogue.
The show had been going on for hours.
It was time to end it.
But the energy in the crowd had changed.
Where once there had been wild, frenetic, unstoppable movement — now there was something else. Something softer. The crowd wasn't tired. No. They were in tune. Connected. But the rhythm had shifted. Bodies swayed gently, arms wrapped around shoulders. People who had arrived as strangers were now leaning against each other, waving glowing light sticks in unison, side to side, like a single, breathing organism.
A different kind of electricity filled the air.
Ethan looked out at them, his heart slowing as he soaked in this new vibe.
"Rap was intense," he thought, remembering the earlier chaos with Eminem and 50 Cent. "But this… this has its own charm. Its own magic."
He took a breath, raised the mic, and spoke—not as an untouchable superstar—but as a friend who knew the night was ending.
"I hate to be that guy, but…" he began, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips, "it's time to end the show."
A chorus of moans swept across the stadium like a sad ocean wave. Fans protested, voices layered with mock anguish and genuine disappointment.
Ethan laughed softly into the mic, shaking his head as he paced the stage with a playful shrug. "I know, I know… I don't want it to end either."
He paused, a mischievous sparkle in his eye.
"But — to make it up to you… I have one more for you. One last song. It's new. Just for you guys. It's called…"
He let the tension hang for a second, letting the crowd lean in.
"I Lived."
The stadium lights snapped off.
Instant darkness swallowed everything.
A collective gasp swept the crowd, a chill of nostalgia washing over them. It felt like the beginning of the night again — the very first moment when everything had started, when the air was thick with anticipation and the world outside had ceased to exist.
Then—one light.
Soft. Gentle. A single spotlight descended from above, casting a golden glow onto Ethan.
He was sitting on a high stool, a simple acoustic guitar resting against his body, his fingers softly tracing its frame. A mic stand stood before him, catching the light like a delicate sculpture.
He looked… enchanting.
No stage effects. No fire. No sky projections. Just Ethan, alone, bathed in light, as if he were a secret being whispered into existence.
Before he even plucked the first note, the crowd had already fallen into rhythm.
The glowing light sticks—those plastic neon wands—began to sway. Left and right. Thousands of them. Slowly. Gracefully. It wasn't choreographed. It wasn't rehearsed. It was instinct.
And in that moment, the stadium didn't feel like a concert venue.
It felt like outer space.
Stars — millions of tiny stars — floated, danced, and pulsed in the darkness, like the entire galaxy had been summoned inside this arena. If you looked from above, through the lenses of the drones that were already in formation, capturing every angle, it felt like you were staring at the night sky itself.
Screens all over the world would soon be plastered with these images. Videos of this very moment would flood social media, under one universal caption:
"One of a Kind Tour."
No one would call that name a joke again.
Ethan's fingers gently grazed the guitar strings, his thumb brushing in a slow, delicate stroke as a soft, fragile chord rippled through the speakers. It was faint, but pure — so pure it sliced clean through the electric air. The arena, once a cauldron of chaos, began to simmer, calm waves replacing the storm as thousands of eyes locked onto the single figure sitting under the lonely spotlight.
Then, his voice came.
Soft. Human. Naked.
"Hope when you take that jump…"
He paused.
The words seemed to suspend in mid-air, the stillness of the moment thick, suffocating. The entire arena — sixty thousand people — collectively inhaled, as if afraid that exhaling would shatter the fragility of that first line.
"You don't fear the fall…"
Suddenly, the song wasn't just a performance. It was a mirror.
All across the stadium, people began sinking into themselves.
A woman in her forties, seated in the upper tier, clenched the scarf wrapped around her neck. Her son had been afraid to leave home for college next month. She closed her eyes, whispering the lyrics under her breath, wishing him courage.
"Hope when the water rises, you built a wall…"
A young couple standing hand-in-hand in the front row locked fingers tighter. Their relationship had weathered storms — family disapproval, distance, doubt — yet here they stood. The lyrics poured into them like a balm, affirming that their struggles hadn't been in vain.
"Hope when the crowd screams out, it's screaming your name…"
Fans began to sway, not as a crowd, but as individuals inside their own stories. Some smiled softly. Some let tears fall freely, no longer wiping them away. The entire stadium started to blur into a field of lights and shadows, every person caught in their own memory reel.
"Hope if everybody runs, you choose to stay…"
A man in the VIP section, once a hotshot in his twenties, now in his fifties, leaned back in his seat, misty-eyed. He remembered colleagues bailing on a struggling startup years ago — how he had stayed. And now, as Ethan sang, he felt the weight of those years validated as he looked at his daughter who had made him come here, he saw a version of his ex-wife cross her features as he thought plainly 'i miss my wife'.
"Hope that you fall in love… and it hurts so bad…"
A teenage girl, no older than sixteen, covered her mouth, remembering her first heartbreak. The sting returned, but it no longer ached. Now, it just… felt real. She smiled through the tears.
"The only way you can know, you give it all you have…"
The music had bled into every vein, every breath.
This wasn't a concert anymore.
It was a communion.
"I hope that you don't suffer… but take the pain…"
For every broken relationship, every failed dream, every silent night of doubt — Ethan's voice didn't offer empty comfort. It offered a hand to hold through it all.
"Hope when the moment comes you'll say…"
Ethan's lips curled into a small smile as the crowd, unprompted, chanted along, voices cracking but unified.
"I, I did it all…"
Now, there was no distinction between Ethan and the crowd. His voice didn't echo off the walls — it resonated within the people.
"I owned every second that this world could give…"
A mother looked to her daughter, both of them mouthing the words. The child had just beaten leukemia. This night was a celebration. Their celebration.
"I saw so many places, the things that I did…"
Two friends, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, had saved up for this trip from across the country. As the words washed over them, they looked at each other and knew — this moment would be their forever story.
"With every broken bone, I swear I lived…"
The stadium wasn't just listening — it was living. Memories surfaced — the joyful, the bitter, the ones people didn't even know they were holding onto.
The song slowed, the chords tender, as Ethan's voice whispered the next verse:
"Hope that you spend your days… but they all add up…"
A man proposed to his girlfriend right there in the crowd. She didn't notice until the people beside her began clapping through their tears. She turned, gasped, and cried into his arms as Ethan's music became the soundtrack to their forever.
"And when that sun goes down, hope you raise your cup…"
In the VVIP lounge, music executives — once cold, calculating figures — stood in silent reverence. They weren't watching a product on stage. They were witnessing a catalyst. Ethan wasn't performing for them. He was performing for humanity. but even then, they were already calculating how this could be used music could only go so far.
"I wish that I could witness all your joy… and all your pain…"
The song had become a personal letter.
Not from a celebrity.
But from one soul to another.
Ethan's voice cracked ever so slightly. It wasn't a flaw. It was raw honesty, wrapped in melody.
The refrain returned.
"I, I did it all…"
Phones were no longer in the air for photos. They were swaying, lights soft and warm, like candles at a vigil. The drone cameras high above captured the sea of lights — it looked like a galaxy had descended into the stadium, each star pulsing in rhythm with the song.
"I owned every second that this world could give…"
On stage, Ethan wasn't strumming anymore.
He was pouring himself into every chord, his fingertips pressing harder, every string vibrating like a heartbeat.
He was smiling, but not his usual mischievous grin. This was different.
It was gratitude.
"I swear I lived…"
And the crowd sang it back.
Thousands of voices.
Not perfect. Not polished.
But real.
The lights, the sound, the spectacle — all had faded into insignificance. In that moment, it was just one man and his guitar, holding sixty-thousand hearts in the palm of his hand.
Music wasn't filling their ears.
It was filling their souls.
And as the final line echoed into the night:
"I swear I lived…"
There wasn't a dry eye in the house.
For a moment, time didn't exist. Only that lingering note. Only that feeling.
Only that truth.
As the final line of the song melted into the night—
"Oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh…"
—a hush swept across the stadium.
Sixty thousand people. Not a single voice. Not a single breath out of rhythm.
The air felt like velvet, soft and tense, as if the entire crowd was collectively afraid to disturb the spell Ethan had woven.
Then—
A sudden, brilliant spotlight snapped on, cutting through the darkness, illuminating Ethan in an ethereal white glow. His figure, seated with his guitar still in hand, looked less like a man and more like a sculpture—an angel carved in light.
But something was descending.
From the cavernous ceiling, a colossal object began to lower slowly, its massive silhouette outlined by soft, neon lighting. The crowd's collective gaze tilted upward, curiosity piqued.
It was a bottle.
A giant sports bottle, at least twenty feet tall, gently descending like a UFO from the sky. Its design sleek, polished, and futuristic. As it lowered, glowing letters wrapped around it in bold, dynamic strokes.
PRIME.
The name spun slowly around the massive bottle, the gleaming letters pulling every eyeball in the arena toward it. Even the fans who had been on the verge of tears moments ago were now fixated on this surreal sight.
But then—
Crack.
A sharp, crisp sound echoed through the speakers.
All heads snapped back down to Ethan.
There he stood now, no longer sitting, his guitar gently resting against a stand. In his hand, under the blinding spotlight, was a life-sized Prime bottle, identical to the mammoth version still hovering above.
His fingers curled around it with casual ease, but his presence was anything but casual. Blond hair damp with sweat, strands falling over his piercing blue eyes, droplets tracing down the side of his cheek—Ethan looked like the very definition of effortless allure. His chest heaved slightly, the aftermath of hours of singing and pouring his soul into the crowd.
But it was his gaze—the kind of gaze that didn't just look at you, it saw you—that held the audience prisoner.
Under sixty-thousand pairs of eyes, Ethan slowly lifted the bottle to his lips.
He tilted his head back, the bottle's sleek shape silhouetted against his jawline. The microphones captured everything—the satisfying glug-glug of the drink cascading down, the crisp gulp as he swallowed, the sharp breath in.
The entire stadium could hear how refreshing it was.
And then—
"Ahhh—"
That sound. That universal sound of pure, unfiltered satisfaction. It wasn't forced. It wasn't staged. It was so natural, so perfect, that it made hearts flutter across the arena.
The crowd—mostly young girls, teenagers, and women in their twenties—were spellbound. Their eyes wide, mouths parted, as if they had collectively forgotten how to function.
Every slight movement he made seemed exaggerated in its impact.
He was dangerously captivating.
Then, Ethan turned his head slightly, looking straight into one of the center-stage cameras. His lips curled into a smirk—playful, teasing, yet devastatingly charming. The kind of smile that could disarm an army. His hair fell slightly across one eye, only making his gaze feel more intense.
He leaned into the mic.
Voice smooth. Deep. Velvet with a razor's edge.
"But have you ever really lived…"
He paused, letting the anticipation hang heavy, as if the universe itself was waiting for the punchline.
"…if you haven't tried Prime?"