The rented Mercedes Sprinter cut through Manhattan traffic like Larry had been doing this his whole life, which he probably had. The digital clock read 6:17 PM, and the city was shifting from business mode to whatever chaos mode New York evenings brought.
"Anthony's picking up his kids right about now," Amias said, adjusting his seatbelt. He'd sent his usual driver home early—the man had a family, violin recitals, actual human responsibilities beyond driving a seventeen-year-old rapper around Manhattan.
"Adrian too." Zara added.
"Seventeen thousand," Lexus announced, holding the streaming phone steady despite Larry taking a turn that definitely violated several traffic laws. "Chat's asking where we're headed next."
Amias quickly checked his Legend Maker progress mentally:
THE LEGEND REQUIREMENTS:
Place a project in the Billboard Top 3 ❌
Chart a solo track in Billboard Hot 100 Top 20 ❌
90+ in One Music Stat ❌
80+ in All Core Music Stats ❌
Maintain streaming numbers 300% above industry average ✅ (Maintaining)
Establish own record label with legal documentation ✅ (Complete)
Negotiate and secure distribution deal ⚙️ (In Progress)
Create visual that exceeds 15 million views ❌
Receive recognition from three industry icons ✅ (1/3 - Dave Tweet)
Headline venue with minimum 15,000 capacity ❌
Stats:
Lyrical Composition: 87/100
Flow Control: 72/100
Rhythm Recognition: 72/100
Music Theory: 83/100
Stage Presence: 70/100
Freestyle Ability: 79/100
Melodic Perception: 70/100
Vocal Projection: 81/100
Beat Production: 69/100
Sound Engineering: 61/100
The singing sessions with Zara had definitely helped the rhythm and melodic perception. Still needed that 90+ in one stat though.
"Cole Bennett," he told the stream. "About a video."
The chat exploded:
MTN_Soldier: COLE BENNETT COLLAB INCOMING
God Of War: bro bout to get a Lyrical Lemonade video
ViciousKing: this man's rise is actually insane
RandomMTN: GDP bout to go viral
"Chat's going mental," Jordan observed, reading over Lexus's shoulder. "Someone said you're about to become a Lyrical Lemonade legend."
The building appeared ahead—industrial chic, the kind of place that screamed "important creative decisions happen here." Larry pulled up smooth as butter.
Inside, Cole Bennett was waiting, and seeing him in person still felt surreal. The man behind videos that had shaped a generation, just standing there in jeans and a hoodie like he wasn't basically hip-hop royalty.
"Amias!" Cole's handshake was firm. "Perfect timing, man."
"Appreciate you making time," Amias replied, gesturing to his crew. "This is everybody."
Cole introduced his team—Dane with the camera, Zoe handling creative direction, Tommy who apparently prevented Cole from forgetting to exist.
"What's good, chat?" Cole said, waving at Lexus's camera.
KidE1: COLE KNOWS ABOUT THE STREAM
Mek: this collab bout to break the internet
TeeWizHQ: 18k viewers now holy shit
They spent thirty minutes walking through the GDP treatment—When Oakley would be arriving, Los Angeles locations, lighting setups, performance shots that would make every frame look cinematic. The kind of professional conversation that made Amias feel like he'd leveled up just by being in the room.
"The hook needs something special though," Zoe said. "That 'GDP and USD' line hits different—we need visuals that amplify it."
"I trust your vision," Amias said honestly. "You've been doing this longer than I've been making music."
"Speaking of which," Cole's eyes suddenly lit up with that particular brand of creative inspiration that meant someone was about to suggest something either brilliant or insane, "this Poland track is going absolutely viral. Have you seen the numbers?"
Amias Knew. Kids dancing to it, comedians making parodies, even some cooking show about taking actual woks to Poland. It was popular in no uncertain terms.
"It's actually insane," Amias admitted.
"We should do a video for it," Cole said suddenly. "Like, today. Right now."
The room went quiet for exactly three seconds.
"Yo, we in New York though," Jordan pointed out. "Not Poland."
"True," Cole mused, already getting that look that meant the creative wheels were spinning, "but New York's got everything..."
"Wait," Amias said, creativity sparking. "We're definitely not in Poland, but we got subway stations here. What if we just... go guerrilla style?"
"Move fast, don't ask permission?" Tommy suggested.
"Let's do it," Amias decided. "Chat, y'all want to see us make a music video right now?"
The response was immediate:
YESSSSSSSS
DO IT DO IT DO IT
Within fifteen minutes, they'd assembled chaos. Amias changed into a backup fit, from a bag filled of backup fits—bright yellow jacket that somehow looked both expensive and street-ready, beanie to contain his braids, baggy jeans that actually fit right.
"First problem," Marcus said as they loaded into vehicles. "We need a Polish flag."
"How hard can that be in Manhattan?" Zara asked.
—
"Poland?" The teenage employee at the Times Square novelty store stared at them like they'd requested weapons-grade uranium. "Like... the country Poland?"
"Yeah, Poland," Jordan confirmed patiently. "Red and white flag? European country?"
The kid chewed his gum with the enthusiasm of someone whose shift couldn't end fast enough. "We got Poland Spring water bottles?"
Amias stared at him. "That's... not the same thing."
"We don't got country flags, man. We got 'I Heart NY' shirts."
"That's not helpful."
"It's five dollars though."
Everyone just stared at him.
"We'll pass," Amias said finally.
Outside, Zel was the first to break. "A flag store that doesn't sell flags. In New York City."
"This is already going terrible," Cole laughed, checking his camera battery.
—
Second stop: A sporting goods store where the manager listened to their increasingly desperate explanation with growing amusement.
"So let me understand this," she said slowly. "You're making a music video about taking cough syrup to Poland, and you need an actual Polish flag today?"
"In the next hour, ideally," Cole added helpfully.
She smiled with the patience of someone who'd heard stranger requests. "Honey, I sell sneakers and protein powder. You want flags, try the internet."
"The internet takes time," Amias explained.
"Then try prayer."
Jordan deadpanned at the camera. "At this point I'm questioning if Poland is even a real place."
—
Third stop: Some random import store in the Village that Google claimed sold international items. The owner, a middle-aged woman with paint under her fingernails, listened to their story while reorganizing what appeared to be handmade pottery.
"Polish flag?" she repeated. "For a music video?"
"About taking Wockhardt to Poland," Amias clarified, not sure why that detail felt important.
"What's Wockhardt?"
"Cough syrup."
"Why would you take cough syrup to Poland?"
Amias paused. "That's... actually a really good question."
She stared at him for a long moment. "I sell pottery and wind chimes. Try a flag store."
"We tried the flag store!"
"Try a different flag store."
"How many flag stores does one city need?" Zel asked nobody in particular.
—
By the fourth stop, they'd started asking random pedestrians. Cole approached a businessman walking past with that particular New York pace that suggested he had somewhere important to be.
"Excuse me, do you know where we could find a Polish flag?"
The man didn't even slow down. "Try Amazon."
"We need it today!"
"Try Amazon Prime!"
"But we need it right now!"
The man turned around, walking backwards now. "Try Amazon Same-Day Delivery!"
"Do they even deliver flags?"
"How the hell should I know? Do I look like Jeff Bezos to you?"
Amias was starting to understand why New Yorkers had a reputation.
—
That's when they spotted him.
An elderly man walking down the sidewalk, moving with the careful deliberation of someone who'd seen seven decades worth of nonsense. And in his weathered hand, attached to a small wooden stick, was a Polish flag.
"No fucking way," Zel breathed.
"I'm asking," Amias decided, already jogging toward the man.
"Sir! Excuse me, sir!"
The man turned, revealing a face that had clearly survived things most people only read about in history books. His eyes moved from Amias to the cameras to the rest of the crew with increasing suspicion.
"Yes?" Heavy accent, but clear English.
"Hi, sorry to bother you, but we're making a music video and we've been looking everywhere for a Polish flag—"
The man's face immediately darkened. "Music video about what?"
Oh. "It's called Poland. The song."
"You make fun of Poland?" His grip tightened on the flag stick.
"No, no, no," Amias said quickly. "It's not making fun of anything. Here, let me play it—"
He pulled out his phone, but the man stepped back, flag raised defensively.
"You are Russian spies?" he demanded, eyes wild. "KGB? You come for Stanisław?"
"What? No, we're—"
"I FIGHT YOU!" the old man suddenly shouted, swinging the flag stick like a weapon. "I FIGHT KGB BASTARDS!"
"Sir, we're not—"
"RUN! EVERYONE RUN!" Stanisław screamed, apparently deciding fight was less preferable than flight. He took off down the sidewalk with surprising speed for his age, still waving the flag.
"Should we—" Cole started.
"We're chasing him," Amias decided.
"Oh, I'm getting this," Lexus said, running while trying to keep the shot steady.
So there they were: a American-British musician, a legendary music video director, and assorted crew members chasing a seventy-year-old Polish man through Manhattan while he screamed about the KGB.
"HELP! RUSSIAN SPIES!" Stanisław yelled at passing pedestrians, most of whom just stepped aside like this was normal Tuesday behavior.
"Sir, we just need the flag!" Amias called out, gaining ground.
"NO FLAG FOR COMMUNISTS!"
A woman walking her dog actually stopped to watch the chase. "You guys filming something?"
"Music video!" Cole shouted without breaking stride.
"Cool! Can I be in it?"
"Sure! Follow us!"
Now they had a parade: Stanisław fleeing in terror, Amias and crew in pursuit, and a random New Yorker with a tiny dog bringing up the rear.
Stanisław ducked into a corner store, still clutching his flag. Through the window, they could see him gesticulating wildly at the clerk, pointing outside.
"Maybe we should—" Zara started.
A car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and "That Guy" started blasting from the speakers.
"YO! AMIAS "
The driver was maybe twenty-five, Yankees cap, huge grin. And waving out his window was a Polish flag.
"Are you serious right now?" Amias laughed.
"BRO! I was the one who threw this to you at your show yesterday!"
"No way! Yo, can we borrow that flag?"
"You can have it! I was saving it for my apartment but this is better!"
The timing was so perfect it felt scripted. Amias grabbed the flag and immediately took off running down the street, purely from the adrenaline of the moment.
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" he shouted back.
"MIKE! STREAM WHAT'S GOOD! @MIKEFROMQUEENS ON EVERYTHING!"
Lexus was sprinting behind him, camera bouncing wildly, trying to capture Amias running through Manhattan traffic with a Polish flag streaming behind him like some kind of revolutionary.
"YO AMIAS!" someone shouted from a building window.
"THAT'S AMIAS!" came from a group on the corner.
"POLAND!" a kid yelled, doing the dance he'd apparently learned from TikTok.
By the time they regrouped, Amias was breathing hard but grinning. "Did we just—"
"We just chased an old man through Manhattan and got saved by a fan," Cole confirmed. "That's definitely going in the video."
The chat was absolute chaos:
LMAOOOOOOOOO
Hyuga_Tobirama: WWWWW
MTN_MAYHEM: BRO REALLY CHASED A SENIOR CITIZEN
VIALING: THIS IS THE BEST STREAM EVER
MIKEFROMQUEENS: YO THATS ME CHAT
LebronJamesJames: COLE'S FACE DURING THE CHASE
Ninja23: I CANT BREATHE
"Alright," Cole said, still catching his breath. "Now we make a music video."
What followed was the most chaotic hour of guerrilla filmmaking in Manhattan history.
They started at the subway entrance, Amias lip-syncing while walking down the steps, yellow jacket popping against the grimy tiles. The first thing that hit him was the smell—that particular New York subway blend of humanity, cleaning products, and something unidentifiable but definitely organic.
"This is mental," he said between takes. "I've never been in a New York subway before."
"You're about to get the full experience," Larry warned.
They were setting up for another shot when Amias heard squeaking from the tracks. He looked down to see a rat the size of a small cat dragging what appeared to be half a pigeon.
"What the hell," Amias said, staring.
"Welcome to New York," Mitch commented dryly.
"That rat is eating a whole bird."
"Circle of life."
"That's not circle of life, that's post-apocalyptic nightmare."
"Same thing down here."
The train arrived with a screech that probably violated noise ordinances. They jumped on, Cole filming while trying to look like a regular passenger. Amias lip-synced in the corner while other passengers stared, some recognizing him, others just confused about why someone was singing into cameras on the downtown 6 train.
"Yo, is that Amias Mars?" a teenager asked her friend.
"I think so. Should we ask for a picture?"
"He's working."
"So?"
An older man in a business suit looked up from his phone. "Could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to read."
Amias just smiled and kept mouthing the words to Poland while Cole filmed from three different angles. New York truly didn't give a damn about anything.
They got off at Union Square, running up the stairs while Cole filmed from behind. They spent twenty minutes getting shots of Amias jumping over subway railings, dancing with Jordan in an empty alcove, walking through the crowds with the Polish flag draped over his shoulders.
"YOOO, THAT'S AMIAS!" someone shouted from across the square.
"DO THE POLAND DANCE!" a group of kids demanded.
So naturally, Amias and Jordan did their improvised choreography right there in Union Square—hands together, one foot up, slide down, opposite feet, like they'd been practicing it for years instead of making it up five minutes ago.
The crowd that gathered started doing it too. Within minutes, there were maybe thirty people doing the dance in the middle of Manhattan while Cole filmed everything.
"This is actually insane," Zara said, watching the chaos unfold.
"Twenty-three thousand viewers," Lexus reported. "Chat's going mental."
FLASH MOB IN UNION SQUARE
THIS IS LEGENDARY
BEST STREAM OF ALL TIME
A security guard approached, looking tired. "You guys got permits for this?"
"We're just... dancing?" Amias offered.
"With professional cameras?"
"Tourist cameras?"
The guard stared at them for a long moment, then shrugged. "Just don't block foot traffic."
"New York's wild," Jordan laughed as they moved to their next location.
They shot Amias climbing over railings in Washington Square Park, walking through crowds in SoHo, lip-syncing while leaning against brick walls that probably belonged in a museum. Every few blocks, someone recognized him.
"YO AMIAS!"
"THAT'S THE POLAND GUY!"
"CAN WE GET A PICTURE?"
"LOVE YOUR MUSIC BRO!"
By the time the sun started setting, they had enough footage for three videos. The guerrilla approach had captured something special—the energy of the city, the spontaneity of the moment, the pure chaos of trying to make art in real time.
"That's going to be incredible," Cole said, reviewing the footage as they walked. "Like, genuinely special. Raw in all the right ways."
They found themselves in SoHo at a restaurant with outdoor seating, string lights making everything feel warm despite the February chill. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving everyone simultaneously exhausted and energized.
They'd ordered from multiple food trucks—Thai noodles, New York pizza, some kind of fusion sandwich that probably cost too much but looked incredible. The perfect end to a perfectly chaotic day.
"I can't believe we actually did that," Zara said, stealing one of Amias's fries.
"I can't believe it worked," Cole replied, still going through footage.
"I can't believe that old man thought we were Russian spies," Zel added.
"I can't believe that rat was eating a pigeon," Amias said.
Everyone went quiet for a moment.
"Different city, different energy," Mitch observed.
"Different rats," Jordan added.
They were halfway through their food when it happened.
"YO, AMIAS!"
A young guy came sprinting toward their table like his life depended on it, phone clutched in his hand, practically vibrating with excitement. He looked maybe nineteen, wearing a hoodie that had definitely seen better days.
Larry immediately shifted, hand moving instinctively, but the kid's energy was pure fan enthusiasm, not threat.
"OH MAN, OH MAN, I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" the guy was shouting as he approached, drawing stares from other diners. "I was just walking to my boy's place and I saw you sitting here and I'm like, that's really him!"
"What's good, man," Amias replied, trying to read the situation.
"Bro, I been following you since the GRM Daily thing dropped! That freestyle was crazy! And Poland—man, that song got me through my breakup, no cap!"
"Sure. What's your name?"
"I'm Anthony—wait, no, that's your driver's name probably—I'm Alex. But everybody calls me Lex, but not like your camera guy, different Lex—"
The introduction was charmingly chaotic. Amias found himself smiling despite the interruption.
"You want an autograph or something?"
"Nah, nah," Alex said quickly, then immediately contradicted himself. "Well, yeah, but actually—" He paused, suddenly looking nervous. "Could you maybe listen to my music?"
The entire table froze.
Cole's sandwich stopped halfway to his mouth.
Zara's drink hung suspended in air.
Jordan's mouth fell slightly open.
Zel just stared.
Even the people at nearby tables seemed to sense something was about to happen.
The silence stretched for what felt like seventeen years.
The stream chat immediately exploded:
HELL NAAAAH
LLLLL
HERE WE GO
WHY THEY ALWAYS DO THIS
THIS BOUT TO BE PAINFUL
NONONONONONONONO
LLLLL
AMIAS LOOK AT CHAT
OH NO OH NO OH NO
"Your music?" Amias repeated slowly, like he was translating a foreign language.
"Yeah man, I make music too! I'm probably most similar to... you know Quavo?"
Amias frowned, genuinely confused. "Quavo? Who's that?"
Cole nearly choked on his sandwich. "You don't know who Quavo is?"
"Migos, bro," Jordan added helpfully.
"Oh, I know Migos," Amias said, genuinly he had no clue who that was. "Is Quavo new or something?"
"Nah man," Alex laughed, apparently missing the growing tension at the table. "He's been around for years. But anyway, my style is like his but with my own twist, you feel me?"
Before anyone could respond, Alex had his phone out, finger hovering over the play button like he was about to launch a nuclear weapon.
"This is my newest joint," he announced with the confidence of someone who'd never experienced genuine feedback.
Everyone braced for impact.
What emerged from the phone was... an experience.
The beat wasn't terrible—generic, sure, but functional. Then Alex's voice came in, completely off-tempo, like he'd recorded vocals to a completely different song and just hoped for the best.
"Smell it, taste it, give 'em cheese!" he rapped with tremendous enthusiasm. "I be cooking up that cheddar, make it rain with ease!"
Amias stared straight ahead, expression carefully neutral while his brain tried to process what was happening. Around the table, everyone was doing the same—that particular brand of polite suffering that came from being trapped in social quicksand.
The song continued relentlessly. Something about "making it rain cheddar" and "my flow so cold it's frozen pizza." The hook involved giving people cheese, which Alex delivered with the passion of someone announcing the cure for cancer.
The stream chat was absolute pandemonium:
LLLLLLL
JMR: YOOOOO THIS IS DEAD TRASH
VIS: someone save us plz
MARQ: LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Chaoticlaws: THIS THE PIZZA HUT ANTHEM
RM+MTN: Bro really said give em cheese
MIKEFROMQUEENS: YOOO THIS IS BAD BAD
Tae2Smooth: I'M CRYING
Cole was studying his sandwich with the intensity of someone trying to solve quantum physics.
Zara had pulled out her phone and was typing furiously.
Jordan was biting his lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.
Amias snuck a glance at the chat and saw someone had typed "this pizza hut anthem" and he completely broke.
The laughter started as a small chuckle, then became a full laugh, then turned into the kind of uncontrollable laughter that made your stomach hurt. Once he started, everyone else cracked. Cole doubled over, practically falling off his chair. Jordan started crying from laughing so hard. Zara was making those silent laughing motions where no sound comes out but your whole body shakes. Even Larry was smiling, which felt like witnessing a unicorn.
"Y'all really hoeing my music like that?" Alex asked, more confused than offended.
"Nah, nah," Amias managed between laughs, trying to compose himself. "It's just—"
"Let me play something else," Alex offered, already scrolling through his phone. "This one's more serious."
Everyone immediately stood up, the universal signal that this interaction had reached its natural conclusion.
Chairs scraped against concrete, napkins hit plates, phones were suddenly very interesting.
"Ight," came the murmurs around the table. Various versions of "we gotta go" and "long day tomorrow" filled the air.
Amias felt genuinely bad. Not about the music—that was legitimately awful—but about the situation. He pulled out his wallet and counted out two hundred dollars in twenties.
"Look man," he said, handing Alex the money. "Keep working on your craft. Maybe invest in a better mic setup."
Alex's eyes widened at the cash. "Oh word? So you think I got potential?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Amias looked at him—nineteen, maybe twenty, probably worked some job he hated to pay for studio time, probably had friends who either supported his music blindly or mocked it ruthlessly, probably spent hours every day convinced he was one good song away from changing his life.
"Hard work beats talent," Amias said finally, weighing each word carefully. "And if you work hard enough, you'll make it."
"So you believe in me?" Alex pressed, clutching the money like it represented validation rather than politeness.
Amias stared at him for a long moment.
"Follow your dreams."