Chapter 5: The Fine Print
Michael woke up with a start. For the first time in weeks, it wasn't from the weight of sadness or the sound of a nightmare fading. It was from a feeling he had almost forgotten: optimism.
He sat up in bed, the morning light streaming through the window. The world hadn't changed. The same room, the same silent house. But he had. He was no longer a drifting victim. He was a protagonist. He had a plan. He had a purpose.
'Okay. Time to work.'
He didn't even bother to make coffee. The adrenaline was enough. He went straight to his desk and turned on the laptop, the whir of the fan was the sound of an engine starting. While the operating system loaded, his mind was already in strategy mode.
'I have twelve songs. I can't release "Runaway" first, that's crazy. I need to start with something that fits the sound of the current era. Something simple. Something real.'
He summoned the System interface. The twelve holographic covers of his "Founder Package" appeared floating in front of him. His gaze passed over the titles by XXXTENTACION and Bones. They were too dark to start with. His eyes settled on a simple, melancholic cover.
ghost boy - Lil Peep.
'Perfect,' he thought. 'Minimalist, sad, short. It's the first door. This is how you enter my world.'
With total confidence, he focused on the cover. He expected a menu of options to appear, something like "Download File" or "Export to MP3". His plan was simple: download the song, upload it to his SoundCloud, and watch the magic happen. He thought the system would directly give him the song to upload to the networks.
But the menu that appeared only had one option shining in neon cyan.
[OPEN GUIDE]
Michael frowned. 'Guide? Guide for what?'
He felt a first pang of unease, but he ignored it. He selected the option.
...
Upon selecting the option, the System interface transformed. The other song covers vanished, leaving only a digital project folder floating in the air. It was a simple folder, titled "ghost boy."
'Okay, here we go,' Michael thought. He focused on the folder, and it opened, revealing four files inside. They were raw, technical, nothing artistic. His optimism began to falter.
The first file was named lyric.txt. He opened it. It was a simple text file, like from a notepad. The song's lyrics were there, unformatted, with no annotations about the flow or tone. It was just a poem on a blank page.
'Okay, the lyrics. Logical.'
He returned to the folder and selected the second file: main_melody.mid. As he clicked, the cheap speakers on his laptop emitted a sound. It was the song's piano melody, but it sounded awful. It was a generic, robotic "plink-plonk," without rhythm, without soul. Like music from an 80s video game. It was just a sequence of notes, not a performance.
Michael's unease grew. He opened the third file: rhythmic_guide.txt. There was no beat. There was no audio file. Just more text.
"Tempo: 120 BPM. Drums: Simple trap pattern. Kick follows the 808. Hi-hats: 1/8 with occasional triplets on beat 4. Recommended sounds: Lo-Fi Kick, 'gritty' Hi-Hat."
He stared at the words. 'Recommended sounds? Do I have to find them? And program the drums?'
With a growing sense of dread, he opened the last file: emotional_impression.txt. It was the only non technical clue. A single, cryptic phrase.
"Feeling: Apathetic resignation, the beauty of surrender."
And that was it. There was no song. There was no backing track. There were no vocals. It had only given him the basics.
The truth hit him with the force of a physical blow. The System was not an MP3 player. It was an instructor, an incredibly vague one. It had given him the recipe, not the cake.
He leaned back in the chair, the reality of the situation sinking in. He realized he had to do everything else. He had to learn music theory to understand what notes he was seeing. He had to learn to use the program to build a beat from scratch. He had to find sounds, record it, edit it, mix it, and somehow, he had to find the right mood to sing and capture that "apathetic resignation."
It wasn't a guide. It was a mountain of homework.
...
Michael stared at the old monitor screen, the four guide files floating in his vision. He reread the rhythmic guide text file: "Lo-Fi Kick." "Gritty Hi-Hat." They were suggestions, not solutions.
He leaned back in his father's office chair, an old, cracked faux leather monstrosity that creaked with every move. The optimism that had powered him that morning had completely deflated, leaving a bitter residue in his mouth.
A sound escaped his lips. It wasn't a curse. It was a snort. A single, short snort of pure disbelief that broke the silence of the study.
Then came another. And another, turning into a choked laugh.
'Is this serious?' he thought, a twisted, joyless smile spreading across his face.
He rested his head on the backrest of the chair and stared at the moisture stained ceiling. The laughter grew, no longer choked, but a full, genuine laugh. It was the laugh of someone who has been the victim of the most elaborate cosmic joke in the universe.
'This is incredible,' he thought, the laughter now shaking his body. 'Simply incredible.'
In his other life, he had read hundreds of these stories. Light novels, webnovels, fanfictions... all with the same trope. The protagonist, often a loser, is thrown into a new world or given an incredible power. And the "system" was always a generous benefactor.
'This is supposed to be the moment they give me the [God Tier Voice] or [SSS Level Instant Music Production] ability,' he scoffed in his mind. 'Where is my inventory full of legendary gear? Where is the "auto-complete" button for the song?'
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his face still contorted in hysterical laughter.
'Of course, in all the novels I've read, the system gave the user everything. Instant knowledge, superhuman abilities, a perfect voice... And I get the lazy System! The IKEA System! It gives me the pieces, a crappy instruction manual written in Swedish, and tells me 'good luck, idiot, assemble it yourself'.'
He laughed out loud in the dusty room, an almost manic sound. He felt completely cheated by the universe. For the second time.
The laughter finally began to subside, turning into ragged gasps. He wiped a tear of humor from the corner of his eye. Silence returned to fill the room, but this time it was different. It was no longer a silence of shock or despair. It was a silence of clarity.
He looked at the System interface, still floating patiently in his vision. The joke was over. And beneath the humor, he found something else: a cold, hard determination.
Complaining was useless. He could give up and go back to his plan of learning programming, or he could accept the terms of this ridiculous cosmic contract.
He looked around the study. The old computer whirred loudly. The internet connection was slow as molasses. He didn't have a laptop, nor decent headphones, let alone a quality microphone.
The list of tasks the System demanded of him appeared in his mind: learn to use a program he didn't even have, learn music theory, learn to mix, to master, to sing...
And he realized that the first and biggest task wasn't even on that list. Before he could learn anything, he needed the tools. And tools cost money. Money he didn't have.
The ironic smile vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of absolute concentration. He no longer thought about the injustice of the System. His mind had focused on the first real, tangible problem.
'Okay,' he thought, his internal voice was firm, almost a growl. 'You want me to build this from scratch. Fine. But first, I need a hammer.'
...
The laughter faded, leaving a dense silence in his father's study. Michael stared at the System interface. It no longer seemed like a joke. It looked like a mountain.
He had the blueprints, the recipe, the guide. But he realized he was standing in front of a construction site without a single tool in his hand. He didn't have the equipment. He didn't even have the software.
'Okay,' he thought, his internal voice was now cold, practical. 'I can't build a house without a hammer. And right now, I don't even have a nail.'
His purpose shifted in that instant. The mission was no longer "make music." The mission was "get the tools to make music."
He closed the System interface with a thought. He opened the internet browser on the old computer. The homepage was an outdated news portal. He ignored it.
His first search was not on YouTube. It was on Google.
"Ableton Live price".
The result hit him. Hundreds of dollars for the full version.
'Well, that's not going to happen,' he thought without hesitation. 'It'll be a pirate version for now. There's no other option.'
He made a mental note. Next. He needed a computer. This desktop clunker wouldn't do. He needed a laptop, something that could be the center of his operation.
"best budget music production laptop 2015".
He plunged down a rabbit hole of tech blog articles and YouTube videos. He saw reviews of laptops that were already obsolete in his memory. He learned that a MacBook was the industry standard, but even used models from a couple of years ago cost a fortune. A Windows laptop was more realistic.
He opened a notepad file on the desktop. He started making a list.
Laptop (used, decent): ~$500
Next. The microphone. He knew the voice was key. He couldn't sound like he was talking into a headset mic.
"best beginner studio microphone reddit".
He spent the next hour on r/makinghiphop and r/homestudio, reading endless threads. Names like Audio-Technica AT2020 and Rode NT1 popped up again and again. He searched their used prices on eBay.
Microphone (used): ~$150 Audio Interface (used): ~$100
Then, the headphones. He needed to hear the truth of his sound. He remembered his college friends, the ones who studied music production, raving about a brand.
"Beyerdynamic headphones".
He found the DT 770 and 990 Pro models. They were expensive, but reviews said they were like a microscope for sound. He found a used pair on eBay.
Headphones (used): ~$120
The list kept growing. A small MIDI keyboard for the melodies. Cables. A microphone stand.
When he finished, he had a shopping list. The list of his future. He totaled the costs. The total hovered around a thousand dollars.
A thousand dollars. It might as well be a million. He looked in his wallet. He had twenty seven dollars and some cents.
He leaned back in the creaking chair, staring at the list on the screen. A thousand dollars. It wasn't an impossible figure, but for a sixteen year old kid with no savings and no parents, it was a mountain.
A mountain he would have to climb.
He closed all the tabs. The one for laptops, the one for microphones, the one for the forums. He opened a new, blank tab. The cursor blinked, waiting.
He no longer thought about music. He no longer thought about the System. His mind was focused on the first and most mundane step of all.
In the search bar, he typed:
"Burger Barn hiring near me".