"I took the Wock'... to Poland..."
The words hung in the air like smoke, autotuned and ethereal, washing over sixty thousand people who'd never heard anything quite like it. Amias moved across the stage with that same fluid confidence, but something was different about this performance. Maybe it was knowing this would be his last song of the night, or maybe it was the way the crowd had already started swaying before he'd even begun.
The lighting had shifted to deep purples and blues, creating an atmosphere more suited to a late-night club than a massive arena. But that was the magic of it—making sixty thousand people feel like they were in an intimate space, sharing a secret.
In the pit, directly in front of the stage, a group of college kids were losing their minds. One of them—bleached tips, Supreme hoodie—was recording with one hand while jumping with the others shouting the words back at Amias with surprising accuracy.
"I took the Wock'... to Poland..."
The repetition was hypnotic. Amias could see it happening in real-time—the confusion giving way to curiosity, curiosity to engagement, engagement to obsession. By the second chorus, entire sections were attempting to sing along, their voices creating a strange harmony with his autotuned delivery.
He moved to the edge of the stage, crouching down to get closer to the front rows. A girl with tears streaming down her face reached toward him, not quite touching but close enough that security tensed. Amias gave her a nod, a moment of connection in the chaos, before standing and moving to the other side.
The screens flanking the stage caught every movement, every expression, broadcasting his face to those in the nosebleeds who could barely make out his actual form. Someone had made a sign—"POLAND > EVERYTHING ELSE"—and was waving it frantically in the middle sections.
The verse hit different live:
"Uh, I been fiendin' like I'm Kenan..."
The bass was so heavy it seemed to pulse through the floor, up through the soles of his shoes, becoming part of his heartbeat. Sixty thousand people moving as one organism, all because he'd made a joke song in a studio.
"Ride around with a Kel-Tec..."
A whole section started doing a choreographed dance—something they'd clearly planned, probably from TikTok. Amias caught it on the monitors and couldn't help but laugh, the sound getting caught in the autotune and becoming something otherworldly.
As the track neared its end, he could feel the crowd's energy shifting. They didn't want it to end. Neither did he, honestly. There was something pure about this moment—performing a song that shouldn't work, for people who shouldn't care, in a venue that shouldn't contain this kind of intimate weirdness.
The final "Poland" stretched out, Amias holding the note as the beat faded. He dropped to his knees at center stage, head bowed, letting the moment breathe. For a moment, just a heartbeat, the entire arena was silent.
Then it erupted.
The roar was different from the previous songs. Sixty thousand people had just experienced something they couldn't quite explain but knew they needed more of. The sound was so loud it seemed to compress the air, making his ears pop.
Amias stood slowly, breathing hard, sweat making his shirt stick to his back. He could taste salt on his lips, feel the burn in his throat from performing. He raised the mic one more time.
"NEW YORK!" His voice cracked slightly from the performance, making it more real. "Y'all been incredible. I love every single one of you!"
He placed his hand over his heart, a gesture that somehow felt both calculated and genuine. The screens caught the moment, broadcasting it to everyone who couldn't see it directly.
"This city gave me a chance when I was an unknown," he continued, having to shout over the crowd. "Two nights, hundred thousand of y'all showing love. I'll never forget this!"
He walked to each side of the stage, waving, making eye contact with as many people as possible. Someone threw a Polish flag on stage—where they'd even gotten one was a mystery—and Amias picked it up, holding it high. The crowd went absolutely mental.
"Until next time—peace!"
He jogged off stage as the lights cut to black, the crowd's roar following him into the wings like a physical force. Even as he disappeared from view, the chanting started: "ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG!"
The temperature difference hit him immediately—from the heat of sixty thousand bodies and stage lights to the air-conditioned chill of the backstage corridor. Amias leaned against the wall for a moment, chest heaving, letting the reality of what had just happened wash over him.
His hands were shaking slightly—not from nerves but from pure adrenaline. He could still feel the bass in his bones, still hear the phantom echo of sixty thousand voices singing about Poland. His shirt was soaked through, clinging uncomfortably.
"That'll never be less amazing," he said to no one in particular, or maybe to himself, or maybe to the universe that had somehow allowed a kid from Texas-via-London to command Madison Square Garden.
Before he could take another breath, a hand landed on his shoulder. Heavy, possessive, accompanied by cologne that probably cost more than most people's rent.
"Yo, man, that was incredible! Amazing!" The voice belonged to a guy in his thirties, hair slicked back, designer everything, iPad clutched in his other hand like a lifeline. "The way you had them eating out of your palm—I've never seen anything like it!"
Amias straightened up, already reading the situation. Producer. Probably successful enough to have backstage access, not successful enough to know better than to ambush artists thirty seconds after they left the stage.
"Appreciate it," Amias said, starting to walk toward his dressing room. His legs still felt shaky from the adrenaline, muscles complaining from two hours of constant movement.
The producer fell into step beside him, apparently taking the movement as an invitation. "Listen, I'm Trevor Maddox, I've produced for—" He rattled off a list of names, some impressive, some less so. "—Migos, Lil Baby, couple tracks for Drake that didn't make the albums but still, you know?"
Amias nodded politely, turning another corner. Security guards posted at intervals gave subtle nods of recognition. His feet knew the path to his dressing room by instinct now. Three more turns.
"I'd love to get in the studio with you," Trevor continued, practically speed-walking to keep up with Amias's longer strides. "I've got this whole vault of beats that would be perfect for your style. That melodic approach with the UK influence but that southern undertone—it's exactly what I've been trying to capture."
"That's dope," Amias said, still walking. He could see his dressing room door now, salvation in sight. Two more turns.
"Yeah, so what I'm thinking is we could set up a session, maybe next week? I'm very reasonable with my rates—"
That stopped Amias short. He turned to look at Trevor properly for the first time. "Your rates?"
"Oh yeah, totally reasonable," Trevor assured him, mistaking the question for interest. "Usually I charge five grand per beat for placement, but for you, since I really believe in the vision, I could do three? Maybe twenty-five hundred if you're taking multiple beats? And that's just for the lease—we can talk publishing splits later."
Amias stared at him for a moment, processing the audacity. This man had ambushed him after a show, followed him through the hallways, and was now trying to charge him for the privilege? Meanwhile, he had Zel creating magic for a fair percentage split, and Dr. Dre offering guidance for free.
"That's great," Amias said, his voice perfectly neutral. He reached into his pocket, pulling out one of Zara's business cards. "Here's my manager's card. You can speak to her about it."
Trevor took the card eagerly, missing the dismissal in Amias's tone. "Oh perfect, I'll definitely reach out first thing! Maybe we can—"
But Amias was already opening his dressing room door. He stepped inside and closed it firmly, leaving Trevor mid-sentence in the hallway. He heard the producer's footsteps linger for a moment before finally walking away.
The silence of the room was beautiful. Amias dropped onto the couch, finally allowing his muscles to relax. The leather was cool against his sweat-soaked shirt. He kicked off his shoes, wiggling his toes in the blessed freedom.
"Trying to charge me before we even talk about the music," he muttered, shaking his head. "Moving like I'm desperate."
His phone buzzed on the coffee table where he'd left it. Multiple notifications, but one caught his eye immediately.
A text from Lil Mabu:
Yo bro, I can't make the stream tomorrow. Family emergency came up. So sorry man, rain check?
Amias typed back quickly: No worries bro, family first. Hope everything's good. We'll link soon.
Honestly, it was convenient. His schedule tomorrow was packed with meetings—one with a distributor who could change everything, another for a video…
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Soft, tentative. He knew that knock.
"Yeah?"
"It's me." Zara's voice, soft through the wood.
"Come in."
She entered with that particular smile she wore after his performances—pride mixed with something else, something harder to define. She'd changed from her earlier outfit into something more casual, one of his Italian hoodies that she'd stole and never returned. It hung loose on her frame, making her look smaller, younger.
"That was amazing," she said, closing the door behind her. The click of the lock was audible in the quiet room. "Like always."
"You say that every time," Amias noted, but he was smiling too. He shifted on the couch, making space for her.
"Because it's true every time." Instead of sitting on the arm of the couch like usual, she sat next to him, close enough that he could smell her perfume mixing with the lingering scent of his stage sweat. "Everyone's been posting about you. Twitter's going mental about the Poland performance."
"Yeah?" He wasn't really asking. The notifications on his phone were constant now, a waterfall of tags and mentions he'd stopped trying to keep up with.
"Mmm." She pulled out her own phone, scrolling through. "Look at this—someone made a compilation of crowd reactions to Poland. Sixteen thousand views already."
She leaned closer to show him, her shoulder pressing against his. On the screen, faces transformed from confusion to delight in rapid succession. Amias found himself more interested in watching Zara's face as she watched—the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at something particularly funny, the way she bit her lower lip when concentrating.
"We should talk," she said suddenly, setting her phone aside. The movement shifted her body slightly, and now they were facing each other more directly.
The air shifted between them, becoming charged with everything they didn't say. Amias could feel his heartbeat, still elevated from the performance, kick up another notch.
"Yeah," Amias agreed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "We should."
"I overreacted," she continued, but instead of looking down like usual, she maintained eye contact. "About the whole Kenzo thing. I just... I felt jealous, and I know that's not fair, but—"
"You felt jealous?" Amias interrupted gently, needing to hear her say it clearly.
She met his eyes then, vulnerability naked in her expression. "Yeah. I did. I do."
The admission hung between them like a bridge they were both afraid to cross. Her hand was resting on the couch between them, and Amias found himself staring at it, remembering all the times he'd wanted to reach for it but didn't.
"When she was touching your arm," Zara continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "when she kept finding excuses to be close to you... I wanted to—" She cut herself off, shaking her head.
"What?" Amias pressed, shifting closer.
Their faces were inches apart now. He could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, count each individual eyelash. Her breathing had gotten shallower.
"I wanted to tell her you were mine," Zara admitted, the words rushing out. "But you're not, are you? Because I was stupid when we were thirteen, and now—"
"Zara," Amias said softly, finally reaching for her hand. She interlaced their fingers immediately, like she'd been waiting for it. "We're not thirteen anymore."
"I know," she breathed. "That's what scares me."
They sat there for a moment, hands clasped, the weight of years of careful distance suddenly feeling unbearable. Amias could feel her pulse through her wrist, quick and nervous.
"I'll be more mindful," Amias said finally, though the words felt inadequate. "Keep better boundaries. I don't want you feeling like that."
"I don't want you to have to keep boundaries," Zara said, then seemed to realize what she'd admitted. Color rose in her cheeks. "I mean—"
Another knock interrupted whatever might have happened next. Loud, authoritative.
"Amias?" A security guard's voice. "There's some people here wanting to meet you."
Amias closed his eyes for a moment, frustrated by the timing. When he opened them, Zara was already pulling her hand away, rebuilding the walls.
"You should go see what this is about," she said, but her voice was unsteady.
"Yeah," Amias agreed, standing reluctantly. As Zara moved toward the door, he caught her wrist gently. "We're not done talking about this."
She looked back at him, something like hope flickering in her eyes. "Promise?"
"Promise."
"Come with me?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. She always came with him.
She nodded, and impulsively, he kept hold of her hand as they left the room. She didn't pull away.
—
The gathering was in full swing—a careful mix of industry people, special guests, and those wealthy enough to buy their way into the inner circle. Crystal glasses caught the light, expensive perfume mixed with expensive cologne, and conversations flowed in multiple languages.
Amias recognized a few faces from the previous night, but most were new, drawn by word of mouth about the young artist who'd commanded the arena. A woman in Balenciaga tried to catch his eye, clearly wanting an introduction. A group of what looked like label executives huddled near the bar, occasionally glancing his way.
He'd barely made it three steps into the room before people started approaching. Quick introductions, business cards pressed into his hands, compliments that blurred together. Zara stayed close, their hands no longer linked but her presence still protective and calming.
"Amias Mars!" A woman in her fifties, dripping in jewelry, grasped his free hand with both of hers. "That performance was transcendent! My daughter is obsessed with your music."
"Thank you so much," Amias replied, gently extracting his hand. "Glad she enjoys it."
"Would you mind taking a photo? She'll die if I don't—"
"Maybe later," Zara interjected smoothly, guiding Amias away. "He needs to make the rounds first."
Then he saw him—tall, early forties, expensive suit that somehow looked casual, standing with an elegant woman in a cocktail dress. Something about his bearing screamed European money, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. Not flashy, just quality.
The man noticed Amias looking and raised his glass slightly—a greeting and invitation combined. As Amias approached, he got a better look. Definitely German or Austrian, maybe Swiss. The kind of precise grooming that suggested attention to detail in everything.
"Amias Mars," the man said, extending his hand. His accent confirmed the German guess. "Stefan Richter, Head of Global Marketing for Red Bull. This is my wife, Lena."
Amias shook his hand, firm but not trying to prove anything. The name Red Bull immediately sharpened his focus. "Pleasure to meet you both. Are you friends of Curtis? Or Marshall?"
"No," Stefan smiled, and there was something knowing in it. "A friend of a friend, you might say. But I didn't come here for them." He paused, meeting Amias's eyes directly. "I came here for you."
"Me?" Amias kept his voice neutral, but his mind was racing. Red Bull coming to him directly?
"Do you have somewhere we can speak privately?" Stefan asked, his tone suggesting this wasn't a casual request.
Lena touched Zara's arm lightly. "Let me keep your girlfriend company while they talk business. I'm sure she has wonderful stories about traveling with a rising star."
Neither Amias nor Zara bothered to correct the assumption. They exchanged a quick glance—Zara's saying be careful, Amias's saying I got this—before he nodded.
"Yeah, my dressing room's just back here."
The walk back was silent except for their footsteps on the concrete floor. Stefan moved with the confidence of someone used to navigating backstage areas, but without the arrogance that usually accompanied it. He was studying everything—the setup, the security, the efficiency of the operation.
Once inside, Amias gestured to the seating area. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?"
"Water would be perfect, thank you."
Amias poured two glasses from the bottles on the side table, his movements careful and deliberate. Whatever this was, it was big. He could feel it in the way Stefan was carrying himself—like someone about to make an offer they'd already decided on.
"So," he said, handing Stefan a glass and taking a seat across from him. "That did you want to speak about?"
Stefan set his water aside and leaned forward slightly. "First, I have to say—you are a fantastic performer."
"I'm flattered," Amias replied, waiting for the real conversation to begin.
"No," Stefan shook his head. "I really mean it. You are incredible." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a slim folder. "May I?"
Amias nodded, curiosity piqued.
"Two days ago, you had 40,000 followers on Instagram," Stefan began, opening the folder to reveal printed analytics. "Today, you have 227,000. That's a growth rate of 467% in 48 hours."
Amias kept his expression neutral, but internally he was recalculating. He'd been so busy he hadn't checked since this morning.
"Twitter—from 15,000 to 89,000. Nearly 500% growth. TikTok—the most dramatic—from 45,000 to 312,000." Stefan flipped a page. "But the real story is in the engagement."
"How so?"
"Your music YouTube channel has grown from 30,000 to 87,000 subscribers. The analytics show that 73% of new subscribers have watched at least three of your videos completely. That's an unprecedented retention rate."
Stefan pulled out his phone, showing a TikTok analytics page. "Poland has been used in over 47,000 TikToks already. The hashtag #PolandChallenge has 134 million views. Your sound has been played over 180 million times on the platform."
"That's..." Amias trailed off, genuinely stunned by the numbers.
"Your personal YouTube channel went from 8,000 to 31,000. Your music video for 'Redemption' was at 1.5 million views yesterday morning. It's now at 2.6 million."
"Okay," Amias said slowly, leaning back. "I understand the numbers are good, but—not to be rude—can you be more direct about why you're showing me this?"
Stefan set the folder on the coffee table, his eyes bright with something that might have been excitement. "This is amazing. At first, we at Red Bull thought it was too amazing. That your growth was..." he searched for the word, "...orchestrated."
"Industry plant," Amias supplied, familiar with the accusation. "I've been hearing that."
"Exactly. So we looked into it. Rejected by multiple labels—Columbia, Atlantic, Sony UK. No major industry connections before 50 Cent. Built your own platform from nothing." He leaned back slightly. "Then we thought perhaps your numbers were artificial—bots, you know? But we analyzed that too. Your engagement rates suggest your following should actually be far larger than it is."
"We?" Amias caught the pronoun. "Red Bull's been investigating me?"
"For the past thirty-six hours, yes," Stefan admitted without shame. "When someone rises this fast, we pay attention. Energy drink marketing is about finding the next wave before it crests."
"And you think I'm a wave?"
"We think you're a tsunami," Stefan said simply. "We were suspicious even of the organic growth. But what we found is that you, Mr. Mars, have the presence of a K-pop artist multiplied by ten. The connection your fans display is unlike anything we've seen in Western music."
Amias couldn't help but chuckle at that, if only Stefan knew how accurate he was.
"So yes," Stefan continued. "We at Red Bull are very interested in you. We believe you represent something new, something no company in the world has quite figured out how to capture yet."
"And what's that?" Amias asked, genuinely curious about the outside perspective.
"Authentic virality," Stefan replied immediately. "Not manufactured, not forced, not following any traditional pattern. Just... connection. Pure connection."
He leaned forward again, and now his tone became more businesslike. "We want to offer you something unprecedented. To become Red Bull's flagship sponsored musician. Not just in the UK—globally."
"Me?" Amias kept his voice level, but his mind was spinning. Red Bull sponsored athletes, extreme sports stars, some DJs. But a flagship musician?
"You," Stefan confirmed. "This decision comes from our CEO directly. We're aware you have your own label—North Recording Group. Smart move, by the way. Tax advantages, creative control, building equity."
"Among other things," Amias agreed, impressed by their research.
"We're not asking for percentage cuts or control," Stefan continued. "What we're proposing is true partnership. Sponsorship, yes, but also support. Integration into our global network."
"What would that look like, specifically?"
"First, we can help fill the remaining gaps in your team. We know you have Daniel Chen for events—excellent choice, by the way. Marek Kowalski for graphics—we've actually used his works twice. Alessandra Romano for fashion design—her minimalist aesthetic aligns perfectly with your brand."
Amias nodded slowly, processing. They'd done serious homework.
"Beyond that—photoshoots with our photographers, standard sponsorship materials, but also music events under the Red Bull banner. Our Red Bull Studios in London, Amsterdam, Tokyo—all available to you. Freestyle videos for our channels. Content creation support."
Stefan pulled out another sheet. "We also know you were a competitive swimmer. Not second place at nationals—first place. You were marked down on a technical violation that should have been disputed. And you are a Regional champion for London."
"Your research is very thorough," Amias observed.
"We're German," Stefan smiled. "Thoroughness is our culture. But yes—perhaps we could explore some content around that. Red Bull athletes in swimming, collaborations. You training with our Olympic swimmers. The story of why you chose music over athletics."
"This all sounds..." Amias searched for the word. "Big. Bigger than what I expected."
"We're prepared to make this worth your while," Stefan said. "Initial signing bonus of 200,000 pounds. Annual base of 500,000, the millions would be in performance bonuses tied to streaming milestones and touring. Full creative freedom—we want Amias Mars, not a Red Bull version of you."
The numbers were significant, but Amias kept his poker face. "I appreciate the offer. But I'll need time to consider it properly."
"Of course," Stefan said. "But there's more. We want to fund your first major tour. Proper production, proper venues. We're talking about investing two million pounds in making sure your live show matches your digital presence."
Now that got Amias's attention. Tour funding was one of the biggest hurdles for him.
"I'm interested," Amias said carefully. "But tomorrow's packed with meetings already. I could maybe—"
"We'll work around your schedule," Stefan interrupted. "This is priority one for us. Name the time."
"Let me check with my timing," Amias said, pulling out his phone. "But probably late afternoon? Around four?"
"Perfect. My team can have something more concrete prepared by then." Stefan stood, extending his hand again. "Mr. Mars, I've been in marketing for twenty years. I've never seen anything like what you're doing. This type of growth... that's not normal."
They shook hands again, and Amias could feel the shift—from curiosity to commitment, from possibility to probability.
"One more thing," Stefan said as they walked toward the door. "Your livestream this morning peaked at 15,000 viewers. At 4 AM. Do you understand how insane that is? Most established artists can't pull those numbers when they begin doing content."
"It's been a crazy few days," Amias admitted.
"No," Stefan corrected. "It's been a crazy few weeks. And it's only accelerating. When the Billboard charts update..." He trailed off with a knowing smile. "Well, let's just say we're not the only ones who've noticed your American streaming numbers."
As they reached the door, Stefan turned one more time. "Whatever you're doing, Mr. Mars, don't stop. The industry needs disruption. You're providing it."
They walked back toward the reception, Amias's mind racing. Distribution deals, video shoots, now Red Bull with a massive offer.
"Thank you for your time," Stefan said as they reached the reception hall. "We'll talk tomorrow. I think this could be the beginning of something revolutionary."
As Stefan walked away to collect his wife, Amias stood for a moment, processing. Six months ago, he'd been selling weed in North London. Now Red Bull was offering him nearly a million pounds to be their face.
His phone buzzed. A text from Zara: Stop making deals without me! What did they want?
He smiled, typing back: Come find me. Got a story for you.
One of the world's biggest brands had come to him with an offer.
Not bad at all.