"Amias, are you crazy?" Zara's voice cut through the studio's ambient hum, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The space felt smaller with all four of them crammed inside. Tyler and Jordan had claimed the small leather couch against the wall, while Zara stood with her arms crossed, staring at Amias as if he'd just announced plans to sprout wings and fly.
"Six months for an album? And a mixtape in four weeks?" She shook her head, loose curls bouncing against her shoulders. "That's—"
"Impossible," Jordan finished, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Mate, most artists take years to put together a proper album."
Outside, London's sky had already darkened, though it was barely past four. The city's perpetual autumn chill seeped through the studio's thin windows, a steady drizzle tapping against the glass. London in its typical mood—dark and cold, matching the skepticism now facing Amias.
"It's not impossible," Amias said, adjusting a knob on the mixing board. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, avoiding their doubtful stares. "I've already got most of the beats lined up. The mixtape is halfway done."
Tyler shook his head. "Even if you had everything mapped out—which you don't—there's still recording, mixing, mastering. Not to mention marketing, distribution..."
"I've got it handled," Amias insisted, finally turning to face them. The shadows under his eyes told a different story—one of late nights and early mornings, of a schedule that left little room for rest.
Zara sighed, uncrossing her arms. "I always believe in you, Amias, you know that. But this..." She gestured vaguely at the notebook beside him, filled with scribbled lyrics and production notes. "This feels like you're setting yourself up to fail."
The words stung more than Amias wanted to admit. He swiveled his chair fully around, feeling the weight of exhaustion in his bones. What could he tell them? That a supernatural system was pushing him through an accelerated program? That failure meant... well, he wasn't even sure what failure meant in this context.
"Look, I don't need the negativity right now," he said, his voice sharper than intended. "I'm already stressed enough as it is."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Zara's expression hardened slightly, her posture stiffening in that way it did when she felt dismissed. Tyler and Jordan exchanged glances—the universal signal of friends witnessing an argument they wanted no part in.
"Anyway," Amias continued, softening his tone, "guess what happened with that label meeting yesterday."
The change of subject worked. Jordan perked up. "Oh yeah, how'd that go?"
"They tried to scam me," Amias said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "Offered me this contract that would've basically owned me for life. Ridiculously low royalty rate, recoupable advances, the works."
"So what happened?" Tyler asked, leaning forward.
"I sold them I'm Tryna outright. Just the masters. For fifty-one thousand pounds."
Three pairs of eyes widened simultaneously.
"Fifty-one thou?" Jordan's voice cracked. "For one song?"
Zara blinked rapidly. "How did you even—"
"They came in thinking they could take advantage of some kid who doesn't understand the business," Amias explained, feeling more animated now. "I did my research. Knew exactly what the song was worth to them."
Tyler let out a low whistle. "That's mad, bro. Actually mad."
"People in London are dark and cold," Amias said, glancing at the rain-streaked window. "They came in ready to scam me. I didn't scam them—I gave them a fair deal. The song's already charting. They'll make their money back and more."
Zara's expression had softened slightly, but her eyes remained skeptical. There was something else there too—a wariness that hadn't been present before. It made Amias' chest tighten.
For the next half hour, they discussed the album plans. Despite their initial doubts, both Tyler and Jordan began offering suggestions for features, beats, even visual concepts. Only Zara remained relatively quiet, contributing occasionally but mostly observing Amias with that new, careful gaze.
Eventually, Tyler checked his phone and nudged Jordan. "We should head out, man. Got that thing with Marcus."
Jordan nodded, standing and stretching. "Yeah, true. We'll catch you tomorrow though, yeah? For your birthday?"
"Definitely," Amias confirmed, giving them both a fist bump. "Thanks for coming through."
As they gathered their things, Tyler paused. "That fifty-one K though—that's life-changing, bruv. Don't blow it all on studio time."
Amias laughed. "Trust me, I've got plans for it."
The studio door closed behind them, leaving Amias and Zara alone. The silence felt heavy, punctuated only by the rain's steady drumming against the windows and the soft hum of the equipment. Outside, London had completely surrendered to darkness, though it was barely 6 PM.
Zara remained perched on the edge of the desk, fingers idly tracing patterns on the wood. Amias swiveled in his chair, waiting, knowing from years of friendship that Zara spoke when she was ready, not before.
"You okay?" he finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"Yeah," she replied, too quickly to be convincing.
Amias waited, watching her. After another long moment, she took a deep breath.
"I don't like knowing that you're a killer," she said, the words falling between them like stones.
The statement hung in the air, raw and unvarnished. Amias felt his throat tighten.
"I only did it because these people would kill my mother," he said quietly, the memory of Apannii's threats flashing through his mind. "They wouldn't have stopped there."
Zara inhaled deeply, her shoulders rising and falling. "Yeah."
"You can talk to me," Amias said, leaning forward. "Whatever you're thinking."
She met his eyes directly. "I understand it, Amias. I do. I just don't like it."
"Neither do I," he admitted, the words feeling like a confession.
She nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
The conversation that followed was halting at first, painful in places as they navigated this new reality where Amias had taken a life. There were no easy answers, no simple resolutions. Just two friends trying to understand what it meant for them, for their friendship, for the future.
—
Thirty minutes later, they had shifted gears entirely. The emotional heaviness remained as an undercurrent, but they'd moved on to practical matters—specifically, how Amias was going to fund his ambitious music plans.
"Even with the fifty-one K, making an album properly isn't cheap," he explained, scrolling through a budget spreadsheet on his laptop. "Studio time, marketing, music videos—it adds up quickly."
"What about the clothing brand?" Zara asked, now seated beside him.
"That's one revenue stream, but I need more," Amias said, running a hand over his face. "I've been thinking... what about YouTube videos?"
Zara tilted her head. "Elaborate."
"Videos about how I make songs. Vlogging studio sessions. Behind-the-scenes stuff. And I could put exclusive content on Patreon."
She considered this, tapping her finger against her lip. "Why not livestream it?"
"What?"
"Livestream the process, then post the recorded streams on YouTube."
Amias blinked, turning the idea over in his mind. "Like... livestream the recording sessions? The production?"
"Yes, and more." Zara was animated now, gesturing as she spoke. "People love seeing the creative process. And you have a story—independent artist building from scratch."
"Could I do vlog livestreams outside the studio too? Like, day-in-the-life type stuff?"
Zara nodded. "People do that all the time. Why not?"
A smile spread across Amias's face. "Okay, okay. That's a plan, then."
Zara pulled out her tablet, swiping through files before turning the screen toward him. "I've been working on designs for the brand, by the way."
The screen displayed a series of clothing mockups—simple tees and hoodies with clean, minimalist logos and subtle design elements. Sophisticated but street-ready.
"These are amazing," Amias said, genuinely impressed. "We should start with this one." He pointed to a grey t-shirt with the small logo on the right-side of the chest.
"Wait, they're not finished," Zara protested. "I still need to—"
Amias laughed. "Trust me on this. Let me explain how this works."
He leaned back in his chair, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "People want what others have. If we release basic shirts with just the logo first, it's like a market introduction. Gets people aware of the brand. Then we can release the more complicated designs later when there's already demand."
Zara nodded slowly. "I see the strategy. I'll find a manufacturer—"
"Already got one ready," Amias interrupted. "I'll send them the orders today."
She raised her eyebrows, impressed. "Wow, you're moving fast."
"I suppose," he murmured, already reaching for his phone.
He began scrolling, muttering something about "business infrastructure" and "scaling opportunities," completely absorbed. Zara watched him for a moment, concern creeping back into her expression. Finally, she reached out and placed her hand over his phone, forcing him to look up.
"Amias," she said simply, holding his gaze.
He blinked, suddenly aware of how tired his eyes felt. "What?"
"Stop." The word was gentle but firm. "I don't know what you're doing, working yourself to exhaustion like this, but stop it."
Amias stared at her.
But as he looked at her concern, a realization struck him. He pulled up his System task list mentally—and was surprised to find he'd already completed everything scheduled for today, even tasks meant for later in the evening. The System wasn't pushing him right now; he was pushing himself.
"You've been at this music-making and planning all day," Zara continued. "I've watched you typing on your phone constantly. When was the last time you just... relaxed since this week started?"
He couldn't remember. The System had actually suggested he pick up a hobby for balance, but he'd ignored it, too caught up in the momentum of work.
"You're right," he admitted, setting his phone down.
"I know I am," she said, a small smile finally breaking through.
She pulled out her own phone and showed him some Instagram videos—lighthearted content at first, then one showing some local roadmen who had filmed themselves choking out some younger kids and posted it proudly.
Amias shook his head, disgusted. "London really is a dark and cold place."
He froze mid-thought, the words resonating in his mind.
"That's it," he said, sitting up straight.
"What?"
"The album."
"I'll call it London."
Zara considered this. "Simple. Direct. I like it."
"It fits everything I want to say."
"And your mixtape?"
"Next Up,"
"Uh-huh, sure," she said, but there was fondness in her skepticism now.
—
Later that evening, with Zara picked up by her parents, Amias walked home with Jordan and Tyler through streets gleaming with rain. The cold bit through his jacket, but his mind was too busy to notice the discomfort.
"Mate, is your cousin Lexus free tomorrow?" he asked Jordan abruptly.
"Yeah, why?"
"I want him to record two videos for me."
Tyler looked at him incredulously. "Two? In one day? And on your birthday?"
"Yeah," Amias confirmed. "No time to waste."
"What songs?" Jordan asked, huddling deeper into his coat as they passed under a streetlight casting an orange glow on the wet pavement.
"Redemption and 8AM."
Jordan shook his head but smiled. "Alright, bro. I'll let him know."
They parted ways at the corner, Amias continuing alone to Oakley's apartment. The city hummed around him, indifferent to his ambitions, to the weight he carried. London continued its eternal cycle—dark and cold, full of opportunities and dangers in equal measure.
Inside the apartment, Amias collapsed into a chair, staring at his laptop. His fingers actually jittered with the urge to continue working—to plan the album, start checking out equipment, draft marketing plans. The System's programming had seeped into his habits, creating a constant drive that was becoming difficult to distinguish from his own ambition.
He stared at the screen, cursor blinking, then abruptly closed the laptop.
"I haven't swam in a while," he murmured to himself.
Swimming. The one thing hobby he was genuinely great at—regional champion, national second place—before he'd given it up to sell weed. His body suddenly ached for the familiar sensation of water, for the peaceful isolation of being submerged, where even the System couldn't reach him.
Before he could reconsider, Amias packed a small bag with swimming shorts and a towel. The nearest sports center would be open for another hour—just enough time for a proper swim.
<>
Chapter 42 on disc, 49 on patrxon