The elevator descended with that particular smoothness expensive buildings perfected, making Amias's stomach lurch slightly—or maybe that was just the exhaustion. Thirty floors down from the studio to street level, then another ride up to this restaurant's balcony. His body moved on autopilot these days, muscle memory carrying him through the motions while his mind churned elsewhere.
The February wind hit different up here, thirty stories above Manhattan. It had teeth, cutting through his jacket despite the overhead heaters working overtime. The restaurant was one of those places that charged forty dollars for pasta and called it artisanal, but at this hour—somewhere between late night and early morning—he had the balcony mostly to himself. Just him, a couple arguing quietly three tables over, and a businessman on a phone call in rapid Mandarin.
Amias settled into a corner table, back to the wall, facing the city. Old habits from London—always know your exits, always see who's coming. The waiter, trained in expensive restaurant invisibility, materialized just long enough to take his order before vanishing again.
"Just a smoothie," Amias had said, not trusting his stomach with actual food. "Whatever you recommend."
What arrived was eighteen dollars of açai—antioxidants, superfoods, words that meant nothing when your body was running on fumes and stubbornness.
He took a sip. Too sweet. Everything was too much lately.
The Manhattan skyline stretched before him like circuitry, windows lit in random patterns that probably meant something to the people inside.
Someone working late on a presentation.
Someone unable to sleep.
Someone making love.
Someone crying.
All these lives happening simultaneously, and here he sat, successful beyond his recent dreams and emptier than he'd been selling weed in Brixton.
His hands wrapped around the cold glass, condensation making his palms damp. When had they started shaking slightly? Not enough for others to notice, but he could feel it—that constant tremor of pushing too hard.
The session earlier kept replaying in his mind, but not the parts where they'd created magic. No, what stuck was that moment with Eminem, after everyone else had stepped out.
Marshall had been listening to him run through bars for what felt like the hundredth time. Re-doing the Realest verse, trying to nail that rapid-fire flow, match that technical precision that made Em legendary. Amias had stumbled on the same transition again, frustration building.
"Hold up," Em had said, not unkindly. "Stop for a second."
Amias had looked up from his pad, already defensive. His shoulders were tight, neck aching from hunching over lyrics for hours. The studio felt smaller suddenly, just them and the weight of expectation.
"You know what your problem is?" Em had asked, but it wasn't really a question. He'd leaned back in his chair, studying Amias with those eyes that had seen everything the industry could throw at someone.
"What?" The word came out sharper than intended.
"You got musical genius. Real talk." Em's expression was serious, none of the usual edge or humor. "I can tell because you tried emulating my flow and did it. First take, you matched patterns I spent years developing. You try 50's style, you nail it. You hop on trap beats and sound like you were born in Atlanta."
Amias had felt a flicker of pride, but Em wasn't done.
"But—" He'd held up a finger. "I don't want to hear Amias Mars doing an Eminem flow. Or a 50 flow. Or a Travis Scott flow. I want to hear Amias Mars."
"I am being myself—"
"Nah." Em had cut him off, but gently, like correcting a younger brother. "You're being what you think will work. Every song I've heard today, new flow, new approach. Like you're scared if you sound like yourself for more than one track, people will get bored."
The truth of it had stung. Amias had shifted in his seat, suddenly hyperaware of his notebook—pages covered in technical notations, flow patterns mapped out like mathematical equations.
"Let me ask you something," Em had continued, rolling his chair closer. "When you made 'That Guy,' how long did that take?"
"Like... a half an hour? It was just a freestyle."
"Exactly." Em had pointed at him like he'd proven a theorem. "West Coast beat but you didn't force a West Coast flow. You weren't thinking about what Dre would do or what Tupac would do. You were just... expressing. Being creative with your bars instead of technical. That's why that shit hits different."
"But that was just messing around—"
"When's the last time you just messed around?" Em had interrupted. "When's the last time you came to the studio excited instead of obligated?"
Amias hadn't answered because they both knew the truth. The studio had become another box to tick, another requirement to fulfill.
"Look at you right now," Em had gestured around the dimly lit room. "We've been here six hours. When's the last time you smiled? Really smiled, not that industry shit when someone important walks in."
The observation had hit like cold water. When had he last smiled since he came here? Infact… when HAD he last smiled in the studio?
"I got deadlines," Amias had mumbled, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.
"Fuck deadlines." Em's voice had carried decades of hard-won wisdom. "If you're not having fun making music, then whatever you're making isn't for you. It's for some idea of what you think you should be making. And trust me—" His voice had dropped, carrying weight. "That road leads nowhere good. I spent years making music for everyone except myself. You know where that got me? Addicted to pills and wanting to die."
The starkness of the admission had frozen Amias in place.
"Music saved my life," Em had continued. "But only when I stopped trying to be what everyone wanted and started being what I needed to be. Your pain, your truth, your voice—that's what makes you special. Not your ability to sound like everyone else."
A gust of wind brought Amias back to the present, the smoothie glass slippery in his grip. The couple three tables over had stopped arguing, now sitting in that particular silence that meant either resolution or resignation. The businessman had ended his call, scrolling through his phone with the vacant expression of someone who'd forgotten how to stop working.
Amias pulled out his own phone, checking the time. 1:47 AM.
The notifications were relentless. Instagram followers had jumped another ten thousand since dinner. TikTok was blowing up with TikTok Poland remixes. His email showed eighteen unread messages from labels, managers, producers, all wanting a piece of what he was building.
But what was he building, really?
The mixtape had gone to mixing an hour ago. Tracks that he'd crafted with technical precision and emotional absence.
Oh, they were good—he wasn't delusional. The beats knocked, the flows were intricate, the wordplay would have hip-hop heads hitting repeat to catch all the layers. But Em was right. It was all performance, no soul.
He'd rushed it because the System demanded—
No. That wasn't honest. He'd rushed it because he was terrified of sitting still long enough to feel what was really going on inside him. Every moment of stillness brought questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Why he couldn't sing anymore. Why Zara looked at him like he might disappear. Why success felt like drowning. Why he'd come to America and hadn't even tried to find out if his father was still breathing.
The smoothie had separated slightly, layers of fruit and whatever else forming distinct bands in the glass. Like his life—compartmentalized, nothing mixing properly anymore.
His eyes were heavy, that particular weight that came from weeks of four-hour nights. But his mind wouldn't stop spinning. Tomorrow's schedule scrolled through his head unbidden:
7 AM - Wake up (who was he kidding, he probably wouldn't sleep that much)
7:30 AM - Workout (his body would protest every movement)
9 AM - Meeting (smile, negotiate, pretend he wasn't exhausted)
2 PM - Another meeting (discuss strategies and a future contact worth millions)
5 PM - Another meeting (This one might actually be ok)
9 PM - Stream (perform happiness for strangers)
When did he eat in that schedule? When did he breathe?
The pressure in his chest wasn't new anymore. It had become his baseline, that clawed feeling like something trying to escape from inside his ribcage.
What was the point?
The thought arrived uninvited but refused to leave.
What was the point of all this? The money was nice—more than nice, life-changing—but he hadn't had time to enjoy it beyond sending money his mother cried over. The fame was surreal, but it meant he couldn't walk through Tesco without being mobbed. The success was undeniable, but it tasted like ash when you achieved it without joy.
He wanted simple things. His mother's laugh over dinner. Zara curled up beside him watching Netflix while her little brother banged on the door with his toys. Playing FIFA with Oakley, arguing about who got to be PSG. Jordan and Tyler roasting him for missing an open goal. Zel getting excited about a new plugin he'd discovered.
Human things. Things that didn't require optimization or metrics or strategic planning.
But the Legend Maker path demanded sacrifice. Six months to transform from nobody to somebody. Except he'd already become somebody, and it felt like becoming nobody in the process.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it—probably another label exec who'd gotten his number through industry channels. But something made him answer.
"Hello?" His voice was rougher than expected, throat dry despite the smoothie.
"Yo, Amias?" The voice was measured, thoughtful. Familiar in a way that made him sit straighter even though he couldn't immediately place it.
"This is Cole. J. Cole. Pharrell gave me your number."
Earlier that evening, in a home studio in North Carolina with warm wood paneling and pictures of family covering one wall, Cole had been reviewing the session files Monte Booker sent over.
He'd been listening to Amias's verse for the third time when his phone rang. Pharrell's name on the screen was always welcome—they'd known each other long enough that calls meant either good music or good conversation.
"What's good, P?" Cole had answered, pausing the track.
"Yo, Cole. You busy right now?" Pharrell's voice carried an unusual urgency.
"Just working on some mixes. What's up?"
"I need to talk to you about this kid. Amias Mars. You heard of him?"
"The UK kid? Yeah, he just sent a verse for this joint I'm working on. It's fire."
"Listen," Pharrell had said, and Cole could hear him pacing—that restless energy that meant something was weighing on him. "I met with him today. Kid's got unlimited potential. I mean unlimited. But he's about to burn out before he even gets started."
"What you mean?"
"I had a conversation where he told me all about what he's got going on. He's seventeen years old, working like he's trying to fit a lifetime into a few months. Got this mixtape that's incredible technically, but he knows something's missing. Told me he can sing but won't. Some personal shit he wouldn't get into."
Cole had leaned back in his chair, recognizing the pattern. "He running from something."
"Exactly. And running straight into a wall. I've been calling around, talking to my UK people. Everyone says the same thing—kid came out of nowhere, moving like he's got something to prove to God himself."
"Why you telling me this?" Cole had asked, though he suspected the answer.
"Because you get people," Pharrell had said simply. "You see through the bullshit to what's real. And this kid needs someone to see him, not just his potential. He mentioned you're his favorite rapper. Maybe he'll listen to you."
Cole had considered this, looking at the verse on his screen.
"Send me his number," Cole had said finally. "I'll reach out."
"Appreciate you, brother. This kid could be special if he doesn't destroy himself first."
Now, on the phone with Amias, Cole kept his tone casual despite the concern Pharrell had planted.
"Oh word? Yeah, that's crazy. How you doing, man?" Amias's response was measured, trying not to sound starstruck. Cole appreciated that—showed maturity.
"I'm good, good. Kids are finally asleep, wife's watching some show about renovating houses." Cole chuckled. "Finally got some quiet time to catch up on music. Your verse is hard, by the way. Really fits the vibe we're going for."
"Appreciate that." There was genuine warmth in the kid's voice. "Coming from you, that means everything. For real."
"How's your day been? Night, I guess, at this point. Pharrell mentioned you just came from the studio?"
"Yeah, long session." A pause, then honesty: "Probably too long, if I'm being real. But you know how it is. How about you? How the family?"
Cole smiled at the question. Most young artists were so focused on themselves they forgot basic conversation. "Family's blessed, man. My daughter just started trying to rap. Five years old, already telling me my beats are mid."
That got a genuine laugh from Amias, the first unstrained sound Cole had heard.
"That's beautiful, man. Starting the next generation early."
"Facts. But yo, I wanted to chat about more than just the verse. Pharrell mentioned you've been having some... I don't know, complications with everything?"
The silence stretched long enough that Cole wondered if the call had dropped. When Amias spoke, his voice was quieter.
"Yeah... I don't know, man. Things are just really confusing and jumbled right now. Like—" Another pause, searching for words. "You ever feel like you're drowning in your own success?"
"Every day for about three years," Cole answered honestly. "Mind if I share something with you? A story from my early days?"
"Please. I need... something. I don't even know what."
Cole settled deeper into his chair, remembering. "Back when I was starting out—this was the old days, before I really took off—I thought I had it figured out. Had some tracks, little buzz around the city, Roc Nation starting to show interest. But I was partying more than working. Showing up to sessions hungover, if I showed up at all."
"Hard to imagine," Amias said softly.
"Man, I was a mess. My boys called a whole intervention. Like, a real one. Sat me in Jay's living room during a party and just went in on me. 'Cole, what the hell are you doing? You got all this talent and you're wasting it on bullshit.'"
Cole could still picture that night clearly. The disappointment in his friends' faces. The realization that he'd been coasting on potential instead of putting in work.
"Hit me hard because they were right. I had all these opportunities opening up, but I wasn't putting my best foot forward. Wasn't even putting a foot forward, really. Just stumbling along hoping talent would be enough."
"What'd you do?" Amias asked, and Cole could hear the genuine need in the question.
"Flipped everything. Started treating the studio like church. Not just showing up—being present. Sometimes I'd spend days on a single verse. Not because it needed it technically, but because I needed it. Needed to dig deeper, find what I was really trying to say."
"Days?" Amias sounded incredulous. "On one verse?"
"Sometimes weeks. Months, years even, if we're being honest. 'Power Trip' took me almost two months to get right."
"But that's..." Amias trailed off.
"Excessive?" Cole suggested. "Maybe. But here's the thing—the spiral was real in those early days. I was trying to figure out who I was as an artist versus who I thought I should be. That takes time. Can't rush self-discovery."
He heard Amias shift, maybe standing up. The sound quality changed slightly—wind in the background now.
"How long do you usually work on songs now?" Cole asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Usually a day or two. Most I've spent is maybe three days on a track." Amias sounded almost embarrassed. "But that's because—"
"Let me guess," Cole interrupted gently. "Pressure to maintain momentum?"
"I'm releasing my mixtape in a couple weeks. Gotta move quick."
"Damn. That's fast. But let me ask you something—why so quick? What's the rush?"
The question hung between them. Cole could practically hear Amias's mind working.
"It's just how it has to be?" It came out as a question more than a statement.
"According to who?"
More silence. Then: "I guess according to me. But there's reasons—"
"Like what? You got bills that won't wait another month? Label breathing down your neck?"
"No, it's..." Amias struggled. "I have this goal. This thing I have to achieve."
"Which is?"
"I have to get a project in the Billboard top 3."
Cole actually whistled. "Whoa. Wasn't expecting that. That's a hell of a goal. This a label thing? Contract requirement?"
"No, no. It's a personal goal. Like a... promise to myself, I guess?" Even Amias sounded uncertain about his own explanation. "My plan was drop the mixtape for traction, then an album in four months that could hit that mark."
"Four months?" Cole couldn't hide his surprise. "For an album that's supposed to chart top 3? Bro, do you know how much goes into something like that?"
"I know, but—"
"Hold up," Cole said, a thought occurring to him. "You said you need traction. But from what Pharrell was telling me, from what I'm seeing online—you already have traction. Your streaming numbers are stupid for someone who just started. That Poland joint is everywhere."
"Yeah, but—"
"But what?" Cole pressed gently. "You're already viral. Already got industry attention. What more traction you need?"
The silence this time was different. Heavier. Like Amias was really considering the question for the first time.
"I don't know," he finally admitted, voice small.
"Let's back up," Cole said, shifting approaches. "Tell me about this album. Not the business plan—the art. What's your vision? What do you want it to be?"
"I want to build a world." The words came faster now, more passionate. "Create something that grabs you immediately but rewards deep listening. Complex bars about real experiences, things I've lived through. My story, but told in a way that feels universal. I want to pour my soul and heart into—" He cut himself off. "Sorry, that sounds pretentious."
"Nah, that sounds like an artist," Cole corrected. "That sounds like someone who gives a fuck about more than just numbers. How old are you again?"
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen." Cole let that sit for a moment. "Amias, you're seventeen years old. In those seventeen years, you've accumulated experiences, pain, joy, love, loss—all the things that make us human. How you expect to articulate all that complexity in just a few months?"
He heard Amias's breathing change, get shakier.
"I don't know," the kid admitted again, sounding closer to his actual age for the first time in the conversation.
"Are you even in a position mentally and emotionally to access all that right now? To really dig into what you've been through and transform it into art?"
A laugh that was almost a sob. "Not even close. I'm not even content with the mixtape I just sent to mixing."
"And that's not your only challenge," Cole continued, but gently. "You want to build a world, express yourself fully. Can you think of problems in your life you haven't resolved? People you got unfinished business with? Emotions you haven't even let yourself feel yet?"
The dam broke. Cole could hear it in the sudden sharp intake of breath.
"Yeah. Several. My whole life is unresolved shit right now." The words tumbled out. "My best friend looks at me different because she wants something deeper with me. My pops—I'm in America right now and haven't even tried to see if he's still alive. Got a little sister I never met properly. And I can't even—"
He cut himself off, but Cole heard what wasn't said.
"Listen, Amias." Cole made his voice as warm as possible. "You want a top 3 project? That's beautiful. Dream big. But music—real music, the kind that lasts—it's an art form. Too many people treat it like content creation. Make the same shit over and over because it pays. They forget why they started."
"I haven't forgotten," Amias said quickly.
"Haven't you though?" Cole challenged gently. "When's the last time you made music just because you needed to? Not because you had to, but because NOT making it would hurt? Have you even reached to that point? Developed that love?"
Silence.
"If you're just trying to hit goals without loving the process, why do it at all? From what I'm hearing, you built a whole mixtape in record time. That's incredible. But what if—hear me out—what if you took a week off? Maybe two? Just... breathed?"
Silence.
"What's gonna happen? The people gonna forget you exist in two weeks? The labels gonna stop calling?"
Amias didn't answer.
"Take some time. Rest. Then come back to that mixtape with fresh ears. Turn it into an album if it needs to be. Spend two, three months perfecting it. Make it something you're proud of instead of something you finished. Then when you're ready—really ready—make that world-building album you're talking about."
"That would push a lot of things back," Amias said weakly.
"Push what back? Some arbitrary deadline you set for yourself? Bro, you're seventeen. You got time."
Another long silence. Then, voice thick with emotion:
"Cole, you probably just changed my entire career with this advice."
"It's all love, man. We've all been where you are. The pressure, the expectations—it'll eat you alive if you let it." Cole paused, then decided to add: "Actually, speaking of—I didn't want to spring this on you, but we're planning to shoot 'The Jackie' video in a couple weeks."
"Oh word?"
"Yeah, and we're doing it in Texas. Austin area. Got RDC coming through—you know them?"
"Yeah, of course." There was something new in Amias's voice. Not quite fear, but close.
"You down to come through? I know it might bring up some things, being back there."
Cole didn't know the full story, but he could guess. Kid from Texas, raised in London, father issues—the math wasn't hard.
"I'm down," Amias said after a moment. "Just let me know when."
"Perfect. I'll have my people send the details. And Amias?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember what we talked about. The music will always be there. Make sure you are too."
"I will. And Cole? Thank you. Really. This conversation... I needed it more than you know."
"Anytime, bro. Save my number. Hit me whenever. And take care of yourself. For real."
"I will. Have a good night. Tell your daughter her dad's beats aren't mid."
Cole laughed. "I'll pass it along. Peace, brother."
The call ended, leaving Amias alone with the city lights and the weight of everything unsaid. He stood at the balcony railing now, phone gripped tight in one hand, the other wiping at his face.
The tears had come without warning, like his body had been waiting for permission to feel. Everything Cole had mentioned—the unresolved problems, the people he'd been avoiding, the emotions he'd been numbing with work—it all rose up at once.
His father. Somewhere in Texas, maybe still breathing, maybe not. The man who'd beaten the song out of him, who'd made him afraid of his own voice. Did he want to see him? Did it matter?
His sister. Eight years old now, probably. A stranger who shared his blood. Did she know she had a brother? Did she wonder why he'd never come back?
Zara. Always Zara. The person who'd seen him become someone capable of violence that she so hated, yet accepted him all the same. His first friend he'd made in England, someone who always had a unique interest in him that she had for no one else. As did he for her.
He looked down at his phone screen. Her contact photo smiled back—taken months ago, before everything changed. Before the System, before the music, before Apannii and the weight of taking a life.
They'd been dancing around each other for days. Distant. Polite. Emotional. A complex world of emotions and everything they'd never been with each other.
His thumb hovered over her name. So much to say. So much to figure out. But first, he needed to stop running from himself. From them. From whatever this was between them that felt too big and too fragile to name.
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For those who aren't in discord, chapter 71 is the ending.