Amias stood in front of a mirror, the System interface still shimmering faintly in his periphery as he pocketed his phone. The thought of swimming had been momentarily pushed aside by the realization of what day it was. His birthday. Seventeen. A milestone that felt both significant and strangely hollow after everything that had happened.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble that hadn't been there just months ago. The scar on his cheek from Apannii's bullet had healed into a thin, pale line—barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it.
The morning light filtered through his curtains, painting stripes across the room. He'd been up since dawn, working through music theory exercises the System had assigned him. Notes, scales, chord progressions—all of it flowing through his mind with increasing ease as his statistics continued to rise.
His phone buzzed with a birthday text from Jordan. A simple "HBD bro" followed by a string of emojis. Amias smiled despite himself. Some things remained refreshingly uncomplicated.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out, the weight of the day already settling on his shoulders. Seventeen meant something—yet after staring down death, after taking lives, traditional milestones felt almost quaint.
The school corridor was buzzing with the usual morning energy—students clustered in groups, the slam of lockers punctuating bursts of laughter. Amias moved through it all, a bubble of stillness in the chaos.
"Amias!"
He turned to see Temi approaching, her braids swept up in an elaborate style he hadn't seen before. She wore a yellow top that brightened her complexion, making her look younger, more carefree than she had been in the mall.
"Hey," he said, adjusting his backpack strap.
She stopped in front of him, studying his face with those perceptive eyes that had seen too much. "You good?"
"Yeah," he said, offering a small nod. "I'm alright. You?"
"Getting there." A pause, then her expression softened. "Happy birthday, by the way."
Amias blinked, surprised she had remembered. "Thanks."
"Seventeen," she said, shaking her head slightly. "Feels weird?"
"Feels like nothing, honestly," he admitted. "Just another day."
Temi nodded, understanding in her eyes.
"Got plans?" she asked.
"Not really. Family thing, probably. My uncle's place."
"Well," she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small package wrapped in simple brown paper. "It's not much, but..."
Amias took it, genuinely touched. "You didn't have to."
"I know. Open it later," she said, already stepping back. "I've got to get to class. See you around, yeah?"
"Yeah," he echoed, watching her disappear into the flow of students.
He slipped the package into his pocket, warmth spreading through his chest.
The morning classes passed in a blur of lectures and note-taking. Amias found himself drifting, his mind working through melodies and lyrics even as his teachers droned on about equations and historical dates.
As the lunch bell rang, he headed toward the cafeteria, only to stop short when he spotted Zara waiting by his locker. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She looked up from her phone, her face brightening as she spotted him. "There you are."
"Here I am," he agreed, approaching with caution. Things had been complicated between them with that raw, painful conversation about what he'd done. They'd reached an understanding, but the knowledge of his actions hung between them, an invisible barrier.
"Happy birthday, Ami," she said, stepping forward to hug him.
He returned the embrace, allowing himself to sink into the familiar comfort of her presence. She smelled like vanilla and something uniquely her—a scent that had become synonymous with safety in his mind.
"Thanks," he murmured against her hair.
She pulled back, her eyes searching his face. "We're still on for tomorrow, right? The studio session?"
"Definitely," he confirmed. "I've got some new ideas I want to try out."
They walked together toward the exit, falling into step with practiced ease. Outside, spring sunlight bathed the school grounds in a gentle glow that belied the chill still lingering in the air.
"My parents are picking me up," Zara said, nodding toward the parking lot where a sleek black Toyota Yarisidled. "Need a ride somewhere?"
"Nah, I'm good. Going to head to my uncle's directly."
She nodded, then hesitated. "Amias..."
"What?"
"Just... happy birthday. For real." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before turning toward her parents' car.
Amias watched her go, a complex mix of emotions stirring in his chest. Their relationship had evolved into something neither of them had fully defined—deeper than friendship, complicated by shared trauma and unspoken feelings.
As she reached the car, her father—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same warm eyes as Zara—stepped out to open the door for her. He spotted Amias and raised a hand in greeting.
"Amias! Happy birthday, young man!"
Mr. Okafor's voice carried across the parking lot, his Nigerian accent wrapping warmly around the words. Beside him, Mrs. Okafor leaned out of the passenger window, her Italian features softer but no less striking than her daughter's.
"Come over for dinner soon, yes?" she called. "I'm making that pasta you liked last time!"
Amias smiled and nodded, feeling a strange ache at the normalcy of it all—the concern of parents who knew nothing of blood-soaked warehouses or gunshots in the night. Who saw him only as their daughter's talented friend.
Zara ducked into the back seat with a final wave, and Amias lifted his hand in response. He watched as the car pulled away, catching her eyes through the tinted window.
The Uber ride to his Uncle Desmond's place gave Amias time to think. He pulled out Temi's gift, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a simple old school leather journal with his initials embossed in the corner. Inside, she'd written on the first page: For the lyrics that will change the world. Happy Birthday. —T
Amias ran his fingers over the words, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Uncle Desmond's house came into view and as Amias paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement, the front door swung open. His mother stood there, backlit by the warm glow from inside, her face breaking into a smile that erased years from her features.
"There he is," she called, arms opening wide. "My birthday boy."
The term was childish, but from her lips it felt like a benediction. Amias moved into her embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume—jasmine and something spicy.
"Hi, Mum," he murmured, allowing himself to be a son rather than everything else he'd become.
Inside, the house buzzed with the comfortable chaos of family. Uncle Desmond's booming laugh echoed from the kitchen, mingling with the clatter of dishes and the steady thump of music from the living room where his cousins had set up a PlayStation.
There was no "surprise!" moment—they all knew he'd prefer it that way—but there was warmth in every greeting, in the way Aunt Lorraine kissed both his cheeks, in how his little cousin Jade immediately demanded he play FIFA with her.
"Later," he promised, ruffling her braided hair. "Let me say hello to everyone first."
He made his rounds, accepting birthday wishes and gentle teasing about getting old. His mind cataloged each interaction, each face—family who knew nothing of the System, of the blood on his hands, of the ambitions burning within him. Family who simply loved him because he was theirs.
His mother found him in a quiet moment, beckoning him to follow her into the garden. The spring air carried the scent of damp earth and fresh growth, a reminder that even after the harshest winter, life continued its stubborn cycle.
"I wanted to give you this privately," she said, reaching into her pocket.
She withdrew a small velvet box, hesitating before passing it to him.
"It's not what I originally planned," she admitted, a shadow of regret crossing her face. "With everything that happened, with the move and starting over... money's been tight. But I wanted you to have something meaningful."
Amias opened the box, his breath catching at the sight of a silver chain. Hanging from it was a pendant—a small locket that opened to reveal a miniature collage. On one side, a photo of him as a toddler, nestled in his mother's arms. On the other, pressed between thin layers of glass, tiny fragments that he realized were mementos from their life together: a sliver of his first school tie, a thread from his childhood blanket, the corner of a concert ticket they'd saved for months to afford.
"Mum," he breathed, emotion thickening his voice.
"I'm still saving for a proper gift," she said quickly, misreading his reaction. "Something better, like those expensive headphones you've been eyeing—"
"This is perfect," he interrupted, closing his fingers around the necklace. "This is all I need from you. Just your love, Mum. That's the only gift that matters."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she pulled him into another embrace. "When did my boy get so wise?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Learned from the best," he replied, holding her tightly.
They stayed like that for a long moment, mother and son, anchored to each other in a world that had tried repeatedly to tear them apart.
The sliding door opened, breaking the moment as Uncle Desmond stuck his head out. "Sorry to interrupt, but Oakley and Wyge just arrived. They're asking for the birthday boy."
Amias pulled back, wiping discreetly at his eyes. "We're coming."
His mother smiled, touching his cheek gently. "Go on. I'll be in shortly."
Back inside, the energy had shifted with the arrival of Oakley—Central Cee to the world, but always just Oakley to family. He stood in the center of the living room, commanding attention without effort, Wyge a steady presence at his side.
"There he is!" Oakley called, a grin spreading across his face as he spotted Amias. "The man of the hour!"
Before Amias could respond, he found himself caught in a headlock, Oakley's knuckles rubbing against his scalp in a playful noogie while Wyge laughed beside them.
"Seventeen, cuz. You're almost a big man now," Oakley declared, releasing him with a laugh. "How's it feeling?"
Amias straightened, adjusting his shirt. "Feels the same, honestly."
"That's 'cause nothing changes except what's in your head," Wyge observed, tapping his temple with one finger. "Everything else is just numbers."
They moved to the couch, falling into the easy camaraderie that had always existed between them. Cousins, friends, and now, increasingly, colleagues in the music world.
"So, listen," Oakley said, lowering his voice slightly. "I'm heading to Metropolis Studios next week. Top-level stuff, working with some serious producers. I want you to come with."
Amias raised his eyebrows. "For real?"
"Yeah, man. I'll get you set up in your own studio space. Time you started recording properly, in a real environment."
"That's serious," Amias said, already mentally calculating how this would accelerate his timeline.
"Speaking of," Wyge interjected, "you got any performing going on yet? Any gigs lined up?"
"Actually, yeah. This Saturday and Sunday. Small venues, but it's a start."
Oakley's eyes widened slightly. "Already booking consecutive shows? You're making moves, bro."
"Trying to," Amias acknowledged. "Got a lot I want to accomplish."
"You'll have to show me what you've been cooking up," Oakley said, genuine interest in his voice. "I've only heard bits and pieces."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Rachel—Oakley's mother—who swept into the room with the same effortless confidence her son had inherited.
"Amias, happy birthday, love," she said, bending to kiss his cheek before turning to her son. "Oaks, I need a quick word with your dad about next weekend."
As she moved toward the kitchen where Uncle Desmond was holding court, Oakley stood, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Come on, birthday boy. Me and Wyge got something to show you outside."
Curiosity piqued, Amias followed them through the house and out the front door. There, parked behind Oakley's Range Rover, sat a sleek grey BMW 2 Series Gran Coupe, a red bow stuck somewhat haphazardly to the hood.
Amias froze, staring at the car in disbelief. "What's this?"
"Your birthday present, innit?" Wyge said, tossing a set of keys that Amias caught reflexively. "From me and your cuz."
"We went halves," Oakley explained, clapping a hand on Amias's shoulder. "Ten K each. 2020 model, low mileage, clean history. Figured you needed something proper now that you're moving up in the world."
Amias ran a hand along the car's smooth exterior, a complex mix of emotions washing over him. The gesture was incredibly generous—a testament to the success his cousin had achieved and was now sharing with him.
"This is... this is too much," he managed.
"Nah," Oakley dismissed the protest with a wave. "It's an investment in your future. Can't have my rapper cousin taking the bus to studio sessions, can I? Bad for both our images."
Amias laughed, the sound surprising even himself. "Fair enough." He looked between them, genuine gratitude warming his chest. "Thank you. Both of you. Seriously."
They exchanged fist bumps, the moment speaking volumes about their relationship—family first, always, no matter what success or fame might bring.
Back inside, the celebration continued. Amias found himself in the living room, engaged in an intense FIFA match with Oakley's younger brother Juke.
"You're finished, cuz," Juke declared as his player executed a perfect sliding tackle, stealing the ball from Amias's forward. "Absolutely finished."
"We'll see about that," Amias replied, fingers flying over the controller.
The sound of the front door opening barely registered until a familiar voice called out a greeting. Amias looked up to see Capari entering the living room, his movements marked by a slight limp.
"Yo," Capari said. "Can I holla at you for a minute?"
Amias handed the controller to a protesting Juke. "We'll finish this later."
Outside on the front step, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden. Capari shifted his weight, easing pressure off his injured leg.
"Happy birthday, bro," he said simply.
"Thanks."
An awkward silence stretched between them—the first time they'd spoken since that night.
"Listen," Capari finally said, "things went different that day. Could've been me in that warehouse instead of you. Could've been me making those calls." He paused, swallowing visibly. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. For how careless I was, for putting us in that position in the first place."
The apology hung in the air, unexpected and raw. Amias studied his cousin's face, seeing the genuine regret there, the burden of what-ifs he carried.
"It's done," Amias said finally, extending his hand. "We move forward now."
Capari gripped his hand firmly, relief washing over his features. "Yeah. Forward."
"So how's the leg these days?" Amias asked, changing the subject as they moved toward the street.
A grin spread across Capari's face. "Decent. But I've got something to show you."
Parked behind Amias's new BMW was Capari's Range Rover, its glossy black exterior gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He popped the trunk open with his key fob, revealing what looked like an electronics store's worth of equipment packed carefully inside.
"What's all this?" Amias asked, leaning in for a closer look.
"Your birthday present," Capari explained. "Heard your music equipment got smashed during... everything. So I got you some upgrades."
Amias stared at the collection of gear—high-end interfaces, studio monitors, microphones, keyboards—all top-of-the-line equipment that would have cost a small fortune.
"Capari," he began, "this is too much. How much did this set you back?"
"Got connects with some manufacturers in China," Capari said with a shrug. "Quality stuff, all legit, just without the markup. Buying it here? Probably 35K. I got it all for 6K."
Amias shook his head, genuinely moved by the gesture. "I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything," Capari replied. "Just make something legendary with it. When your mum gets a new place—or you get a studio—I'll drop it all off."
"Thank you," Amias said simply, the words insufficient but sincere.
As they walked back toward the house, Amias's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a text from Zara's mother: Your friend just woke up. He's asking for you.
Amias stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the screen. "Zane," he whispered, emotion constricting his throat.
The birthday, the gifts, the celebrations—all of it receded in importance against this single piece of news. Zane was awake. Zane was alive.