North Carolina - Dreamville Studios
The studio smelled like Thai food and expensive cologne, a combination that somehow worked in the dim lighting of the control room. T-Minus sat hunched over the mixing board, tweaking levels with the kind of obsessive precision that separated good producers from great ones. In the corner, Elite lounged on the leather couch, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other tapped an absent rhythm against his thigh.
Bas stood in the vocal booth, headphones around his neck, reading over the lyrics on his phone one more time. The kid—Amias Mars—had sent everything over with crystal-clear instructions. Two thousand dollars just to lay down a hook. Not bad for maybe twenty minutes of work.
"Yo, you ready to run it again?" T-Minus asked through the talkback.
"Yeah, let me just..." Bas adjusted the mic, clearing his throat. The beat was smooth as butter, the kind of production that made you want to lean back and just vibe. He'd already laid down the hook twice, but something about it made him want to perfect it.
"And we ball like TNT, watch these hoes all pick a side..."
The door opened mid-take, and J. Cole walked in carrying a paper bag that smelled like barbecue. He moved quietly, respectfully—studio etiquette ingrained after years of sessions—but his presence still shifted the room's energy.
"My bad," Cole mouthed, setting the bag down on the coffee table.
Bas kept going, not missing a beat:
"Bitches flock like TMZ every time we come outside
Called a Uber SUV, how many gon' fit inside? Yeah
Hide your bitch, hide your wife, yeah..."
Cole unwrapped his sandwich slowly, trying not to make noise with the paper. But as the hook continued, his chewing slowed. There was something about the bounce, the way Bas was riding the beat...
"Bagged your bitch in my slide, yeah
Pray the dogs never die, yeah
Forty-two come alive, yeah
Hide your bitch, hide your wife"
When the hook ended, T-Minus let the beat ride for a few bars before stopping the playback. "That's the one," he said, nodding with satisfaction. "Clean as hell."
Bas emerged from the booth, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "Kid's got an ear for hooks," he said, settling onto the couch next to Elite. "Sent over exactly how he wanted it delivered, down to the breath placement."
"Who's the artist again?" Cole asked, taking another bite of his sandwich. Some sauce dripped onto the wrapper, and he caught it with practiced ease.
"Amias Mars," Bas replied. "Young kid from the UK. He's been making waves."
T-Minus pulled up the session file. "He sent his verse too, wanted me to hear the vibe." He hit play.
The beat dropped back in, but this time with Amias's voice over it. Cole's sandwich paused halfway to his mouth.
"I'm allergic to cap
I can't hear these niggas rap without an EpiPen..."
The flow was different, a British-American accent cutting through the beat with precision, but there was something else. A confidence that usually took years to develop.
"You'll never see me in Giuseppe, I find 'em tacky, look what I'm stepping in
Some shit I designed with Italians, callin' 'em Indy 5000s
Or maybe five hundred..."
Elite looked up from his phone. "Yo, this is hard."
"I kick the door down, if I want it and niggas won't let me in
My career in a nutshell, these bums never did nothin' but fail
They gon' see I'm the one when the dust settles
They gon' see I'm the one..."
Cole set his sandwich down completely, leaning forward. The next part made him actually smile:
"A-B-C-D-E-F-G, H-I-J-K, uh, M-N-O-P
That's little me in the classroom askin', 'What's L?'
I never been known to take those..."
"That's crazy," Cole said, shaking his head. "Who is this?"
"Amias Mars," Bas repeated. "Seventeen years old. Just started dropping music like weeks ago."
"Seventeen?" Cole's eyebrows shot up. "And he's writing like that?"
T-Minus pulled up his Instagram. "Check this out—he's opening for 50 and Em tonight at MSG. Second show."
On the screen, a video showed Amias on stage the night before, commanding forty thousand people like he'd been doing it for years. Cole watched in silence as the crowd erupted during "Poland."
"Wait, that's him?" Elite said, moving closer to look. "That joint's all over TikTok right now. My little cousin sent me like five videos this morning."
The verse continued playing:
"I feel like a regular nigga, I just got a very irregular bankroll
Word to Pluma, I've been gettin' Pesos
My account like the end of a rainbow
Every time that I spit it's a flame throw
Me, Bassy, and Cench, it's NATO"
"He got Central Cee on this too?" Cole asked.
"Yeah," Bas confirmed. "Didn't send his verse though, wanted to keep it exclusive I guess."
Cole sat back, processing. "That line about taking Ls... that sounds like something I'd write."
"Right?" Bas grinned. "Kid's got that introspective angle but keeps it cocky. It's a good balance."
A thoughtful expression crossed Cole's face. they'd been working on "The Jackie", had the beat from Monte Booker sitting perfect, but hadn't found the right feature yet. It needed something else...
"You know what?" Cole turned to Bas. "Send him 'The Jackie.'"
"You serious?"
"Dead serious. See if he wants to hop on it. If he can write like that at seventeen..." Cole trailed off, shaking his head. "I want to see what he does with it."
Bas was already pulling out his phone. "I'll hit him up now. He responds quick too—very professional for someone so young."
"Make sure he knows it's for the Summer," Cole added, returning to his sandwich. "Not some random loosie. If he's gonna be on there, I want his best."
Elite chuckled. "From opening for Em to potentially being on a Cole song in the same week. That's a hell of a run."
"Talent recognizes talent," T-Minus said simply.
East London
The silver BMW M4 carved through North London traffic like water finding its path. Inside, Jade held her phone at the perfect angle, catching the afternoon light as it streamed through the passenger window. Her best friend Keisha was driving, both of them vibing as "Poland" pumped through the car's premium sound system.
"Nah, this part right here," Jade said, starting to record just as the hook hit. She lip-synced along with exaggerated expressions:
"I took the Wock' to Poland..."
The autotune stretched Amias's voice into something hypnotic, and both girls couldn't help but move to it. Keisha took one hand off the wheel to wave it in rhythm, her fresh acrylics catching the light.
"Post that right now," Keisha laughed as they stopped at a red light. "Man said Poland with his whole chest."
Jade was already adding text to the video: "This can't leave my head help 😭😭 @amiasmars what have you done??"
Within minutes, the views started climbing. 50... 200... 1,000...
West London - Barber Shop
The familiar buzz of clippers filled Man Like Movez, one of those barber shops where you came for the cut but stayed for the conversation. Jerome sat in the chair, cape draped over his designer tracksuit, while his barber Dev worked on his fade.
"Yo, turn that up," someone called from the waiting area.
The Polish barber at the next chair looked up, confused. "What is this song? He's saying Poland?"
"It's this new joint," Dev explained, not pausing in his work. "Young boy from here, making waves."
"I took the Wock' to Poland..."
"But why Poland?" the Polish barber asked, genuinely puzzled. "What's Wock?"
The whole shop erupted in laughter.
"Bro, it's not that deep," Jerome said, trying not to move his head. "Sometimes the vibe is just the vibe."
Another customer pulled out his phone, recording the Polish barber's confused expression with the song playing in the background. The caption would read: "Real Polish man reacts to Poland by Amias Mars 😭😭"
Yale - Student Dorm
Destiny sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open to three different assignment tabs, but her attention was entirely on her phone. She'd discovered "Poland" through her ForYou page an hour ago and had listened to it at least fifteen times since.
"It's the way he says it," she explained to her roommate, who was trying to study at the desk. "Like... 'Po-land.' The autotune just hits different."
"Dest, I have an exam tomorrow," her roommate groaned.
"Just one more time," Destiny promised, already recording herself for TikTok. She'd perfected a little dance to go with it—nothing too complicated, just some hand movements that matched the rhythm. Simple enough that anyone could do it, catchy enough that they'd want to.
Atlanta - Lil Yachty in a Tesla
The morning sun blazed through the panoramic roof as Yachty cruised down Peachtree, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone (definitely not legal, but when did that stop him?). His assistant had sent him the "Poland" link about an hour ago with just "????" as the message.
Now he understood why.
"I took the Wock' to Poland..."
"Ayyyy," Yachty grinned, bobbing his head. The autotune, the simplicity, the sheer absurdity of it—it all worked. He held up his phone, making sure the Tesla logo was visible in the frame.
"Bro really said he took the Wock' to Poland," he laughed into the camera. "This hard though! UK really got some shit going on. Amias Mars, I see you!"
He made a few hand gestures in time with the beat, nothing too extra, just vibing. Then he noticed something that made him laugh even harder.
"Wait, wait, wait," he rewound the track. "Did he say 'I been leanin' like I'm Kenan'? Like Kenan Thompson? Nahhhhh, that's crazy!"
He posted the video to his story immediately. Within minutes, his DMs were flooded with reactions, most people just now discovering the track through his co-sign.
London - Tion Wayne's Studio
The atmosphere in the studio was thick with unspoken tension. Tion Wayne sat in the control room, his phone propped up on the mixing board as he went live on Instagram. A few hundred viewers had already joined, the numbers climbing steadily.
"Yo, what's good, it's Tion," he said, his voice carrying that casual confidence that came from years at the top. "Just in the studio, working on some bits, you know how it goes."
He scrolled through some comments, selectively responding to the ones that served his purpose.
"Yeah, yeah, 'Body' is coming soon, trust. Me and Russ got something special for you man."
More comments flew by.
"But listen," he continued, leaning back in his chair. "I been seeing some things lately, you get me? Man's been in this ting for time. I've paid my dues, shown love to the scene, brought man up with me."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"But some of these new yutes..." He shook his head with a rueful smile. "They come in, think they're too big already. Can't even show respect to the ones that paved the way, you understand?"
@ToxicYouthh: who you talking about g??
@RealDriller: SAY NAMES
Tion read the comments, his smile growing slightly. "I'm not gonna call out names, that's not me. But if you know, you know. I offered a payment for something, I keep asking man to accept it, man's music blows up and suddenly man's too good to sell a beat?"
He shrugged, the picture of reasonableness.
"Could care less who your cousin is, who's backing you. This is about respect. You can't move like you're untouchable when you just touched down yesterday, you get me?"
The viewer count had jumped to over 2,000 now. He knew clips of this would be all over Twitter within the hour.
"But anyway," he said, tone shifting back to casual. "I'm not on that negative energy. Just had to address it. Back to the music, innit."
The UK scene was small—everyone would know exactly who he meant.
New York - Manhattan Streets
The Escalade moved through Manhattan traffic with practiced ease, Anthony navigating the lunch rush like a conductor directing an orchestra. Amias sat in the back, stomach growling as they approached the Wendy's drive-through on 42nd.
"You sure you want Wendy's?" Anthony asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. "There's that spot on—"
"Nah, I'm good with Wendy's," Amias cut him off with a grin. "Sometimes you just need a Baconator, you feel me?"
Anthony chuckled. "I feel you."
As they pulled into the drive-through lane, Amias's phone buzzed with another notification. The "Poland" numbers were climbing faster than he'd expected. What started as a joke in a London studio was becoming... something else.
"Welcome to Wendy's, can I take your order?" The voice through the speaker sounded exactly as tired as you'd expect from someone working the lunch rush in Manhattan.
"Yeah, lemme get, uh..." Amias leaned forward slightly. "A Baconator combo, large, with a Sprite."
"That it?" The monotone response could've been a recording.
"Actually, nah. Let me get some nuggets too. The ten-piece."
"Spicy or regular?"
"Spicy."
"Sauce?"
"Ranch."
"That'll be $16.83. First window."
As they rolled forward, a car pulled up adjacent and honked. Amias glanced over to see two girls in a Honda Civic, phones already out. The passenger was practically climbing out her window.
"YO, IS THAT AMIAS MARS?"
He couldn't help but laugh, rolling down his window. "What's good?"
"BRUHHHHH," the driver screamed, fumbling with her phone while trying to maintain control of the car. "Poland is too hard! You said you took the Wock' to Poland!"
"Appreciate you," Amias called back, genuinely touched by the enthusiasm.
"Can we get a picture?" the passenger asked, already halfway out the window.
Anthony smoothly pulled slightly forward, creating space. "Make it quick," he muttered, but there was amusement in his tone.
Amias leaned out his window as both girls scrambled to get in frame, their friend in the backseat suddenly appearing like a jack-in-the-box. The photo was chaotic—angles all wrong, everyone laughing—but somehow perfect.
"Yo, when you dropping more music?" the driver asked.
"Soon," Amias promised. "Real soon."
They pulled away with screams and horn honks, leaving Amias shaking his head with a smile. At the payment window, the cashier—a middle-aged woman who looked like she'd seen everything Times Square had to offer—barely glanced up as she processed the payment.
"You the one those girls was screaming about?" she asked, handing back the card.
"Yeah, that's me."
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "My daughter probably knows you. She's always knows all the celebrities."
"Tell her I said what's good," Amias offered.
"Mhm." She was already looking past him to the next car.
At the pickup window, things got more interesting. The young guy handing out the bag did a double-take, his eyes widening.
"Yo, you're Amias! Bro, my boy just sent me your Daily Duppy this morning. That switch-up was cold!"
"Good looking out," Amias said, accepting the bag. "Appreciate the love."
"Nah, for real though," the worker continued, leaning out the window slightly. "You really Central Cee's cousin? He's cold too. Genetics or something?"
Amias laughed. "Something like that."
"Bet. Yo, keep doing your thing. UK to the world!"
As they pulled away, Anthony caught Amias's eye in the mirror. "That's still new for you, yeah? The recognition?"
"Mad new," Amias admitted, already digging into his fries. They were perfect—hot, salty, crispy. "Three weeks ago, nobody knew who I was. Now I can't get Wendy's without causing a scene."
"It's only gonna get bigger," Anthony observed. "You ready for that?"
Amias considered this while chewing. The truth was, he didn't know if anyone could truly be ready. The actual experience of fame? That was something else entirely.
And the parasocial status his fans had and would have?
"I'll have to be," he said finally.
Manhattan - Financial District Office
The building screamed money without saying a word. Glass and steel reaching toward the sky, but not desperately—confidently, like it knew its place in the skyline. Anthony pulled up to the valet stand, and Amias checked his phone one more time before stepping out.
The accountant—Adrian—had come highly recommended. He was from Switzerland which was practically one of the world's financial capitals. Young enough to understand crypto and NFTs, experienced enough to know when not to touch them. Most importantly, he didn't talk to blogs or gossip about his clients.
The elevator ride to the 27th floor was smooth enough to make Amias forget he was moving. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a reception area that managed to be both impressive and welcoming—leather and wood and abstract art that probably cost more than most people's cars.
"Mr. Mars?" The receptionist smiled warmly. "Mr. Okafor is expecting you. Right this way."
Adrian's office continued the theme—sophisticated but not stuffy. The man himself stood as Amias entered, extending a hand. He was maybe thirty-five, Swiss features softened by a American education, his suit tailored but not flashy.
"Amias, pleasure to finally meet in person," Adrian said, his handshake firm but not aggressive. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"I'm good, just ate," Amias replied, settling into one of the chairs facing the desk.
Adrian sat back down, pulling out a tablet. "Shall we dive in? I know you've got the show tonight."
"Let's do it."
"Right, so first things first—congratulations on the S&P investment. Two hundred thousand at your age is impressive. Smart move, especially with the current market conditions."
Amias nodded. He'd made that move last week, parking some of his money somewhere stable while he figured out the rest.
"Now," Adrian continued, swiping through some charts, "we need to talk diversification. You mentioned interest in cryptocurrency?"
"Yeah, but I'm not trying to go crazy with it. Maybe... what, ten percent of the portfolio?"
Adrian smiled approvingly. "That's exactly what I'd recommend. Conservative enough to protect your wealth, aggressive enough to capture upside. Bitcoin's the obvious choice for the majority of that allocation, but we might consider some Ethereum as well."
They spent the next thirty minutes going through options—index funds, international markets, some carefully selected individual stocks. Adrian had done his homework, presenting everything in a way that was comprehensive but not condescending.
"There's one more thing," Adrian said, closing the tablet. "Tax obligations. With your numbers starting to generate significant revenue... we need to be strategic."
"That's why I'm here," Amias said simply.
"Good. I'll handle all of that, but I need you to keep me in the loop on any major deals or income sources. The last thing we want is a surprise from HMRC or the IRS."
"Speaking of deals," Amias said, "I'm have a label. North Recording Group."
Adrian's eyebrows raised slightly. "Your own label? That's ambitious."
"I've got the team, the vision, and soon the distribution. Just need to make sure it's all structured properly."
"We can definitely help with that. I'll connect you with our corporate attorney—he's handled several label formations." Adrian made a note on his pad. "Anything else I should know about?"
Amias considered mentioning the specifics of who he aimed to have as his distributor but decideed against it. Some things were better kept close until they were certain.
"That's it for now," he said, standing. "But things are moving fast, so..."
"I'll be ready," Adrian assured him, standing as well. They shook hands again, and Adrian walked him to the elevator.
"One more thing," Adrian said as they waited. "I've been in this business long enough to see a lot of young people make a lot of money very quickly. The ones who last are the ones who plan for the future. You're already ahead of the curve."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime.
"I'm trying to build something that lasts," Amias said, stepping inside.
"I can see that," Adrian replied. "We'll make sure you do.
Back in the car, Amias let himself sink into the leather seats. Five hours until showtime. Sixty thousand people tonight. The numbers were starting to feel less abstract, more real.
His phone buzzed. Zara.
"Yeah?" he answered, hearing something different in her voice immediately.
"Hey, someone wants to speak to you," she said, sounding oddly formal. "I'm putting them through now."
"Okay..." Amias straightened up, suddenly alert.
"And Amias?" Her voice softened. "Sorry about yesterday. I overreacted."
The apology caught him off guard. They'd barely spoken since the argument about Kenzo, both of them treating each other with careful politeness at the house.
"We'll talk," he said gently. "For real, we'll talk."
"Okay," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Here they are."
There was a click, then a new voice—professional, American, female.
"Hello, am I speaking with Amias Mars?"
"Yeah, this is Amias."
"Wonderful. My name is Patricia Holbrook, I'm calling from Billboard's chart department."
Amias's heart skipped. Billboard. The actual Billboard.
"We have a bit of an administrative issue we need to clear up," Patricia continued, her tone perfectly pleasant but giving nothing away. "Our system shows some discrepancies with the address information listed for your publishing."
"My address?" Amias frowned. "What kind of discrepancies?"
"Well, we have a UK address on file, but some of your streaming data is showing significant US-based activity. We just need to confirm which address should be listed as primary for... documentation purposes."
Amias's mind raced. They'd only need to confirm address information if...
"Can I ask why this is important right now?" he tried, keeping his voice casual.
Patricia paused, and he could practically hear her choosing her words carefully. "I'm not at liberty to discuss specific chart positions before the official announcement, Mr. Mars. But I can say that we need this information clarified before the chart update."
Tomorrow. The Billboard Hot 100 updated on Tuesdays.
"So you're saying one of my songs might..."
"I'm saying we need accurate address information," Patricia interrupted smoothly. "Nothing more. Can you confirm which address we should have on file?"
Amias gave her the information, his hands slightly shaky as he held the phone. When she'd confirmed everything, she thanked him professionally and added:
"Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Mars."
The line went dead.
Amias stared at his phone, processing. Billboard had just called him. They needed his information for "documentation purposes." There was only one reason they'd need to verify that before a chart update.
"Everything good?" Anthony asked from the front seat.
"I think..." Amias started, then stopped. "I think 'Poland' might be about to chart on Billboard."
Anthony's eyes widened in the rearview mirror. "The actual Billboard? In America?"
"That's the only Billboard that matters," Amias said, still stunned.
A song he'd made as a joke. Something that took less than an hour to create was potentially about to enter the most prestigious music chart in the world.
His phone started buzzing with other notifications, but he ignored them all. In a few hours, he'd be on stage for the second night, performing for sixty thousand people.
Three weeks ago, he'd been nobody. Now...
Amias looked out at the Manhattan skyline, the city that had already given him so much in just two days. "We haven't seen anything yet."
Somewhere in the Billboard offices, Patricia Holbrook was updating a spreadsheet that would change everything.
But for now, Amias Mars was just a seventeen-year-old in the back of an SUV, eating cold Wendy's fries and trying to wrap his head around the impossible speed of his own success.
The sun was starting to set over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. Five hours until showtime. A lifetime until the chart update.
Everything was about to change.
Again.