"I'm interested," Amias said without hesitation, maintaining eye contact with Curtis. After what was 30 minutes of back and forth one-on-one conversation.
50 nodded, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "Kid, come take a drive with me and have a talk, while I take you to the GRM thing."
The offer hung in the air, weighted with potential. Amias glanced at his friends—their wide eyes and slack jaws told him everything he needed to know about the magnitude of this moment.
"Appreciate that," Amias replied, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.
He turned to the group, tossing his car keys toward Zara, who caught them with a surprised expression. Zane and Zel immediately raised their hands in mock protest.
"You gave her the keys?" Zane asked, feigning offense.
Amias shot them a knowing look. "I trust Zara not to crash my BMW."
Jordan snickered while Tyler clapped Zane on the shoulder in mock consolation. The reality was simple—Zara was the most responsible among them, and Amias knew she'd take care of his property.
As Jordan, Tyler, Zel, and Zane began gathering their things, preparing to follow in Amias's car, 50 Cent's gaze lingered on Zara. Something in her posture—a subtle tensing of the shoulders, perhaps—caught his attention.
"Your girlfriend can come with us if she wants," Curtis offered with a knowing smile, gesturing toward the black Range Rover idling outside.
Amias chuckled, feeling heat rise to his face despite his usual composure. "She's my best friend," he corrected, though the words felt insufficient.
Zara's eyes met his briefly—a silent exchange that spoke volumes before she handed the car keys to Zane.
"I'll ride with Amias," she decided. "Someone needs to make sure he doesn't get star-struck and forget about his freestyle tonight."
The air outside was crisp, January's chill nipping at their faces as they approached the gleaming black Range Rover. 50's security opened the doors, ushering them in—Amias in the front passenger seat, Zara in the back with one of the security detail. The vehicle smelled of expensive leather and subtle cologne.
As they pulled away from the studio, Amias caught sight of his friends piling into his BMW, Zane behind the wheel. A strange feeling washed over him—like watching two worlds collide, the life he'd known just weeks ago merging with something entirely new.
Curtis navigated through London traffic with casual confidence, one hand on the wheel, his posture relaxed but alert. For several blocks, they rode in comfortable silence, the city sliding past outside the tinted windows. When he finally spoke, his voice was conversational, curious.
"So why'd you start rapping? For real."
Amias considered the question carefully. He couldn't exactly explain the System thad reshuffled his entire existence.
"It was really on a whim," he said instead, opting for a version of the truth. "I've always written—poetry, thoughts, whatever—but never took it seriously. Then one day I just got into the flow of it and haven't stopped." He paused, the surprise in his own voice genuine. "I'm falling in love with it really."
Curtis nodded, seeming to appreciate the authenticity in the answer. "Most people got a story—something pushed them toward it. Trauma, hunger, ambition. What's yours?"
The Range Rover glided to a stop at a red light. Outside, a group of teenagers crossed the street, oblivious to who sat behind the tinted glass.
"My mother," Amias finally said, his voice softening. "She moved us here from Texas when I was eleven. Worked two jobs to keep us afloat. Always told me I had a voice worth hearing." He traced the scar on his cheek. "Guess I'm trying to prove her right."
The light changed, and Curtis eased the vehicle forward, nodding thoughtfully.
"What's a day in your life look like? When you're not in the studio."
From the backseat, Zara sighed audibly, drawing Curtis's glance in the rearview mirror.
"Amias works way too hard," she offered, leaning forward slightly. "Up at five most mornings."
Amias shot her a look, but continued: "My schedule varies, but it's structured. Voice training in the mornings, school until afternoon, then either studio time or business development. Regular training could be anything from Music theory to reconstructing songs."
"Business development?" 50 echoed, genuine interest coloring his tone. "What kind?"
"I'm building— well I've built an app," Amias replied. "Launched the beta version today, actually. It's called LINKUP—connects artists with producers, engineers, designers, all within their area. Has virtual collaboration studios too."
Curtis's eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting this answer from a seventeen-year-old new to the game. "Let me see this."
At a stoplight, Amias pulled out his phone and opened the application, handing it to Curtis. The interface was sleek, professional—the work of the System's specifications translated into reality.
50 scrolled through the features, his expression shifting from casual interest to genuine intrigue. "This is professional work. You design this yourself?"
"Had the concept," Amias explained. "Worked with developers on implementation but I had all the frames beforehand. I've got more functions planned—smart contracts for royalty splits, automated payment distribution—but those need more legal groundwork first."
Curtis handed the phone back, his assessment of Amias visibly recalibrating. "You remind me of myself, but with more foresight. I was selling crack at your age, trying to build my capital the hard way. You're thinking bigger from the jump."
Amias didn't see the need to mention he sold weed.
Curtis tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, considering something. "What about your publishing? You got that organized?"
"Signed with Songtrust for collection across 215 territories worldwide. They only take fifteen percent, non-exclusive agreement so I maintain ownership. Also registered with PPL and MCPS in the UK, SoundExchange and The MLC in the US." Amias recited the information the System had drilled into him. "Set up sync licensing through Songtradr too."
"Damn," Curtis laughed, genuine surprise in his voice. "Most established artists don't even have their shit that together."
From the backseat, Zara leaned forward again. "Tell him about the label situation."
Curtis glanced between them, intrigued. "What label situation?"
Before Amias could respond, Zara continued: "Amias scammed the only label he's spoken with so far."
"I wouldn't call it scamming," Amias protested mildly.
"He sold them the masters to his song for £51,000 outright instead of signing their contract," Zara explained, pride evident in her voice. "They were offering him a sixteen percent royalty after recoupment, fifty-fifty publishing split, £300,000 advance but structured so he'd never see profits."
Curtis's laugh filled the car—deep, genuine amusement. "You did what now? Walk me through that."
The Range Rover turned onto a busier street, the late afternoon traffic thickening as they approached central London. Outside, the city had begun transitioning from daylight to the early stages of evening, streetlights flickering on one by one.
"They brought me in, showed me the standard contract trap," Amias explained. "I countered with a one-time sale of the masters for my single. Started at £50,000, they offered £15,000, we landed at £51,000."
"Fifty-one?" Curtis questioned, catching the odd number.
"They offered fifty, I asked for seventy, they countered with fifty-one thinking I'd actually try to press for more," Amias clarified. "I just took it. The song's already at 76 in the UK with no push. It'll make more long-term, but I needed the capital now."
Curtis shook his head, clearly impressed. "Smart move. Most new artists would've jumped at that deal, not understanding they're signing away their future."
He drove in silence for a moment, reassessing the young man beside him. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—more serious, more focused.
"Alright, so from what I'm hearing, you know what you got going on. Your business sense is sharp." Curtis navigated around a double-parked delivery van. "You know Eminem, right?"
Amias raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
"My boy Em just dropped an album last year and he's still doing a few shows. We got two in New York about five days from now."
The implication hung in the air, but Curtis didn't immediately elaborate. Instead, he continued driving, letting the possibilities sink in.
"Here's my offer," he finally said, a slight smile playing at his lips. "We've got shows at venues with 40,000 and 60,000 capacity. You can come and I'll let you be one of the opening artists."
Amias felt his heart rate increase slightly, though his expression remained neutral.
"But," Curtis continued, "I won't pay you any money for performing. Not a cent. And you gotta get your own ticket and pay for your own place to stay."
The offer was clearly designed to be rejected—a test of some kind. Curtis's smile widened slightly as he waited for the response, expecting hesitation or negotiation.
"Sure, that's awesome," Amias replied without pause, his voice steady. "Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity."
The car jerked slightly as Curtis turned to look at him, genuine surprise evident on his face.
"Hold on, hold on," he said, recovering. "You're accepting?"
"Yeah..." Amias confirmed, uncertainty creeping into his voice for the first time. "Why wouldn't I?"
Curtis stared at him for a long moment before returning his attention to the road. "Alright," he said slowly, processing. "Alright. Well, you'll be opening at both shows."
From the backseat, Zara's stunned silence was palpable. The security guard beside her shifted slightly, probably unused to seeing his boss caught off guard.
"You got a tax person? Finance guy?" Curtis asked after a moment.
"As of right now, no," Amias admitted.
Curtis nodded, decision made. "Alright. Time for some guidance."
The Range Rover slowed as they approached a traffic circle, the GRM Daily studios visible just beyond. The evening stretched before them—first the freestyle, then apparently a trip to New York, opening for legends. The air in the car seemed charged with potential.
"First lesson," Curtis said, his voice shifting into mentor mode. "Always say yes to opportunities that put you in rooms you couldn't access otherwise. Money comes and goes, but connections and exposure—those build empires."
He turned to look directly at Amias. "Second lesson coming up after your freestyle. Better bring your A-game. I don't put my name behind mediocrity."
As they pulled into the parking lot, Amias caught sight of his BMW arriving behind them, his friends climbing out, faces animated with excitement. The parallel struck him again—his old life and new converging, accelerating faster than he could have imagined.
"Ready?" Curtis asked, killing the engine.
"Born ready."
—
The GRM Daily building was buzzing with activity as Amias followed the receptionist through the winding corridors. The walls were lined with framed covers and platinum plaques—visual testaments to the platform's influence on UK rap culture. Zara walked beside him, phone already recording for the vlog, while Jordan, Tyler, Zel, and Zane trailed behind, their excited whispers creating a soundtrack to this moment.
"I still can't believe 50 Cent just dropped us off," Zara murmured, keeping her voice low as they passed a group of artists huddled around a monitor. "Like it's just a normal day or something."
Amias glanced at her, catching the lingering smile that hadn't left her face since they'd exited the Range Rover. "You seemed pretty comfortable in that backseat," he teased. "Especially when he called you my girlfriend."
A flush crept up Zara's neck, but she recovered quickly, giving his arm a sharp slap. "Shut up," she hissed, though the smile remained. "I was just being professional."
"Professional, yeah," Amias nodded with mock seriousness. "That's why you're still blushing."
"I'm not—" she started, then caught herself when she noticed his smirk. "You're the worst."
Their banter was interrupted as a production assistant approached, clipboard in hand.
"Amias Mars, right? We're ready for you. Wardrobe and mic check first, then straight to set."
The wardrobe area was more modest than Amias had expected—just a small room with a mirror, a rack of clothing options, and a harried-looking stylist who glanced up when they entered.
"You're up in twenty," she said, assessing his current outfit with professional scrutiny. "Need anything?"
Amias shook his head. "I'm good with what I've got."
The stylist's eyes lingered on his jeans—dark denim with subtle western-style stitching—then moved to his pristine white tee. "That your brand?" she asked, noticing the distinctive logo on the chest.
"Yeah," Amias confirmed, pride warming his voice. "First merch drop coming soon. She designed it all." He pointed at Zara.
She nodded approvingly. "Clean design. You might want to add the jacket and hat though—looks better on camera, gives dimension."
Amias pulled the black denim jacket from his bag, shrugging it on with practiced ease. The material was slightly distressed, giving it character without looking worn. From the same bag, he retrieved a white cap with his logo embroidered in pink on the front, intricate designs flowing along the sides—Zara's handiwork as well.
"Your girl's got skills," the stylist remarked, admiring the hat as Amias adjusted it in the mirror.
"She's not my—" Amias began automatically, then caught Zara's eye in the reflection. "Yeah. She does."
The silver locket rested visibly against his white tee, catching the light as he moved. Amias touched it briefly, he'd made the decision since his birthday that this would be his lifelong accessory.
"Ready for mic?" A sound technician poked his head in, breaking the moment.
In the recording booth, Amias listened carefully as the engineer explained the setup.
"We've got two beats queued up as requested," the technician said, adjusting levels on the board. "The smooth one first, then transitioning to the harder track at your cue. Any special instructions for the mix?"
Originally he'd intended for a gritty usual UK beat for the second beat but fiddling with that beat he'd bought from LiTek had brought him too much inspiration and a wealth of lyrics against its drums to not use it in his introduction to the UK rap scene.
It was not entirely finished, but he didn't need an entire 3 minute beat, just a minute and a half would do.
"Let the bass breathe on the second one," Amias replied, settling the headphones over his ears. "And keep the vocals raw—minimal effects."
The technician nodded, making notes. "You've done this already."
"First time, actually," Amias admitted.
The man looked up, skepticism evident until he caught the serious expression on Amias's face. "Well," he said finally, "you know what you want. That's half the battle."
Thirty minutes later, Amias stood under the lights of the main set. The familiar GRM Daily backdrop—instantly recognizable to any UK rap fan—loomed behind him. The director, a compact man with quick movements, gave final instructions to the camera operators.
"We'll do three takes maximum," he called out. "First run-through is just to get levels and framing right. Don't stress about performance yet."
But Amias knew he would only need one take. He practiced drilling the verses into muscle memory while maintaining the illusion of spontaneity that freestyles demanded already.
Jordan, Tyler, and Zel had found spots against the wall, out of frame but present, their energy feeding his. Zane sat on a folding chair nearby, still recovering but determined to witness this moment. And Zara—Zara was behind the main camera, her—well his…. her—own still recording, her eyes never leaving him.
The studio quieted. Red lights blinked on the cameras.
"GRM Daily Duppy, Amias Mars," the director announced for the slate. "Take one."
<>
Link to my discord is in my profile, you can read one extra chapter one there.