The Starbucks cup was still warm in Amias's hand as Anthony navigated through Manhattan traffic, the afternoon sun cutting between buildings in sharp slices. Adrian sat beside him, scrolling through his phone with one hand while balancing his own coffee—some complicated order with too many words that the barista had to ask him to repeat twice.
"So," Adrian said, not looking up from his screen, "Amias Mars."
"That's my name."
"You just sold twenty-five percent of LinkUp for eighteen point seven five million."
The number hung in the air between them. Amias took a sip of his tea—nothing fancy—and let it settle in his chest alongside the caffeine.
"That's just on paper," he said finally.
"Paper that will become very real money very soon." Adrian finally looked at him, expression unreadable behind his glasses. "You realize what this means?"
Amias did the math quickly. His stake in LinkUp, the house in Surrey that had materialized from the System's reward, the earnings from his music, the upcoming Red Bull deal... The number that came up made his throat tight.
Over a hundred million. At seventeen.
His phone buzzed, interrupting the thought. Unknown UK number. He almost ignored it—probably another label trying to reach him—but something made him answer.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Mars? This is Catherine Whitfield from Whitfield & Associates. I'm calling regarding your Weybridge property."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. Amias turned slightly toward the window.
"Right, yes. The Surrey house."
"Congratulations again on the acquisition! Such a stunning property. We've prepared all the documentation as requested, and we're ready for the viewing whenever you return to the UK."
"I'll be back in about a week and a half," Amias said, very aware of Adrian's stare boring into the side of his head.
"Perfect! We'll coordinate with your schedule. The current owners have already vacated, so we'll have complete privacy for the tour. The grounds are particularly spectacular this time of year—the Japanese garden is just beginning to show early spring growth."
"Japanese garden?"
"Oh yes! Did I not mention? The eastern section of the grounds features a traditional Japanese garden with a koi pond. The previous owners spent nearly a million on the landscaping alone."
Of course they did. "Sounds... extensive."
"It's truly one of the finest properties in Surrey. You have exquisite taste, Mr. Mars."
I had nothing to do with it, he thought but said, "Thank you. I'll confirm the exact date once my schedule's clear."
"Wonderful. We'll be in touch. Congratulations again!"
He hung up to find Adrian staring at him openly now.
"Your new house?" Adrian asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah."
"In Surrey."
"Yep."
"The one you just... bought. Recently."
"That's the one."
Adrian opened his mouth, closed it, then took a very deliberate sip of his coffee. "You know what? I don't want to know."
"Probably for the best."
"Though I will need the details for tax purposes."
"I'll send them over."
"The details of your mysterious Surrey house that you apparently bought without mentioning it to your accountant."
"That's the one."
Adrian shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "You're going to give me gray hair."
"You already have gray hair."
"I'm going to get more gray hair."
They pulled up to the hotel—another gleaming tower, but this one with Red Bull branding subtle but visible in the lobby design. The energy drink company had a way of making their presence known without being garish about it.
"Penthouse conference room," Anthony said, pulling into the valet lane. "They're expecting you."
"Thanks." Amias grabbed his coffee, then paused. "Actually, you want to grab lunch somewhere? This might take a while."
"I'll be around," Anthony assured him. "Got a cousin who works near here. Been meaning to catch up."
The hotel lobby was all modern angles and hidden lighting, the kind of design that whispered money rather than shouting it. The elevator attendant—because of course there was an elevator attendant—pressed the penthouse button without being asked.
"Mr. Richter's guests?" he inquired politely.
"That's us."
"They're waiting for you. Straight ahead when you exit."
The elevator rose smoothly, Adrian checking his phone again while Amias tried to center himself. The Spotify meeting had been about partnership, collaboration. This felt different already—more like a courtship.
The penthouse level opened to a private foyer with only one door. Before they could knock, it opened to reveal Stefan Richter himself, looking relaxed in a way that probably took significant effort to achieve.
"Amias! Adrian! Perfect timing." His handshake was warm, genuine. "Come in, come in. We've got lunch ready—nothing too heavy, I know you have more meetings today."
The space beyond was impressive without trying too hard. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan spread out like a map, comfortable seating areas mixed with subtle Red Bull branding, and a dining area where several people were already gathered.
"Let me introduce everyone," Stefan said, guiding them forward. "This is Marcus Webb, our Head of Cultural Marketing—he handles all our music partnerships. Emma Chen, Global Events Director. And Thomas Kraus, our Chief Marketing Officer, who flew in from Austria just for this."
More handshakes, everyone studying Amias with that particular intensity of people whose jobs depended on identifying the next big thing.
"Please, sit," Stefan gestured to the table where an impressive spread was laid out. "We believe in feeding our partners properly. None of this PowerPoint-and-stale-sandwiches business."
Amias found himself between Stefan and Marcus, Adrian across from him next to Emma. The food was good—some kind of deconstructed club sandwich that managed to be both fancy and actually edible.
"So," Marcus said after they'd had a few minutes to settle in, "we've been watching your numbers since yesterday. The growth is..." He shook his head, smiling. "Honestly, it's making our analytics team question their models."
"In a good way, I hope," Amias said.
"In the best way. Show him, Emma."
Emma pulled out a tablet, sliding it across to Amias. The screen showed his social media metrics in real-time.
"Instagram at 270,000 as of an hour ago," she said. "Your TikTok is at 340,000. Twitter just crossed 100,000."
"It feels like you're running away from us already," Stefan said with a laugh. "We make an offer yesterday, and you go and triple your following."
"I'll try to slow down," Amias said dryly, getting chuckles around the table.
"Please don't," Thomas spoke for the first time, his Austrian accent thicker than Stefan's. "This kind of organic growth is exactly what we look for. It can't be manufactured."
"Though we'd love to know the secret," Emma added. "What made you create 'Poland'? It's so... unexpected."
Amias thought about how to explain it. The truth—that he'd been joking around with friends about not being able to bring weed on planes—probably wasn't the corporate-friendly answer.
"Sometimes the best things come from just... playing," he said finally. "Not overthinking, not strategizing. Just being in the studio with people you trust and seeing what happens."
"That's what's missing from so much music now," Marcus said, leaning forward. "Everything's so calculated. Focus-grouped. Your stuff feels... human."
"Because I am human," Amias said. "Still figuring things out like everyone else."
"A human who just charted six songs in the UK and three on Billboard," Stefan pointed out. "Speaking of which—congratulations. The new positions this morning were impressive."
"Poland at 86 in the US," Thomas said, clearly having memorized the numbers. "Redemption at 90. That Guy at 89. And in the UK—number 4 is incredible for an independent release."
"For any release," Emma corrected. "Most major label artists would kill for those numbers."
"But you're not signed to a major," Stefan said, watching Amias carefully. "By choice, we assume?"
"Very much by choice."
"Good." Stefan smiled. "We prefer our artists independent. More flexibility, more authenticity. Which brings us to why we're here."
The energy at the table shifted subtly. Lunch was over; business was beginning.
"Before we dive into details," Stefan continued, "I'm curious about your background. We know the music story, but I did want to know why you were a competitive swimmer?"
Amias felt his shoulders tense slightly. "Yeah."
"Regional champion for London," Marcus said. "Would have been national champion if not for a technical DQ that several coaches protested."
"It's very impressive," Emma said. "Red Bull started with extreme sports, athletics. We understand that mindset—the discipline, the drive. What made you choose music over swimming?"
My father throwing me in a lake and telling me to swim or die probably had something to do with it, Amias thought but said, "Swimming was something I did because I was good at it. Music is something I do because I can to."
"Because you can?" Thomas prompted.
"Like exercise," Amias said simply. "I can go without it, but it's good for me to do."
Something passed between the Red Bull executives—a look that said they'd heard what they needed to hear.
"Tell us about your mixtape," Stefan said, changing tacks. "We heard it's nearly finished?"
"Was nearly finished," Amias corrected. "I'm actually thinking of taking more time, expanding it into an album."
"Smart," Marcus said immediately. "Mixtapes are great for building buzz, but albums build legacies."
"What made you change your mind?" Emma asked.
Amias thought about Cole's call, about sustainable success versus burning bright and fast. "Someone reminded me that good things take time. That rushing to meet arbitrary deadlines doesn't serve the art."
"J. Cole," Stefan said, surprising him. "He called you recently, yes?"
Amias kept his expression neutral, but was Stefan Jesus? How was he even aware of that. "You're very well-informed."
"We pay attention to our potential partners," Stefan said with a slight smile. "And Cole is known for his mentorship. Good advice?"
"The best."
"Well then," Stefan said, setting down his water glass with deliberate care. "Let's talk about how Red Bull can support this album. And everything else you're building."
He nodded to Marcus, who pulled out a folder—physical paper, not digital, which somehow made it feel more serious.
"We've revised our initial offer based on your trajectory," Stefan began. "Three-year initial term with a one-year extension option. We want to be confident in the partnership, but also give you flexibility."
"The signing bonus is now 300,000 pounds," Thomas added. "Annual base of 600,000. But honestly, those numbers are just the foundation."
"It's the other components where things get interesting," Marcus said, opening the folder. "First, Red Bull Records would sign you, but we'd only take five percent of your mastering royalties. That's it. You maintain ownership of your publishing, full creative control."
"Five percent?" Adrian spoke for the first time, his accountant instincts activated. "That's... unusually low."
"We're not trying to be a traditional label," Emma explained. "We're trying to be a platform. Your success is our success—we don't need to own it."
"Merchandise is where we see significant opportunity," Stefan continued. "Any products we create together—clothing lines, limited editions, collaborative pieces—we split ninety ten. Ninety to us, ten to you."
"After expenses?" Adrian asked.
"Net profit," Thomas confirmed. "Clean split. And given Red Bull's distribution network, we're talking potential millions in revenue."
"What kind of commitments are you looking for?" Amias asked, already calculating time requirements.
"Flexible, but substantial," Stefan said honestly. "Performances at Red Bull events—festivals, sporting events, cultural moments. Content creation—behind the scenes, studio sessions, the authentic moments your fans crave. Promotional appearances, but always aligned with your artistic vision."
"How many events annually?" Adrian pressed.
"Minimum twelve, maximum twenty-four," Emma said. "But here's the key—you have approval rights. We propose, you dispose. Nothing mandatory except the minimums."
"And tours?" Amias asked.
"This is where it gets exciting," Marcus leaned forward. "Red Bull has infrastructure in 171 countries. Venues, promotion, local partnerships. We can put you in front of audiences that most artists can't reach for years."
"The financial model for tours?" Adrian had his phone out, ready to calculate.
"We provide initial funding—production, travel, crew. Profits split seventy-thirty in your favor after recoup," Thomas said. "But the real money is in the bonuses."
Stefan smiled. "This is where we think differently. Every fan you bring to Red Bull—through concerts, content, mere association—has lifetime value to us. So we reward that."
He slid a sheet across the table. The numbers made Adrian's eyebrows rise.
"If you sell out a 30,000-capacity venue at a Red Bull-sponsored event, that's a 350,000 pound bonus," Stefan explained. "Sell a million units of collaborative merchandise in a year? Another 450,000, two million would be 900,000 and so forth . Your content drives a measurable increase in Red Bull engagement among your demographic? We're talking seven figures this year alone."
"These numbers..." Adrian said slowly.
"Are based on conservative projections," Thomas finished. "If you maintain your current growth rate, the annual bonuses could exceed two million pounds. Easily."
"And if I don't?" Amias asked, keeping his voice level.
"Then you still have your base compensation, your music income, and the most powerful marketing machine in youth culture behind you," Stefan said simply. "We're not betting on your numbers, Amias. We're betting on you."
The room fell quiet for a moment. Outside, Manhattan continued its relentless pace, but in the penthouse, time seemed to pause.
"What about creative freedom?" Amias asked finally.
"Complete," Marcus said immediately. "We might ask you to hold a Red Bull can in a photo. We won't ask you to change your sound, your message, or your art."
"Other artists you've worked with?"
"We're selective," Emma admitted. "In music, we've partnered with Blast, Miss Red, various DJs and electronic artists. But you'd be our flagship hip-hop artist. The face of Red Bull music culture."
"No pressure," Amias said with a slight smile.
"All the pressure," Stefan corrected, but he was smiling too. "But pressure you're clearly built for. Olympic athletes know pressure. Regional swimming champions who should have been national champions know pressure."
"Chart-topping teenagers know pressure," Thomas added.
"The question is," Stefan said, leaning back slightly, "do you want a partner in handling that pressure? Or do you want to go it alone?"
Amias looked around the table—at these executives who'd flown in from different continents to meet him, who'd done their homework not just on his numbers but on his story, who were offering not just money but infrastructure and belief.
"One question," he said. "Why now? Why not wait to see if I can sustain this?"
Stefan exchanged glances with his team, then leaned forward.
"Because in six months, you won't need us," he said simply. "Your trajectory is clear. By summer, every brand in the world will be at your door. Right now, we can be partners. Later, we'd just be another sponsor."
"That's... refreshingly honest."
"Germans," Stefan said with a shrug. "We have a reputation to maintain."
"So?" Emma asked after a moment. "What do you think?"
Amias looked at Adrian, who gave the slightest nod—his way of saying the numbers worked.
"I think," Amias said slowly, "we have a deal."
Stefan's smile was brilliant as he extended his hand across the table. "Welcome to the Red Bull family, Amias Mars."
The handshake felt like a circuit completing—another piece of the machine he was building clicking into place. Around the table, everyone was standing, more handshakes, congratulations, someone pouring champagne even though it was barely 3 PM.
"To disruption," Stefan said, raising his glass.
"To partnership," Amias countered.
"To making the impossible look easy," Marcus added.
They drank, the champagne bright and sharp on Amias's tongue. Outside, the sun was starting its descent toward the Hudson, painting the city in shades of gold and amber.
"We'll have contracts ready within 48 hours," Thomas was saying to Adrian. "Full review period, of course."
"We'll want to announce strategically," Emma added. "Maybe in time for one of your streams? Maximum impact."
"Whatever works," Amias said, still processing. In the span of four hours, he'd secured Spotify's backing and Red Bull's resources. The kid from London who'd been selling weed now had two of the world's most powerful companies betting on his future.
His phone buzzed. A text from Zara: How's it going? Need me to come rescue you from corporate speak?
He typed back: All good. Tell you everything tonight.
"One more thing," Stefan said as they prepared to leave. "Tomorrow night, there's an event. Nothing huge—intimate concert, few hundred people. Good chance to network, meet some other Red Bull artists. You interested?"
"The conference too," Amias remembered. "Daniel invited me."
"Perfect. Do the conference during the day, party at night." Stefan winked. "Welcome to the circuit, Amias. Try not to burn out."
But the way he said it suggested he knew Amias was built for this pace—swimming champion discipline applied to music industry chaos.
As they rode the elevator down, Adrian was uncharacteristically quiet until they reached the lobby.
"You know what you just did?" he asked finally.
"Made some deals?"
"You just positioned yourself as the future of the music industry." Adrian shook his head. "Spotify's data, Red Bull's reach, your talent... The labels won't know what hit them."
Outside, Anthony was already waiting, engine running.
"Good meeting?" he asked as they climbed in.
"Productive," Amias said, understatement of the year.
As they pulled into traffic, Amias let himself feel the weight of the day. Two partnerships that would change everything. A house in Surrey he'd never seen. Charts climbing faster than physics should allow.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Cole: Heard about the Billboard positions. Proud of you, young king. Remember what we talked about.
Amias smiled, typing back: Taking your advice. Slowing down to speed up.
Good. The music will wait for you. Make something worth waiting for.
Outside the window, Manhattan blurred past—the city that had given him so much in just a few days.
Seventeen years old (almost eighteen, he reminded himself), worth over a hundred million, with the music industry's future in his hands.
Not bad for a Tuesday afternoon.