The morning air carried a bite that London never quite managed, sharp and clean as it whipped between the towering skyscrapers. Amias gazed through the tinted windows of Anthony's sedan, watching Manhattan's jagged silhouette materialize as they crossed into the city proper.
His fingers absently tapped against his thigh, following a melody only he could hear. Despite the overnight flight and the chaos of arrival, his mind remained electric with possibilities. Even at thirty-five thousand feet, while everyone else had surrendered to sleep, he'd kept working—laptop open, headphones on, lost in the creative flow.
Amias opened the System interface for a moment:
Lyrical Composition: 86 → 87
Flow Control: 70 → 71
Rhythm Recognition: 66 → 70
Music Theory: 82 → 83
Stage Presence: 61 → 67
Freestyle Ability: 79
Melodic Perception: 60 → 67
Vocal Projection: 78 → 79
Beat Production: 61 → 67
Sound Engineering: 57 → 58
A slight smile touched his lips.
His phone buzzed with a notification from Twitch. Amias tapped it open, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Damn," he whispered, almost to himself.
"Everything alright back there?" Anthony called from the driver's seat, eyes briefly meeting Amias's in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah, just... checking some metrics."
The final viewer count from yesterday's stream had settled at 4,530. Not long ago he'd been suprised he'd been ecstatic to break 500 concurrent viewers. That Idol Phenomenon reward from the System had been working with terrifying efficiency. Though, he was more wary of what the "Parasocial Magnetism" could mean for the future.
He swiped through his phone, checking his other platforms. Instagram showed 42,371 followers—far more than what he'd had before landing in New York. His Spotify plays were in the millions.
And then there was LinkUp.
He opened the admin dashboard, and the numbers stared back at him: 61,243 users as of this morning. The graph line no longer climbed—it shot upward almost vertically.
And after refreshing the page the number ticked up to 61,251.
Anthony navigated a yellow cab that had cut in front of them, his driving smooth despite the aggression of New York traffic. "First time in the city?"
"Yeah," Amias replied, still processing the LinkUp numbers. "Been to the States before, though. Grew up in Texas."
"That explains the accent," Anthony nodded. "Caught me off guard when you first spoke—London with a touch of something else."
Amias pocketed his phone, his mind still turning over the implications of LinkUp's growth. When he'd first conceptualized the app—a networking platform specifically designed for connecting musicians with producers, engineers, and other industry professionals—he'd envisioned something regional, centered on London's scene. But the System's blueprints had created something with far greater potential.
The AI integration—initially designed just to filter out scammers and match compatible artists—had become the app's unexpected killer feature.
The AI could analyze beats, suggest improvements, help with melody creation, and even predict commercial viability with uncanny accuracy, why couldn't it when it was designed by a reality-bending AI, though an AI was the last thing he'd call the System.
Users had even started referring to the app's AI as "having a producer and manager in your pocket," and word had spread through the industry like wildfire.
And it wasn't just musicians anymore. Graphic designers had flocked to the platform, drawn by the opportunity to connect with artists needing album artwork. Videographers came looking for music video gigs. Event organizers searched for performers. The ecosystem was expanding daily, creating a microcosm of the entire industry.
The subscription model had proven more successful than Amias had dared hope:
Premium at £19.99: Nearly 9,000 subscribers
Pro at £29.99: Just over 6,200 subscribers
Musician at £40.99: A surprising 2,800 subscribers
The revenue calculations made his head swim—over £400,000 in January (Or last month as Feburary had begun today) from subscriptions alone, though none was going toward his pockets currently, and that figure was not counting the small percentage skimmed from each transaction facilitated through the platform.
And even more notably—this was just the beginning.
"Almost there," Anthony announced, pulling Amias from his thoughts.
They'd entered a canyon of glass and steel, the morning sun reflecting between buildings in dazzling patterns. Even in January, the city hummed with activity—streams of pedestrians moving purposefully along the sidewalks, delivery trucks double-parked as harried workers unloaded supplies, street vendors setting up their carts.
"This is Midtown," Anthony explained, seeing Amias's interest. "Financial district's further downtown. We're heading to Mr. Jackson's office building."
The sedan pulled up to a sleek glass tower that rose seemingly endlessly toward the sky, its reflective facade revealing nothing of what lay within. Anthony maneuvered into a reserved parking space near the entrance.
"Mr. Jackson is expecting you on the 37th floor," he said, shifting into park. "Private elevator to the right in the lobby. I'll wait here—just call when you're done."
Amias gathered his bag, a wave of anticipation washing over him.
"Thanks for the ride," he said, stepping out into the sharp Feburary air.
"Good luck in there," Anthony replied with a knowing smile. "Mr. Jackson doesn't invite just anyone up to his office."
The lobby was a study in understated luxury—marble floors polished to a mirror shine, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than most cars, and discrete security personnel who somehow managed to look both welcoming and intimidating simultaneously.
"Amias Mars for Curtis Jackson," he told the receptionist, who nodded immediately.
"They're expecting you, Mr. Mars. The executive elevator is to your right."
The elevator doors were burnished bronze, reflecting a slightly warped version of himself as he approached. Amias took the moment to straighten his black Burberry jacket—a recent purchase.
The memory brought a small smile to his face as the elevator whisked him upward, the only sound the faint hum of machinery. No music, no announcements—just smooth, efficient ascent that spoke of serious money.
When the doors opened on the 37th floor, Amias was greeted not by an assistant or secretary, but by Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson himself, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that somehow managed to look both business-appropriate and street-credible.
"The young prodigy arrives," Curtis said, extending his hand with a genuine smile. "Welcome to New York."
Amias returned the handshake firmly. "Appreciate the invitation."
"You can expect a lot more," he replied, leading Amias into the space beyond. "How was the flight?"
"Smooth and Productive," Amias answered honestly. "Used the time to work on some beats."
Curtis glanced back at him with approval. "Always on the grind. I respect that."
The office—if it could be called that—was unlike any corporate space Amias had ever seen. Part luxury apartment, part recording studio, part business headquarters, the sprawling area featured floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Manhattan that momentarily stole Amias's breath.
"Some view, isn't it?" Curtis commented, noticing his reaction. "That's what success looks like from above."
Amias took in the vista—the geometric precision of the city grid, the splash of green that must be Central Park, the distant shimmer of water at the island's edges. "Different energy than London," he observed. "More... vertical. More concentrated."
"Every major city has its own rhythm," Curtis agreed, guiding him toward a seating area where low-slung leather couches surrounded a glass coffee table. "Have to learn to play to each one differently."
An assistant appeared silently with bottled water, then vanished with equal discretion.
"How's Anthony working out?" Curtis asked once they were seated. "Good driver?"
"He's solid," Amias confirmed, twisting the cap off his water. "Though I was thinking I might try driving here myself. The roads seem more straightforward than London."
Curtis laughed, the sound unexpectedly warm. "Straightforward? Man, driving in Manhattan is psychological warfare. One-way streets that change direction depending on the time of day, delivery trucks parked in the middle of the road, cabs that treat traffic laws as gentle suggestions..." He shook his head. "Stick with Anthony for now. Trust me."
Amias nodded, taking the advice in stride.
"So," Curtis continued, his expression shifting to something more focused, "you ready for tomorrow?"
"I am," Amias replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
Curtis studied him with the penetrating look of someone who had navigated both the streets and the entertainment industry's treacherous terrain. "Forty thousand people hits different than anything you've experienced before. It's not just about the performance—it's about controlling the energy. The crowd becomes like an instrument you have to play."
"I've been visualizing it," Amias said. "Running through the set in my head, imagining the crowd response."
"Smart approach," Curtis nodded. "Mental preparation is half the battle. Still, nothing quite prepares you for that wall of sound when you first step out."
He leaned back slightly, his expression turning more casual. "There's a possibility you might even meet M backstage."
The statement was delivered with deliberate nonchalance, but Amias caught its significance immediately. Meeting Eminem—one of the artists who Oakley had first shown him when introducing him to rap, that would be monumental. Still, he kept his expression measured, not of his own accord but rather natural for he wasn't starstruck.
"That would be an honor," he said simply.
Curtis seemed pleased with his composure. "Play it like you just did if it happens. Respect is good, worship isn't."
"Hey," he leaned forward suddenly, his expression turning serious as he placed a hand on Amias's shoulder. "Listen carefully. While you're out here, if anyone—and I mean anyone—invites you to a party, wherever it may be—their mansion in the hills, Villa on the seaside, a penthouse like this, some rich millionaire or famous artist, do not go. Understand?"
The warning was delivered with such gravity that Amias felt its weight immediately.
"Alright," he replied, meeting Curtis's intense gaze. "I'd ask why, but I've looked into enough stories to make an educated guess."
Curtis studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. "Good. The industry has its dark corners. Best to stay in the light until you're ready to navigate the shadows." He released Amias's shoulder. "You've got your set prepared for tomorrow?"
"Yes," Amias confirmed. "Though I'm not just performing what I've released."
Curtis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "New material?"
"In a sense," Amias explained. "I know Americans aren't fully accustomed to the UK accent and flow patterns. And I don't want anyone to hear the songs where my American side comes through more strongly in the first show. And the charting tracks besides Redemption aren't all exactly designed for people to rap along to first listen."
"So what's the plan?" Curtis asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Created something specifically for this performance," Amias replied. "You might not like it but I drew inspiration from Playboi Carti and a artist named Yeat."
He'd figured why not look into the wave artist who he had gotten one of his first rewards from, and in his research period he had read into a post on reddit about a upcoming rapper named Yeat. The name seemed comedic at first but his curiousity led to him listening to the preview of a song "Sorry About That"
Ten times.
He was now an offical Yeat fan.
A skeptical expression crossed Curtis's face. "Hold up. You know this is a 50 Cent concert, right? That crowd isn't there for mumble rap or experimental beats."
"It's not a long song," Amias clarified quickly. "The lyrics are crystal clear, well they're pretty much simple. It was really made on a whim, my friends and I were just joking about how weed couldn't be flown in to Poland."
Curtis considered this, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the couch. "You're taking a risk," he observed, though there was a hint of respect in his tone. "Could pay off big, could fall flat."
"I'd rather fail trying something than succeed imitating something safe," Amias replied.
A slow smile spread across Curtis's face. "Now that sounds like something I would have said twenty years ago."
He paused for a moment before he fixed Amias with a direct look. "You've had time to think about my offer?"
The question hung in the air between them. During their meeting in London, Curtis had expressed interest in purchasing a stake in LinkUp. Ten percent had been the initial figure mentioned—a significant piece of what Amias was building, but far from controlling interest.
Amias had anticipated this follow-up and had spent considerable time strategizing his response. He understood the realities of the industry—keeping 100% ownership was not just unrealistic but insanely dangerous and reckless. Without proper backing, labels and tech companies would target him with lawsuits and regulatory challenges that could drain his resources.
Imagine being sued by a record label company for months on end and after successfully winning the case (not without expending large funds on legal fees) suddenly another record label decides they would string up another lawsuit under different grounds.
"I have," Amias replied, shifting into a more formal register. "I value LinkUp at thirty-five million based on the current projections. But ten percents a bit too much but I'm prepared to sell you nine percent."
He delivered the number without flinching, without the hedging or apologetic tone that many young entrepreneurs adopted when negotiating with industry veterans.
Curtis's expression revealed nothing. He was, Amias realized, a masterful poker player—in business as much as in his public persona. The silence stretched for several heartbeats, each second feeling magnified.
Then Curtis simply nodded once and extended his hand across the table.
"Done," he said. "My legal team will draw up the paperwork."
Amias maintained his composure as they shook, but internally he felt a surge of validation. Either Curtis truly believed in LinkUp's potential, or he recognized something in Amias worth investing in beyond the app itself. Either way, the partnership was a significant milestone—financial backing from an industry icon who had successfully navigated both music and business.
"Smart move setting up the structure now," Curtis commented as they stood. "Most artists wait until they're already successful, then try to build businesses from scratch. By then, they're swimming in shark-infested waters without learning to swim first."
"I'd rather build the infrastructure before I need it," Amias replied. "Leverage is easier to maintain than it is to gain."
Curtis gave him an appraising look. "You talk like someone twice your age. Where'd you learn business strategy?"
Amias offered a noncommittal shrug. "I've always had a knack for economics and business. My teacher even once told me I could find myself as the head of a Central bank in the future. He was probably joking though. Plus, watching my mother navigate jobs, immigration issues, and raising me solo was its own kind of business school."
A flash of genuine respect crossed Curtis's features. "Mothers," he said simply, the word carrying layers of meaning. "They teach us more than any Harvard professor could."
He checked his watch, then gestured toward the door. "There's someone else you should meet while you're here. Someone who might have insight into that 'soul' you've been talking about missing in your music."
Curiosity piqued, Amias followed Curtis back through the maze of corridors, finally approaching a door from which the faint sounds of a piano melody drifted. Complex chord progressions resolved in unexpected ways, suggesting both classical training and jazz improvisation.
Curtis pushed the door open without knocking, revealing a studio space centered around a grand piano. A man sat with his back to them, fingers moving across the keys with practiced precision, his head nodding slightly to a rhythm only he could fully hear.
Amias felt his pulse quicken as recognition dawned.
"Is that..." he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Curtis smiled, enjoying Amias's momentary loss of composure. "Dre," he called out, "this is the kid I've been telling you about."
Dr. Dre turned on the piano bench, his gaze landing on Amias with the evaluative intensity that had assessed some of hip-hop's greatest talents. For a moment, he simply studied the young artist, taking in everything from his posture to the look in his eyes.
"So you're the one 50 keeps calling the next Eminem," Dre finally said, rising from the bench with the unhurried confidence of a man who had nothing to prove to anyone.
Curtis chuckled, and Amias felt a momentary pressure at the comparison—both flattering and intimidating in equal measure.
"That's a big name to live up to," Amias replied, extending his hand. "It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Dre."
"Just Dre is fine," he said, his handshake firm but not dominating. "Curtis has been blowing up my phone about you for weeks now. Said I needed to hear what's coming out of London these days."
"He exaggerates," Amias said modestly, though not disingenuously.
"Nah, he undersells if anything," Dre countered, gesturing for Amias to take a seat near the piano. "I checked out your tracks. That Texas-London accent blend creates something fresh—not quite American, not quite British. Markets on both sides of the Atlantic could claim you."
"Thank you," Amias said, genuinely affected by praise from someone of Dre's caliber.
"Curtis tells me you've got a natural ear," Dre continued, settling back onto the piano bench but turning to face them rather than the keys. "What's your goal with music? Not your plan—I can see you've got that mapped out—but your goal. What drives you?"
The question was deceptively simple, but Amias recognized its importance. This wasn't casual conversation; it was an assessment from someone who had launched countless careers and could spot authentic talent through the noise of the industry.
"That's actually the one question I haven't had to overthink," Amias replied after a moment. "I can list my plans and targets, but my fundamental goal? Becoming the greatest musician of all time."
The boldness of the statement hung in the air. Dre's expression remained neutral, though something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps, or amusement at the audacity.
"Musician?" he echoed, emphasizing the word. "Not rapper?"
"Musician," Amias confirmed without hesitation.
"That's a much higher mountain to climb," Dre observed, his tone not dismissive but evaluative. "The greatest rappers can claim their throne within hip-hop. The greatest musicians compete against Mozart, Stevie Wonder, Prince, Michael Jackson. Those are different leagues entirely."
Amias met his gaze steadily. "I know."
"The best musicians are almost always singers," Dre continued, watching Amias carefully. "The voice is the original instrument. Everything else came after."
"It's a good thing I can sing, then," Amias replied, the words escaping before he could fully consider them.
The statement created a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Both Dre and Curtis looked at him with suddenly heightened interest, as if diamonds had begun shining in their eyes.
"For real?" Dre asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Yes," Amias confirmed, then added quietly, "but I won't, for personal reasons."
They exchanged a glance but respected the boundary he'd established, not pressing further. Something in his tone must have conveyed that this wasn't simply a matter of preference but something deeper.
"You know your way around music production?" Dre asked, shifting the conversation.
"I'm good with instruments, decent with production," Amias explained. "I can play piano and drums at a high level, violin and guitar well enough. My beat-making isn't to my standards, but improving daily."
Dre nodded, absorbing this information. "Curtis played me some of your mixtape yesterday. The progress curve is remarkable—especially for someone who only started recording professionally a month ago."
"It's still not where I want it to be," Amias admitted.
"Tell me more about that," Dre prompted, genuine curiosity in his expression.
Amias took a moment to gather his thoughts, aware that this was perhaps the most valuable audience he could hope for in articulating his creative frustration.
"The technical elements are there—beats hit hard, flows are tight, lyrics are sharp. But there's an emptiness at the core," he explained. "I'm planning an album called 'London' that will explore my life experiences, the darkness, the light, the journey. This mixtape was supposed to be a precursor, introducing myself and capturing just a bit of the artistic soul I'm aiming for with the album. But I can't seem to access that quality yet."
"Soul isn't technical," Dre observed, his fingers absently finding a minor chord on the piano. "You can't engineer it or program it in post-production."
"Exactly," Amias agreed, a sense of relief washing over him at being understood. "It needs to be there from creation, embedded in every note and word."
Dre played a simple progression, the notes hanging in the air between them. "You know why some producers spend thousands on vintage equipment when digital would be cleaner and more precise?"
Amias nodded. "The imperfections. The warmth of analog. The humanness of it."
"That's right," Dre said, approval evident in his tone. "You need to find that humanness within yourself and pour it into the track. Don't rush the music. Let it flow from within you."
The advice struck Amias as profound in its simplicity. The System had provided similar guidance, but in more technical, achievement-oriented terms.
"That resonates," Amias said quietly.
Curtis, who had been observing their exchange with evident satisfaction, moved to a nearby chair. "Tell Dre about your concept for the album production."
Dre raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Amias felt a surge of creative energy as he tried to articulate his vision. "I want something that feels like Astroworld and Damn had a child that was raised in London. To not make production take years on end I'm interested in rediscovering beats people made in the past and mixing them with new elements."
"Old beats?" Dre echoed, his interest clearly piqued.
"Yes," Amias confirmed, leaning forward slightly in his enthusiasm. "People pass over bangers all the time. Suddenly another artist hears the same beat and makes a number one hit with it. Pharell first offered Happy to Cee-Lo Green before making it himself not so? Who's to say others haven't been swept under the radar, waiting to be found?"
"And you'd place new sounds on them?"
"Exactly," Amias nodded. "Well not all. And regarding making new ones—samples are incredible for making beats faster and it's possible to use them in ways that transform the original while creating something entirely new."
"Finding samples requires serious creativity, especially the right ones." Dre observed, though his tone suggested this was less a challenge and more an observation.
"Well," Amias replied with the ghost of a smile, "it's a good thing you're speaking to one of the most creative people on earth."
Dre's expression remained neutral.
"And getting them cleared?" he asked, referencing the legal nightmare that sample-heavy production often entailed.
"If it's an instrument part, it can be interpolated," Amias countered smoothly. "If it's vocal or more distinctive, that's when identifying lowkey samples becomes valuable."
Dre studied him for a long moment, then exchanged a glance with Curtis that contained an entire conversation. When he turned back to Amias, a slow smile spread across his face.
"Amias Mars," he said, the words measured and deliberate, "everything you just told me makes me want to help you and guide you, just like 50 here. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."
The statement felt momentous, carrying the weight of opportunity and mentorship from one of music's most influential figures.
"You said you want to take influence from Kendrick's Damn, right?" Dre continued, standing from his seat. "So let me introduce you to the West Coast music—"