The elevator ride up to the 18th floor felt like ascending into another world. Amias could feel the bass vibrations through the walls before the doors even opened, the building itself seeming to pulse with creative energy. When they finally slid apart, he was hit with a wall of sound—multiple tracks bleeding through supposedly soundproof doors, voices raised in artistic debate, the occasional whoop of excitement when something clicked.
The hallway was marble and mahogany, lined with platinum records and photographs of sessions that had shaped music history. Amias recognized some faces in the photos—Dre bent over a mixing board, Alisha Keys in the booth, Jay-Z laughing at something off-camera. Now he was walking these same halls.
"This way," Curtis said, leading them past a lounge area where a group of producers huddled around a laptop, arguing about compression ratios. The smell of expensive cologne mixed with traces of weed smoke and that particular scent recording studios always had—electronics and ambition.
They passed Studio A, where through the window Amias glimpsed what looked like a full orchestra setting up. Studio B had its blinds drawn, but the distinctive sound of trap hi-hats suggested Atlanta had come to New York for the night. Finally, they reached Studio C.
Curtis pushed open the heavy door, and the soundscape changed immediately. The chaotic blend from the hallway gave way to focused energy—one beat, one vibe, multiple minds working toward a singular vision. The control room was massive, centered around an SSL console that cost more than most people's houses.
Dre sat at the board, fingers dancing across faders with the muscle memory of decades. Eminem was in the corner, hunched over a legal pad, lips moving silently as he worked through bars. In the booth, someone Amias didn't recognize was laying down a hook, while another unfamiliar face nodded along from the couch.
The room was carefully organized chaos—notebooks scattered across surfaces, empty water bottles marking territory, cables snaking across the floor in patterns that somehow made sense. The lighting was dim, mostly coming from the console and computer screens, creating an atmosphere that felt both professional and intimate.
"Look who made it," Dre said without turning around, somehow sensing their arrival over the music. He brought the faders down, and the artist in the booth looked up questioningly.
"Take five, Grip," Dre said into the talkback. The artist—Grip, apparently—nodded and pulled off his headphones.
Now Dre swiveled around, that slight smile playing at his lips. "How was the second show?"
"Even better than the first," Curtis answered before Amias could. "Kid had them eating out his hand. That Poland track? Whole arena singing along."
"To mumble rap," Eminem added from his corner, not looking up from his pad. "In my venue."
"Our venue," Curtis corrected with a laugh.
"The world's changing, Marshall," Dre said, but there was amusement in his tone. "Sometimes you gotta flow with it."
Amias found himself a spot near the back wall, setting down his bag and observing the space. Zel had stayed back at the house—this session was for him to absorb, to learn, to create if the moment struck. The others in the room acknowledged him with nods but didn't make a big deal of his presence, which he appreciated.
An hour and a half later, the session had found its rhythm. Grip had finished his parts and left, replaced by another artist working on ad-libs. Eminem had filled three pages with bars, occasionally testing phrases under his breath. Dre had been building a beat from scratch, layering sounds with the patience of a master craftsman.
Amias had claimed a corner workstation, headphones half-on so he could monitor the room while focusing on his own work. His laptop screen showed multiple Pro Tools sessions—tracks from the mixtape that needed final touches. Bas had sent through his hook for HYB earlier, and Amias was carefully integrating it, adjusting the arrangement to make space for the new element.
The beat for "HYB" was one of his favorites—atmospheric vibe with an undeniable UK bounce. It was incredible watching a song structure transform into the original in real time.
He worked methodically, muscle memory guiding his fingers across the keyboard shortcuts. EQ adjustment here, compression there, a subtle delay on the snare to make it breathe. Every few minutes, he'd glance up, taking in the room's energy, learning by osmosis.
"Yo, Amias," Dre's voice cut through his concentration. "Let me get some help over here."
Amias pulled off his headphones and moved to the main console, where Dre was hunched over the computer screen. On it was a waveform of what looked like a soul sample—horns, strings, and a female vocal all tangled together.
"Trying to find the right section for this beat," Dre explained, scrubbing through the audio. "For Marshall. Need something that'll loop clean but still has movement."
Amias listened as Dre played through different sections. The sample was beautiful—clearly from the '70s, that warm analog sound that modern plugins tried desperately to recreate. But Dre was right; finding the perfect loop point was tricky.
"Can I?" Amias gestured toward the mouse.
Dre slid his chair over slightly, giving him access. Amias closed his eyes for a moment, letting the full sample play through once. His mind automatically started mapping the arrangement—verse here, chorus there, that little vocal run that could be isolated.
When he opened his eyes, his hands moved with certainty. He found a section about forty seconds in where the vocals dropped out briefly, leaving just the instruments. But instead of using it straight, he grabbed an earlier vocal phrase and layered it over the instrumental break, creating something that hadn't existed in the original.
"Hold up," Dre said, leaning in closer. "Play that again."
Amias looped the section. The vocal phrase—just a wordless melody—floated over the horns and strings perfectly, creating an ethereal quality that immediately set a mood.
"That's it," Eminem said from behind them. Amias hadn't heard him approach. "That's the feeling. Dark but beautiful."
Dre was already adding drums underneath, his fingers flying across the MPC pads with practiced ease. Within minutes, the sample had transformed into something entirely new—still honoring the original but twisted into a modern shape.
"Man," Dre said, sitting back and letting the beat loop. "Amias, you know who you remind me of?"
Amias waited, curious where this was going.
"I mean, I've only had one full studio session with you, and now today," Dre continued, "but watching the way you work... It's like Kanye a lot. The way you approach things in terms of just creativity."
The comparison caught Amias off guard. Kanye's production genius was undeniable.
"But in terms of an all-around person," Dre went on, turning to face him fully, "you remind me of... To be honest, I can't really say you're exactly like anyone I know. I see a bit of Em in you, the technical precision. Some Kendrick in how you think about concepts. But really, you feel authentic. New. Like you are you in a way."
"Appreciate that," Amias said, meaning it. Coming from Dre, those words carried weight.
Dre shifted in his chair, that analytical look in his eyes. "How's the mixtape coming along?"
"It's—" Amias started.
"Complete," Dre finished for him. "With the songs you've got on there, adding 'That Guy' and 'Poland,' it's complete. I'm telling you, it's gonna do serious numbers, Amias."
From his corner, Eminem looked up from his pad. "Dre got hit and miss advice sometimes. Maybe you need to spend time discovering what you feel is missing."
They understood, to a degree. The mixtape was technically finished—multiple tracks showcasing different styles, different flows, different versions of Amias Mars. The only features were Bas and Oakley on HYB, making it essentially a solo project. It showed range, versatility, skill.
But still, that nagging feeling persisted.
"The mixtape is really showing off a lot about you," Dre continued, ignoring Em's critique. "So many different flows, styles of beats. And you kept features minimal. It's really all you."
"That's the thing," Amias said, trying to articulate what he'd been struggling with. "Everyone who hears it says it's good. Great, even. But I can't shake that feeling of something's missing. Not technically—the mixes are clean, the masters will be solid. It's something else."
The room fell quiet for a moment, just the beat Dre had been building playing on loop. Then 50's voice came from the doorway.
"That's 'cause you're stubborn and determined as hell."
He walked in, placing a hand on Amias's shoulder. The gesture was paternal, protective.
"Never seen someone your age work this hard," Curtis continued. "You haven't even checked your phone since we got here, have you? Just straight working."
It was true. Amias's phone sat face-down on the desk, notifications probably piling up. But this was more important. This was the work.
"Other people too," someone else chimed in—one of the engineers who'd been quietly working at another station. "Most cats your age would be out celebrating, posting every second on social. You're in here grinding like you got something to prove."
Amias remained quiet, processing their words. The compliments felt good but didn't solve his core problem.
After a moment of silence, Eminem spoke up again. "Watching you, observing you work... You surprise me. Thought maybe you had a writer in your corner, bunch of producers. But really, you got ability. You can write, freestyle, produce."
"Still got a lot to learn," Amias said, deflecting slightly.
"We all do," Dre added. "That's what keeps it interesting."
They went back to making music, the session continuing its natural flow. Amias returned to his corner but found himself unable to focus. His mind kept circling back to that missing element, that intangible something that would elevate the mixtape from good to transcendent.
After a while, he saved his work and stood up, needing air, needing space to think. "Gonna take a walk," he said to no one in particular.
The hallway felt different now—quieter, most of the other sessions having wrapped up or shifted into late-night mode. Amias wandered without direction, letting his feet carry him through the building's maze-like layout. He passed more studios, some dark, others still glowing with activity. The building was like a small city dedicated entirely to the creation of sound.
He found himself at a large window overlooking the city. Manhattan stretched out below, lights twinkling like a circuit board. Somewhere down there, people were probably listening to his music, sharing it, making it part of their lives. The thought was still surreal.
Leaning against the window frame, he pulled out his phone for the first time in hours. The notification count was absurd—Instagram, Twitter, texts, missed calls. He ignored most of it, opening Twitter to see what the world was saying.
The timeline was flooded with clips from tonight's show. Someone had posted a video of the crowd during Poland, thousands of voices joining in on the hook. Another showed the moment he'd picked up the Polish flag, the arena exploding in response. The numbers on these posts were crazy—thousands of retweets, tens of thousands of likes.
But it was the comments that struck him:
"This man really got 60,000 people singing about taking wok to Poland"
"Amias Mars is different. The energy is unmatched"
"UK to the world"
His phone rang, interrupting his scrolling. The name on the screen made him pause—Skepta. They'd met recently when Skepta had offered some advice, but he'd never called before.
"Yo," Amias answered, curious.
"What's good, fam? You alright?" Skepta's voice was casual but with an undertone of purpose.
"Yeah, I'm good. Just at the studio."
"Listen, fam," Skepta continued, "heard a bit of stuff going on between you and Tion."
Amias frowned. "Tion Wayne? What stuff?"
"He chatting to me about some beat. The one from your GRM freestyle."
Now Amias understood. The beat from the second half of his Daily Duppy, the one with the Caribbean influence. The one he gave to Oakley.
"So this beat, Tion wants to buy it from you," Skepta explained. "He's been asking around, trying to get to it through other people since you told him no directly."
Amias felt irritation rising. He wasn't a unfriendly person, patient with most things, but this kind of indirect pressure got under his skin.
The same hands that had dealt with Apannii and Ekane could still clench into fists when pushed.
"So let me understand this," Amias said, voice carefully controlled. "Tion wants my beat. I already told him no. So he called you to try and get it from me?"
"That's about it, yeah," Skepta confirmed.
"The answer is still no," Amias said firmly.
"Look, I get it," Skepta tried. "But sometimes in this industry—"
"If Tion wants the beat, then he should call me himself," Amias cut him off, trying not to be rude but needing to be clear. "But that doesn't matter because the beat isn't for sale. That's that."
There was a pause, Skepta probably recognizing the finality in his tone.
"Alright, fam. Heard. Just thought I'd reach out, you know?"
"I appreciate it," Amias said, softening slightly. "No disrespect to you. But some things aren't for sale."
They ended the call cordially, but Amias sighed as he pocketed his phone.
Industry politics already.
"Rough argument, huh?"
The voice from behind made him turn. He recognized the face immediately—distinctive features, ageless in that way certain people managed, style that had influenced a generation. Pharrell Williams stood there, casual in a way that still looked expensive.
"Nah," Amias replied, maintaining his composure despite the surprise. "Just someone trying to nag for something."
Pharrell laughed, moving to stand beside him at the window. "Man, I remember when I was younger. Everyone wanted a beat, wanted a feature, wanted something. Nature of the business."
"Still annoying," Amias said, which got another laugh.
"Saw your performances," Pharrell said, gazing out at the city. "Both nights. That's impressive, especially that Poland track. Bold choice."
"People seem to either love it or hate it."
"Best kind of art," Pharrell observed. "How long you been here today?"
"Hour and a half, maybe two."
"Get any work done?"
"Yeah, just improving some tracks. Fixing mistakes."
Pharrell turned to face him, offering a fist bump that Amias returned. "I'm always interested in seeing what people's visions are. What they're trying to create. What's yours?"
It was a big question, but Amias had been thinking about it so much lately that the answer came easily. "Want to make something new. Authentic. Take influences from everywhere—UK, US, whatever sounds good—and create something that hasn't existed before."
"Ambitious," Pharrell noted, but not dismissively.
"Necessary," Amias countered.
Pharrell studied him for a moment, seeming to make a decision. "You busy right now?"
"Not really."
"I got a studio all to myself in the building right now. Come show me what you got on your mixtape. Maybe I could lend an ear."
Amias had no clue how Pharrell knew about the mixtape, but word did tend to pass around quickly in the upper echelon of the music industry. Plus the offer was unexpected, but Amias had learned to recognize opportunities when they appeared.
"You sure you got time?"
"Man, I'm already a fan of your music," Pharrell said, starting to walk. "Think of this as me wanting to hear more."
They moved through the building, taking an elevator up two floors to a smaller, more intimate studio. Where C was all about grandeur and status, this space felt personal. The walls were covered in fabric that created perfect acoustics, the lighting warm and inviting. A small collection of keyboards and guitars lined one wall, while the centerpiece was a more modest but still impressive mixing setup.
"I only come to the studio at set times now," Pharrell explained, powering up the equipment. "Family life, you know? Got to have balance."
"Makes sense," Amias said, taking in the space. It felt more like someone's private creative sanctuary than a commercial studio.
"Was actually just in North Carolina with Cole actually, speaking about that," Pharrell continued, pulling up a chair. "J. Cole. You ever spoke to him?"
"Of course," Amias said, then remembered something. "Actually, that's funny. He just sent me this song—'The Jackie,' I think—asked me to spit something on it, see if I come up with anything good."
"Oh really?" Pharrell's interest visibly piqued. "Well, we'll have to check that out. But first, let me hear this mixtape."
Amias pulled out his laptop, connecting it to the studio's system. As the files loaded, they fell into easy conversation.
"So you're from London, right?" Pharrell asked.
"Actually born in Texas," Amias corrected. "Moved to London when I was eleven. Everyone thinks I'm British born and raised."
"That explains the accent," Pharrell said. "It's unique. Not fully either thing."
"Story of my life," Amias said with a slight smile.
He pulled up the mixtape playlist, fourteen tracks in order. "Where should I start?"
"From the beginning," Pharrell said, settling back. "Want to hear the journey."
For the next forty minutes, they listened. Pharrell didn't say much during the playback, occasionally nodding or leaning forward when something caught his attention. He let each track play fully, no skipping, no interrupting. Amias found himself nervous in a way he hadn't been with Dre or 50—maybe because Pharrell represented a different kind of co-sign, more about creativity than credibility.
When the last track faded out, Pharrell sat quietly for a moment, processing.
"Great," he finally said. "The versatility, the differences, the flows, the styles. I really like that song—'All Around the World'—because it's the style closest to 'Poland' and bridges the gap between the other sounds."
Amias nodded, appreciating that Pharrell had caught that. All Around the World was one of the more experimental tracks, playing with a slower tempo in ways that shouldn't work with the other songs but did.
"The shifts in tempo, keys, instruments..." Pharrell continued, getting more animated. "You're not afraid to experiment."
"Appreciate that," Amias said.
"But," Pharrell held up a finger, "I got many problems and many recommendations for you. First, though, let's work on 'The Jackie.' Load that beat up."
Amias found the file Cole had sent—a bright, crisp production with a nostalgic feel. The drums knocked but left space, the melody was catchy without being overpowering. As it played, Pharrell nodded along, clearly feeling it.
"Nice," Pharrell said. "Cole knows how to pick 'em. You got ideas already?"
"Yeah, actually." Amias pulled out his phone, scrolling through his notes app where he kept random bars and concepts. "Been thinking about it since he sent it."
"Let's hear it then."
Amias moved into the booth, adjusting the mic and putting on headphones. The beat filled his ears, and he let it loop once to find his pocket. When he started, his flow was confident but playful, matching the beat's energy:
{Reference: Lil Tjay's verse on "The Jackie"}
"She hit my phone twice, told her "I'm outside"
I'm wealthy, no, I ain't clouted
Lovable, I'm young and I'm bossed up
It's a difference, don't let it get crossed out
I was 16 comin' through poor stuff
Now it's Sprinter, BMW more stuff
Designer drip but I'm far from a player
She a dime so her DM be crowded
Twenty texts, one call, she already know
When I'm in my bag, baby girl, get in the zone
Black card, no limits, sippin' slow
Life's too short, so we live with the glow
like, yeah
You see the drop top, bitch, stop playin' with me
You see the drop top, bitch, stop playin' with me."
He laid down his verse in a few takes, each one slightly different as he played with the delivery. When he emerged from the booth, Pharrell was smiling.
"That was hard," Pharrell said. "You caught the vibe perfectly. Cole's gonna love that."
They sat back down, and Pharrell's expression grew more serious. "Now, about your mixtape. You keep saying something's missing."
"Yeah," Amias admitted. "Like, I imagine what I want my album to be like, and I feel like all the elements I need, at least some bits and pieces, should be in this. But..."
"But?" Pharrell prompted.
"Dre told me to draw out that authentic human richness. I did that. The depth is there now. But the real problem I had was that I wanted to..." Amias hesitated, not wanting to say the word.
"Put some more umph into it?" Pharrell suggested.
"Something like that."
Pharrell leaned forward, his gaze direct. "I feel like you know what you want. Something was on the tip of your tongue just now, but you hesitated."
Amias sighed. This was the crux of it, the thing he'd been dancing around for weeks. "I can sing. But I'm not comfortable doing it. Personal reasons."
The admission hung in the air. Pharrell didn't push, didn't ask why. He just nodded slowly, understanding crossing his features.
"Well," Pharrell said finally, "seems like that's your problem. You want to put all of yourself into your music—all your hard work, everything you are. But you haven't. And you know that. Which is why you're discontent."
The truth of it hit Amias like a physical blow. All the technical perfection in the world couldn't replace that missing piece of himself.
"This is practically a finished product," Pharrell continued, gesturing toward the laptop. "It's good. Somethings are missing but the average listener would still enjoy it. But in the end it's up to you to make your decision."
He didn't elaborate, didn't push. The words hung there, simple but heavy with implication. Amias could release the mixtape as is and it would be successful. Or he could confront whatever was holding him back from singing and create something that truly represented all of him.
"You got something special, Amias Mars. Don't let fear keep you from showing all of it."
Then, they spoke for over half an hour.