Amias stared at the passing storefronts through the Uber's window, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. West London slid by in a blur of coffee shops, streetwear stores, and pedestrians bundled against the January chill. The driver had some old-school garage playing softly on the radio—Sweet Female Attitude's "Flowers"—and Amias found himself half-listening to the lyrics while his mind raced ahead to the studio session.
He glanced down at his phone, open to his notes app where he'd been working on the daily exercise the System had assigned him. Today's challenge: crafting rhyme schemes using "difficult" words—words that most rappers would struggle to incorporate naturally.
"Catastrophic, apocalyptic, intricate, symmetrical," he muttered under his breath, testing the syllables. The System's training regimen was relentless—daily exercises designed to boost his stats across the board. Like an athlete training different muscle groups, he had specific drills for flow control, rhythm recognition, melodic perception.
He scrolled through his stats again, both proud of his progress and acutely aware of how far he still had to go:
Lyrical Composition: 86/100
Flow Control: 69/100
Rhythm Recognition: 64/100
Music Theory: 81/100
Stage Presence: 55/100
Freestyle Ability: 77/100
Melodic Perception: 56/100
Vocal Projection: 77/100
Beat Production: 58/100
Sound Engineering: 54/100
The System had been clear: to meet the Legend Maker requirements, he needed all core stats above 80 within six months. And he was far off from that point.
"Apocalyptic vision, precision decision, intricate mission..." he whispered, testing combinations. He needed to finish this exercise before reaching the studio.
"You an MC?" the driver asked suddenly, catching Amias's eye in the rearview mirror.
Amias looked up, momentarily startled. "Yeah. Sort of. Working on it."
"Thought so," the driver nodded. "Always can tell when someone's working on bars. My cousin's into that grime scene. Tough business, yeah?"
"Yeah," Amias agreed, shifting his attention back to the exercise. He needed to focus.
The car pulled up outside a nondescript building in Ladbroke Grove, its exterior giving no hint of the professional studio space inside. Amias had specifically chosen this spot—Westside Studios—after researching mid-tier recording spaces that wouldn't break the bank but would still offer professional quality.
He'd left school early—skipping his afternoon classes at Chelsea without a second thought. The Legend Maker program had made it clear that traditional education was now secondary to his music career. His school attendance would become increasingly... flexible.
Amias paid the driver and stepped out into the chilly afternoon air, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He'd texted Zel earlier to confirm he'd arrived, and now spotted him waiting by the entrance, scrolling through his phone.
Zel was older than Amias had expected—mid-twenties probably, with a long brown tipped dreads, sharp jawline, and watchful eyes that seemed to take everything in. He wore a simple black hoodie under a North Face jacket, designer jeans, and clean Air Force 1s. Professional but understated.
"Yo," Amias called, approaching with his hand extended. "Amias. Good to finally meet you in person."
Zel looked up, pocketing his phone and clasping Amias's hand firmly. "Zel. Same, fam. You found the place alright?"
"Yeah, no problem."
They sized each other up briefly—that inevitable moment when online connections become flesh and blood, when both parties are quietly confirming that reality matches expectation.
"Let's get inside then," Zel said, gesturing toward the entrance. "Got the studio booked for four hours."
The receptionist, a young woman with blue-tipped hair and multiple piercings, glanced up as they entered. "Got a booking?" she asked, looking between them.
"Yeah, Amias Mars, two to six," Amias replied.
She checked her computer. "First time here?"
"Yeah."
"Producer?" she asked, eyes falling on the backpack, clearly making assumptions about who was who.
"Nah, I'm the artist," Amias said without any particular emphasis. "He's the producer." He nodded toward Zel.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face—probably wondering what this schoolkid was doing booking studio time with a producer who clearly had some industry experience—but she recovered quickly. "Cool. I'll need to see some ID, then I'll show you to Studio B."
After checking his ID and taking payment, she led them down a hallway decorated with framed records and photos of artists who'd recorded there—mostly names Amias didn't recognize, though he spotted a few familiar faces from the UK scene.
Studio B was smaller than Amias had imagined but professionally outfitted: a control room with a mixing desk, monitors, and a computer setup, separated by glass from a compact recording booth with a high-end microphone, pop filter, and headphones.
"Equipment's all set up," the receptionist said. "If you need anything, just buzz the front desk." She handed Zel a key card. "This gets you in and out of the building if you need to leave for food or whatever."
Once she'd left, Zel took a seat at the mixing desk and spun around in the chair, surveying Amias with renewed interest.
"So. Central Cee's cousin making moves. Tell me about yourself," he said, getting straight to business.
Amias considered how to respond. The System had advised caution when discussing his background.
"Not much to tell," he said, setting his backpack down. "I wasn't really into music like that but recently decided it was time to take it seriously. Got some connection through Oakley—Central Cee—but I'm trying to build my own path."
Zel nodded, seeming to appreciate the directness. "That track you sent me—'I'm Tryna'—that really your first proper recording?"
"Yeah," Amias confirmed. "First one I've put out, anyway."
"That's mad," Zel said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "You've got natural talent then. Flow's tight."
He turned to the computer, tapping keys to wake it up. "Let me run you through how I usually work. We'll start with—"
For the next fifteen minutes, Zel explained his process—how he structured sessions, the equipment they'd be using, his approach to building tracks. Amias already knew most of it from his prior experience with experimenting with equipment and the System's intensive information downloads, but he listened attentively, nodding at appropriate moments.
"—and then we'll bounce the stems separately so you can take them with you," Zel concluded. "Sound good?"
"Yeah, perfect," Amias agreed. "I actually had some specific ideas I wanted to work on too, if that's cool?"
Zel raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Like what?"
"Got some songs I've been developing," Amias said, choosing his words carefully. "But I'm also open to making something from scratch today."
Zel nodded, turning to the computer. "Let's start by listening to some beats, see what connects." He opened a folder labeled 'Unreleased' and started scrolling through files. "These are all original—nothing I've placed with anyone yet."
He began playing snippets—drill beats, trap instrumentals, even a few with more melodic, R&B influenced sounds. Amias listened intently silently analyzing each one, assessing which would best help develop his weaker areas.
One beat caught his attention immediately—a dark, moody production. It had a distinctive quality that made it stand out from the typical drill beats flooding the UK scene.
"That one," Amias said when Zel played it. "Can we hear the full thing?"
Zel nodded and let the beat play through. It built gradually, introducing new elements.
"This is cold," Amias said, already mentally sketching flows. "But could you make a few adjustments? Maybe shift the pitch on that piano sample, bring it down a bit? And those hi-hats could hit harder in the chorus section."
Zel gave him a measured look, as if reassessing his initial impression. "Yeah, I can do that." He opened the project file and began making the requested changes. "So you know your way around production then?"
"Bit," Amias admitted. "Been learning. Not anywhere near your level though."
As Zel worked, Amias pulled out his phone and started jotting down lines, fragments of verses forming in his mind as he listened to the beat evolve under Zel's skilled hands.
After twenty minutes of adjustments, Zel played the revised version. The changes were subtle but significant—the beat felt darker, more atmospheric, with sharper percussion cutting through the mix.
"Yeah, that's it," Amias nodded, satisfaction evident in his voice. "That's perfect. Can we record something to this?"
Zel gestured toward the booth. "Whenever you're ready."
Amias grabbed his phone and stepped into the recording booth, putting on the headphones. The world narrowed to just him and the beat pulsing in his ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself.
"Testing, testing," he spoke into the mic.
Zel's voice came through the headphones. "Levels look good. You want to run through the whole track or go section by section?"
"Let me try a few lines first," Amias replied. "Just to get the feel."
The beat started playing, and Amias gave himself eight bars to find the pocket. When he started rapping, his voice transformed—deeper, more controlled, with a confidence that came from somewhere beyond his seventeen years.
"Man try say 'Am I good?' Bro, do I look okay?"
He stopped after delivering the line, letting it hang in the air. Zel didn't respond immediately, and Amias could see him through the glass, head nodding slightly, expression thoughtful.
"That's hard," Zel finally said. "Let's run it back and get a full verse."
For the next hour, they worked in rhythm—Amias laying down verses, Zel offering suggestions on delivery or asking for alternate takes. The collaboration flowed naturally, any initial awkwardness dissolving as they found a shared language in the music.
When they took a break to listen back to what they'd recorded, Amias noticed a shift in Zel's demeanor—a new respect in how he addressed him, a growing investment in the track they were creating.
"You know what," Zel said, leaning back in his chair, "this could be something special. The way you ride this beat—it's different."
They returned to work, Amias laying down a hook that required several takes to perfect:
"Stay down 'til you come up, stay down 'til you come up..."
Soon enough, with his ability they had reached the last verse. While he did use his pre-written lyrics, Amias wasn't just copying, but drawing inspiration, he had the ability to write and freestyle so why not write and freestyle at every possible chance.
As they were in the middle of engineering the track, the studio door opened. Zara appeared in the doorway, followed by Tyler and Jordan, all three looking around the professional space with varying degrees of interest.
"Hope we're not interrupting," Zara said, her eyes meeting Amias's. "Receptionist said it was cool to come back."
Amias checked the time—they'd been working for almost two hours without noticing. "Yeah, perfect timing for a break actually." He turned to Zel. "These are my friends—Zara, Tyler, and Jordan."
Zel nodded to them. "What's good?"
"Zara's the one who emailed you," Amias added. "My manager."
Zara smiled slightly at the title. "Wouldn't go that far yet," she said, extending her hand to Zel. "Just helping out. Your work is sick though—been following you for a minute."
"Appreciate that," Zel said, shaking her hand. "Your boy's got talent."
Tyler and Jordan moved into the control room, eyes wide as they took in the equipment. "Yo, this place is proper," Jordan said, carefully not touching anything. "Can we hear what you've done?"
Zel glanced at Amias, who nodded. "Yeah, we've got something cooking."
He played the track—
{Reference Track: 8AM In Manny By Nemzzz}
"'You may be in your darkest hour
Know that, night don't last forever
There's a morning coming in your life
Stay down 'til you come up
Stay down 'til you come up
ZEL, this shit crazy
Stay down 'til you come up
Stay down 'til you come up'
…
Man try say "Am I good?" Bro, do I look okay?
Close to home but lost, GPS stuck on 'missed'.
Don't waste your time and get me mad 'cause bro, I'll ruin your day
I still ain't recovered from all this pain I felt back then, but, ayy
Cut the day-one loose—scars deeper than a crypt,
Sleep? Nah, I trade dreams for receipts, profit's my script.
Peakin' like Everest, but the air's counterfeit,
Enemies tune in, but I'm streamin' my own mix.
I don't beg love, friendship''s just trauma delayed,
You want loyalty? Buy a dog, save the charade.
Momzy see me on the block still,
Said "Ahh, ahh, ahh, you look like your dad"
{}
Wronged you? My bad.
Need a bigger bag, that small one cramping your style
Gucci waste, I'm crown-ed.
She posts 'couple goals' while DM'in blokes.
Why are all these relationships so toxic?
Nowadays, I don't get that
{}
Man try say "Am I good?" Bro, do I look okay?
Close to home but lost, GPS stuck on 'missed'.
Don't waste your time and get me mad 'cause bro, I'll ruin your day
I still ain't recovered from all this pain I felt back then, but, ayy
Of sanity I sacrificed, of innocence I lost
Wealth whispers louder than clout-chasin' violence.
If being called strange means being authentic, I'm idolizing.
They call me "weird"? Good—I'm the sheep in wolf weather,
While they chase clout, I'm stackin' wool for the sweater.
You way too bad to chill with basic bitches
That's why I think you're a hoe
You want truth?
Crack the Word, don't twist the Genesis.
Started with dreams of hundred stacks, now multiplied,
Praying a million manifest.
Then two times,
Three times,
Seven times over—that's God's design.
Evil eyes watch from them same old hills
But I'm partin' the bills, partin' the bills...
Night don't last forever, but right now it's pitch black,
Palm pressed to the ceiling, tryna push my luck back.
They ask, 'Am I good?'
Man, my soul's off-track
Close to home, but my heart's a thousand miles from the map
Tyler and Jordan's reactions were immediate and gratifying, expressions shifting from curiosity to genuine surprise as they listened.
"Bruv," Tyler said when it ended, "you're actually like, proper good. Like, industry level."
"You hiding this talent all this time?" Jordan added, shaking his head. "Mad."
Amias laughed, accepting the compliments with a modest shrug. "Still got a lot to learn."
While Tyler and Jordan peppered Zel with questions about the equipment and his production history, Zara pulled Amias aside, her expression more serious.
"So," she said quietly, "you going to tell me what happened Saturday?"
Amias tensed, his mind flashing back to blood on concrete, to Apannii's men, to the gun in his hand. "Not right now," he said, keeping his voice low. "But I will."
Zara studied his face, concern evident in her eyes. "Amias, I heard stuff went down. Bad stuff."
"For now, we need to focus on other things," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "I got the clothing brand sorted."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Already?"
"Yes," he said simply. "Now I just need designs and production lined up."
"Well, I already made the logo with your brand name," she said, still looking skeptical. "I guess I could design some outfits too."
"That would be perfect." He hesitated, then added, "Look, I need to make money too. A lot of money for a lot of reasons beyond just clothing."
Zara's expression darkened. "Oh my god, Amias. I told you I won't be part of this if you're still dealing—"
"I'm not," he interrupted firmly. "I'm done with all that. Completely done."
Silence fell between them as she searched his face, looking for any sign of deception. Finding none, she suddenly threw her arms around him, hugging him tight.
"Thank god," she whispered against his shoulder.
Amias stiffened slightly, surprised by the display of affection, then relaxed, returning the hug. When they separated, their eyes locked for a moment longer than necessary, an unspoken current passing between them.
Zara broke the contact first, clearing her throat. "Okay, well, that's great news."
"I've got other ideas to talk about too," Amias said, "but let me finish this session with Zel first."
She nodded, stepping back. "We'll be waiting. Take your time."
As she rejoined the others, Amias watched her go, a complex mixture of emotions churning inside him that had nothing to do with the System or music.
He valued moments like this, people like this—people like Zara.
The System had warned him about distractions, about anything that might derail his focus from the Legend Maker program.
But it had also emphasized the importance of maintaining human connections, of building a support network that would sustain him through the challenges ahead.
And he felt as if Zara was the one shoulder he could lean on that wasn't his mom's.
--
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