Man in the Mirror
The CD caught the afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating rainbow patterns that danced across the walls of the creative room. This space was different from anything Amias had imagined in his hungriest moments—not because of its luxury, though the Norwegian oak floors and perfect acoustics whispered money, but because of how it breathed.
But it was the light that made the space transcendent. Afternoon sun poured through those impossible windows like honey, like love, like every good thing that had ever existed. It pooled on the floor in patterns that shifted with the clouds, turned the dust motes into dancing stars, made everything it touched seem blessed.
He rolled the disc between his fingers one more time before sliding it into the Bang & Olufsen system. The opening notes of Highs and Lows filled the space with presence, not just sound—the speakers so perfectly calibrated that the air itself seemed to sing.
"The highs and the lows
The highs, the lows."
Song byChance the Rapper Amias Mars
The painting waited on its easel, a work in progress that had consumed him for months. Two figures roughed out on canvas—one young and desperate, one older and arrived, facing each other across time and circumstance. He picked up his brush, loaded it with paint the color of ambition, and began adding details to the younger figure's eyes.
"I'm an emotional rollercoaster (ah)
With highs so high, could put Bol Bol on a poster (mm)
But when the bread get low like four loaves in a toaster
Or the shoulders can get cold as ten toes in Nova Scotia."
Through the window, movement in the driveway caught his attention. The moving van had arrived, followed by a small convoy of cars. Today was the day—the official move into the Surrey house, though they'd been gradually transferring belongings for days.
"AMIAS!" His mother's voice carried up from downstairs, that particular tone that meant she needed help but would never directly ask for it. "These movers don't know what they're doing!"
He set the brush down carefully, the paint still wet, and headed downstairs. The foyer was controlled chaos—boxes labeled in his mother's careful handwriting, furniture wrapped like precious artifacts, the detritus of a life being transplanted from one reality to another.
"They're trying to put my china in the garage," his mother said, arms crossed, facing down a mover who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Does this look like garage material to you?"
"Mum, they're professionals—"
"Professional at breaking things, maybe." She turned to him, and he saw the stress beneath her irritation. This move meant more than just changing addresses. It was acknowledgment that their lives had fundamentally shifted, that the boy who used to help her count coins for bus fare now owned a house in Surrey.
"Where do you want it?" Amias asked the mover, taking control with the quiet authority he'd developed.
"The kitchen, please. Second cabinet on the left." He turned to his mother. "Why don't you go supervise the bedroom setup? I'll handle down here."
She squeezed his arm—gratitude disguised as a casual touch—and headed upstairs. Amias watched her go, noting how she still moved like someone who expected the floor to creak, even though these floors were solid as bedrock.
"Some days I hold a grudge, some days I Holy Ghost her
Some days I just ghost her, some days I'm supposed to
The crib feel like a gunfight, but them strollers, that's the holster (huh)
We can make amends over old memes and mimosas"
"Ami!" Zara appeared from the kitchen, tablet in hand because she was incapable of truly taking a day off. "Your suits arrived from the tailor. Where should they go?"
"Wherever makes sense," he said, distracted by another van pulling up. This one discharged Jordan, Tyler, and Zane, who'd volunteered to help despite having no actual moving skills.
"Yo!" Jordan called out, nearly dropping a box labeled 'FRAGILE - AWARDS.' "This house is actually mental. You could fit our entire block in your garden."
"Don't get comfortable," Amias warned, but he was smiling. "You're here to work."
"Work?" Tyler looked personally offended. "I thought we were here for the housewarming."
"That's next week," Zara informed him, adding it to her ever-expanding calendar. "Today you're manual labor."
The house filled with voices, laughter, the controlled chaos of people who'd become family through choice rather than blood. Capari arrived with his crew, immediately taking charge of the electronics setup. Zel appeared with equipment for the home studio, muttering about acoustic treatments and frequency response.
Mrs. Okafor's voice joined the mix, having arrived with her husband to help supervise. "Amias! This child is trying to put books in the bathroom!"
"It's a library ladder for the built-in shelves," Zara explained patiently. "For the bathroom library."
"Bathroom library?" Mr. Okafor appeared, shaking his head. "You rich people are different. What's wrong with reading on your phone like normal humans?"
The organized chaos continued through the afternoon. At some point, someone ordered food—enough Indian takeaway to feed a small army, spread across the kitchen island. They ate in shifts, some sitting on boxes, others leaning against walls, the formality of the house undermined by the informality of friendship.
"Remember when we helped Sanchez move into his last place?" Jordan asked, gesturing with a samosa. "That studio flat where the shower was basically in the kitchen?"
"The shower wasn't in the kitchen," Amias protested.
"Bruv, you could cook breakfast while washing your hair," Tyler added. "That's a kitchen shower."
"And now look," Zane said, gesturing around the space. "Man's got bathrooms with libraries."
"I don't have—" Amias started, then gave up. The mythology was already being written.
He escaped back to the creative room as the afternoon wore on, needing space to breathe. The painting drew him back, demanding attention. He added more detail to the younger figure—the hunger in his posture, the way his hands reached forward as if trying to grab everything at once.
The memory hit without warning: that first night selling weed, fourteen years old, trying to look harder than he was. The weight of the product in his pocket, the weight of his mother's trust on his shoulders. £50 profit that felt like £50,000. Walking home through London streets that seemed full of eyes, convinced everyone knew what he carried. The relief when he handed his mother £30, keeping £20 for himself. She'd been too tired to question it.
He painted that feeling into the younger figure's stance—that specific combination of fear and determination that came from doing wrong things for right reasons.
"My mama know I ain't make my bed, but I'ma lay in it
Whether it's sandpaper, suede linen
Whether I'm alone or Creole lady marmalade-ing it
The same pajamas I was afraid in, I boogeyman slayed
My blankets concealed my blade in it, emotional seesaw."
"Sign here, and here, and... here."
He remembered the lawyer's voice had been professionally warm as she'd guided him through the stack of documents. The conference room on the forty-fifth floor had windows that made Manhattan look like a model train set, everything small and manageable from this height.
Daniel Ek sat across the table, that Swedish calm making him impossible to read. "This is a big moment, Amias. Not many artists your age—not many artists period—get a deal structured like this."
The pen had felt heavier than it should have as Amias signed his name. Each signature was another step away from the kid selling weed in London, another step toward... what? He wasn't sure yet, but the number at the bottom of the page—twenty-five percent of LinkUp for eighteen point seven five million dollars—suggested it would be significant.
"Welcome to the family," Daniel had said, standing to shake his hand. The grip was firm, a seal on more than just a business deal.
Two days later, he'd stood on Madison Avenue, looking up at his own face on a billboard. The photo they'd used was from the GRM Daily shoot—him in that leather jacket, braids fresh, eyes carrying that hunger that hadn't left yet. "AMIAS MARS" in letters ten feet tall, the Red Bull logo subtle but present in the corner.
Jordan had been with him, both of them standing there like tourists in their own story.
"That's actually mad," Jordan had said, taking approximately seventeen photos. "Like, that's your face. On a building. In New York."
Amias had nodded, unable to form words. Somewhere in Texas, was his father walking streets where his son's face might appear? Did he know? Did he care?
"With two fat suckers with strong knees in free fall (huh)."
Fred burst through the door like controlled chaos given human form, carrying two drum sticks and radiating the kind of energy that suggested he'd discovered something incredible or had too much caffeine. Possibly both.
"AMIAS!" He was already at the drum kit, not waiting for acknowledgment. "Listen to this pattern I've been working on!"
The rhythm that erupted was complex enough to require a mathematics PhD—polyrhythms layering over each other, creating patterns that shouldn't work but absolutely did. Fred's hands moved in blur, each hit precise despite the speed.
"Wait, wait," Amias said, inspiration striking. He moved to the Fender Rhodes, finding the pocket between Fred's hits.
"YES!" Fred abandoned the drums mid-beat, literally leaping to the Prophet synthesizer. His fingers found sounds that didn't have names—not quite electronic, not quite organic, something that might have been what angels sounded like if angels were into UK garage.
Amias laughed—pure, unforced joy—and grabbed the bass.
"It's cloudy with a chance of meatballs, I checked the weather
I gave all my vices a call, let's get together."
They weren't making music anymore; they were having a conversation at the speed of sound. Fred would propose a question in percussion, Amias would answer in bass frequencies that you felt in your chest, then they'd switch—Amias on the Fazioli playing runs that would make conservatory students weep, Fred adding electronic stutters that turned Mozart into something from 2045.
"The arpeggiator!" Fred shouted, already moving to the next instrument.
Amias knew exactly what he meant. He programmed a sequence on the Juno-106 that climbed like it was trying to escape gravity, each note a step on Jacob's ladder.
They chased sounds around the room—Fred on guitar creating textures that shouldn't exist, Amias on the talk box making the walls sing, both of them adding layers to a track that had started as experimentation and was becoming something else entirely.
They played until their hands ached, until sweat soaked through shirts, until the sun shifted angles and painted the room in different shades of gold. This was what the money really bought—not just instruments but time, space, the ability to chase inspiration without watching clocks or worrying about studio rates.
When they finally collapsed—Fred on the leather couch, Amias on the floor—the silence felt earned.
"We should record that properly," Fred said, staring at the ceiling.
"Or we could leave it," Amias suggested. "Some things are better as memories."
Fred turned his head to look at him. "That's the difference between you and me. You're already thinking about legacy. I just want to make noise."
"Same thing, sometimes."
…
The doorbell's chime was subtle—everything in this house whispered where their old places had shouted. Through the security monitor, he saw a distinguished man in his sixties, wearing what looked like expensive country casual.
"Colonel Morrison," the man introduced himself when Amias opened the door. "From next door. Thought I'd properly welcome you to the neighborhood."
The handshake was firm, practiced. This was old Surrey, the kind that usually took decades to acknowledge new money.
"Please, come in," Amias offered, leading him to the sitting room that still felt too formal for actual sitting.
"Lovely restoration," the Colonel observed, taking in details Amias hadn't noticed. "The Weatherbys did good work before... well, before their troubles."
There was a story there, but Amias didn't press. Instead, he offered tea, which the Colonel accepted with approval that felt like passing a test.
"I understand you're in music," the Colonel said once they were settled. "My granddaughter is quite the fan. Keeps playing something about Poland?"
"That's one of mine," Amias confirmed, trying not to smile at the thought of this man's granddaughter streaming his music.
"Ah." The Colonel sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Well, I won't pretend to understand it, but she seems quite taken. Says you're 'revolutionary' or some such."
They talked for twenty minutes—careful conversation, feeling each other out. The Colonel mentioned the local shooting club ("You must come as my guest"), the charity events ("Your presence would be appreciated"), the unspoken rules of Surrey society ("We look after each other here").
As he was leaving, the Colonel paused at the door. "You know, my father would be rolling in his grave—the neighborhood's changing. But change isn't always bad. You seem like a solid young man."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thursday mornings, if you're interested in shooting. Nothing too formal."
After he left, Amias stood in his too-grand foyer, processing. This was acceptance, Surrey-style. Not because of his music or his money, but because he'd served proper tea and hadn't tried too hard.
"To talk about the highs and lows, the ups and downs."
The invitation had come through official channels—XXL's editor-in-chief reaching out personally, which only happened for certain levels of artist. The Freshman list was one thing, but the Cypher was different. That was coronation.
"It's not until summer," Oakley had explained during one of their studio sessions. "They plan these things months out. Want to know you're committed."
Now, flying private to LA for preliminary meetings, the weight of it sat between them. The jet wasn't his—Amias wasn't that far gone—but split between teams, it felt like moving through the world the way success demanded.
"Mad ting still," Oakley said, scrolling through his phone. "First UK artists to headline the Cypher. They're making it a whole moment."
"The friends that I had to hide to come around
They told me that I knew you'd always come around
Come around, come around, come around, come around."
"Pressure," Amias noted, but his mind was already working—what bars to prepare, how to represent without caricature, the balance between honoring where they came from and where they were going.
"You know what's wild?" Jordan called from across the cabin where he was failing to look casual in luxury. "This time last year, man was taking National Express to Birmingham. Now we're on private jets talking about XXL."
"Character development," Tyler suggested, filming everything because that's what Tyler did.
"To work out the highs and lows, the ups and downs
No need to hide disguises comin' down."
"More like cheat codes," Zane added from behind his camera. "Amias unlocked unlimited money mode."
"If only," Amias muttered, thinking about the actual numbers. Success, yes. Wealth, growing. But unlimited? The distance between perception and reality remained vast.
They landed at Van Nuys, avoiding LAX's chaos. The house in the Hills was another rental—glass and ambition perched above the city, the kind of place that appeared in music videos and architectural magazines.
"This is stupid," Zel said approvingly, standing on the deck that jutted out over nothing but air and possibility. "Genuinely, properly stupid."
"Go and get high, I promise you're comin' down
Comin' down, comin' down, comin' down, comin' down."
The meetings were tomorrow. Tonight was about preparation, acclimatization, remembering how to move in spaces where everyone had an agenda and most of them involved you.
The warehouse floor, blood spreading in patterns that looked almost artistic under that single swaying bulb. Three bodies that had been breathing ten minutes ago. Apannii's face in those final moments—surprise more than fear, as if he'd never really believed consequences could find him. "Those who worship at the altar of violence," Amias had said, words steady despite the gun's weight, "will eventually be sacrificed upon it." The first shot. The scream. The second shot. The silence that followed was the loudest thing he'd ever heard.
The painting called him back at 3 AM, Los Angeles glittering beyond the windows like a circuit board. He'd brought his travel kit—basic brushes, essential colors, the muscle memory of creation that didn't care about time zones.
He worked on the older figure now, the one meant to represent him present or future. Not draped in chains and excess—he'd seen where that led, friends becoming targets, success becoming prison. Instead, subtle markers of arrival: posture that suggested confidence without arrogance, clothes that fit properly instead of screaming their price, eyes that had seen different kinds of darkness.
"When it's hard to keep your eyes on the road (eyes on the road)
And you feel your back's on the ropes (with your backs against the ropes)"
The hotel phone rang, startling in the silence. Who called hotel phones?
"Mr. Mars? This is reception. There's a delivery for you."
At 3 AM? Amias felt the old paranoia stir—too many stories of setups, of success making you a target. But this was LA, where normal business hours were theoretical.
The delivery was an envelope, expensive paper, his name written in fountain pen. Inside, an invitation that made him sit down:
"The Roc Nation Brunch cordially invites..."
He read it three times, confirming he wasn't hallucinating from paint fumes. The Roc Nation Brunch wasn't something you angled for or auditioned to attend. It was acknowledgment from the highest levels that you'd arrived, or were arriving in ways that mattered.
"You gotta take the highs with the lows (the highs with the lows)
You gotta take the highs with the lows (yeah, yeah)
You're lost, and you're runnin' out of hope (you're runnin' out of hope)."
His phone buzzed—Zara, somehow awake despite the hour.
"Did you get it?" she asked without preamble.
"How did you—"
"I got one too. As your manager." He could hear her smile. "You're not going?"
"Yeah," he said softly, staring at the invitation. "I'm not."
"Lookin' for the best way to cope (for the best ways to cope)
Just know we all been there before (we all been there)."
The morning brought sunshine that felt aggressive after London's perpetual grey. Amias stood on the deck, coffee in hand, watching the city wake up below. Somewhere down there, in offices and studios and hillside homes, decisions were being made that would shape culture. He was part of that now, whether he felt ready or not.
"Bro, you need to see this," Jordan appeared, phone extended.
The video was grainy concert footage—him at Madison Square Garden, the crowd's energy visible even through pixels. Someone had overlaid it with statistics: streaming numbers, chart positions, the kind of metrics that turned artists into investments.
"Two hundred million streams," Jordan read. "Projected to hit half a billion by year end."
Numbers that meant nothing and everything. Each stream was someone choosing his words over silence, his story over thousands of others. The weight of that sat heavier than any chain.
The Red Bull meeting was in their LA offices—a space that looked more like an extreme sports museum than corporate headquarters. Stefan had flown in specially, bringing that particular German efficiency to American chaos.
"The numbers are impressive," he said, sliding a tablet across the conference table. "But what interests us more is the engagement. Your audience doesn't just listen—they participate."
"You gotta take the highs with the lows."
The presentation showed data Amias hadn't seen—demographic breakdowns, engagement rates, the viral coefficient of his content. It was his life transformed into PowerPoint, somehow both validating and depressing.
"We want to expand the partnership," Stefan continued. "Global ambassador status. Seven figures annually, same performance bonuses."
Amias kept his face neutral, but inside, calculations ran rapid-fire. Seven figures for energy drink association.
"I need to think about it," he said, which was true and not true. The money was life-changing, but every partnership was another chain, another obligation, another piece of himself sectioned off and sold.
"Of course," Stefan smiled. "But perhaps this will help you decide."
Another tablet, this one showing architectural plans. Red Bull Studios, with a wing labeled "Mars Creative Center."
"Your own space within our ecosystem," Stefan explained. "Full creative control, but with our resources. Bring in who you want, create what you want. We just ask for first look at the output."
This was different. Not just endorsement but infrastructure. The ability to build something lasting.
"I'll have Adrian review everything," Amias said, which was yes without saying yes.
"I was feelin' lifeless, I had to cut my vices (I had to)
Now the feelin' that I feel is priceless."
The drive through Texas felt like traveling through time. Houston sprawled in all directions, familiar and foreign simultaneously. He'd rented the most anonymous car possible—a Honda Civic that wouldn't draw eyes in neighborhoods where expensive cars meant trouble or cops or both.
His father's house looked smaller than memory suggested. Paint peeling in places, lawn struggling against summer heat, the general exhaustion of a structure that had seen better decades. The mailbox read "Johnson" now, but that meant nothing. People moved, disappeared, reinvented themselves.
He'd been sitting there twenty minutes, engine running, air conditioning fighting the heat and his own cowardice. Just drive away. Leave the past buried.
Instead, he turned off the engine and stepped into heat that felt personal.
"In the spirit, want me to be righteous
But I know I might just relapse, get sucked in these devices."
The knock echoed in the stillness of midday. Footsteps inside, a woman's voice calling "Just a minute!" Then the door opened and time folded in on itself.
She was young—early twenties, mixed in ways that created effortless beauty. The child hiding behind her legs was maybe eight, maybe nine, wearing a sundress that had been washed soft. But it was the eyes that stopped him cold. His eyes, copied perfect into a tiny face that studied him with open curiosity.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked, polite but wary. Single mother instincts reading danger in a young man at her door.
"Got so used to feedback, I couldn't tell what mines is (word)
Sometimes all the outside noise just really blinds us."
"I..." Words failed. What was he supposed to say? I'm probably your daughter's half-brother? I think we share a father who damaged us in different ways?
The child peeked out further, that fearless curiosity of kids who hadn't learned caution yet. "You have eyes like mine," she announced, as if sharing breaking news.
Her mother looked closer then, really seeing him. Not recognition—they'd never met—but something deeper. Understanding maybe. The echo of someone they both knew reflected in unfamiliar features.
"She's right," the mother said softly, studying him with intelligence he hadn't expected. "You really do. That's... unusual."
"Genetics are weird," Amias managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
"Are you my brother?" the child asked with devastating directness.
"Beware (facts), believe none of what you see and half of what you hear (right)
The best things in life on the opposite side of fear."
The question landed like a physical blow. Her mother's hand tightened, pulling her back, but gently. "Aisha, honey, you can't just ask—"
"It's okay," Amias said, though nothing was okay. "Kids are honest."
"Too honest sometimes," her mother agreed, but she was studying him more carefully now. Something in his voice, maybe. The way he held himself. The expensive watch he'd forgotten to remove, the car keys for something nicer than belonged in this neighborhood.
"I'm not from here," he offered, which was true in every way that mattered.
"Neither are we," Aisha announced proudly. "We're from Apartment 4B!"
Her mother laughed despite everything, and in that sound Amias heard resilience, humor surviving despite circumstances. "She's very specific about addresses."
"It's important to know where you're from," Amias said, meaning it.
"I swear I see it clear, like after the storm
Still, you can't stop the rain like the Loose Ends' song."
They stood there in the doorway, the weight of unspoken truths making the air heavier. He could see the struggle in her face—questions she couldn't ask with her daughter present, possibilities too dangerous to voice.
"I should go," he said finally.
"My word is bond like James, yo, I couldn't complain (nah)
'Cause even when I did, niggas really couldn't feel my pain (uh)."
"Okay," she replied, but her eyes said different things. Said maybe. Said I wonder. Said all the things you couldn't say to strangers who weren't strangers.
He made it to the car before the weight crashed down. Sat there in the heat, tears he didn't remember starting to cry making tracks down his face. In the rearview mirror, he could see them—Aisha waving from the window, her mother standing behind her, both watching him like they knew this moment mattered.
Drive away. Leave them to their peace.
"That's the type of shit to drive a nigga insane
Wanna be numb, now your thumb back flickin' the flame
Back to square one, tryna overcome what you became
Like they was right, I guess you're never gon' change, I guess you never gon'"
Instead, he got back out of the car.
The second knock was harder. When she opened the door, her expression had shifted—decision made, whatever it was.
"I think we should talk," he said simply.
She looked at her daughter, then back at him. "Aisha, go play in your room for a bit. Mommy needs to talk to the boy with your eyes."
What followed was careful, painful, necessary. Names weren't exchanged—some protections held—but truths emerged. Yes, their fathers were the same man. Yes, he'd left them both, in different ways. Yes, Aisha deserved better than what genetics had dealt her.
"I can help," Amias said finally. "Financially. Without complications or connections. Just... help."
Pride warred with pragmatism in her face. "We're managing."
"I know," he said gently. "But managing and thriving are different things."
By the time he left, they'd exchanged carefully neutral contact information. He'd meet them tomorrow at a bank, set up something that would help without creating dependence or questions. It wasn't redemption—some things couldn't be redeemed. But it was something.
The drive back to his hotel was blurry with tears and relief and the strange lightness that came from doing right when no one was watching.
"You gotta take the highs with the lows (the highs with the lows)"
Venice arrived in fragments of impossible beauty. The light was different here—not England's apologetic grey or Texas' assault, but something Renaissance masters had tried to capture and mostly failed. It painted everything gold, made even decay look deliberate.
"This is mental," Joey Badass said, leaning against the boat railing as they glided through canals that had seen centuries. As a fellow artist with Red Bull connection, they'd met through mutual ties. "You really got them to shut down this whole section?"
"Just for a few hours," Amias replied, watching Luca the director move like a dancer with a camera, capturing moments rather than manufacturing them.
The boat was classic Venetian—mahogany and history—but modified for their purposes. Camera mounts where tourists usually stood, the captain paid enough to ignore chaos. The painting, carefully wrapped and protected, waited in the bow like precious cargo.
"Revealing it today?" Joey asked, nodding toward the covered canvas.
"Never fully," Amias decided. "Let them see pieces. The mystery matters more than the revelation."
Joey understood immediately. Art was about questions, not answers.
They filmed in sequences that felt more like living than working. Amias on bridges that had supported centuries of footsteps, the painting always present but never exposed. Walking through markets where vendors sold tourists pieces of Venice while he carried his own piece of soul.
"Here," Luca directed at one of the city's countless crossings. "The light in twenty minutes will be perfect."
So they waited, and in waiting found rhythm. Someone had brought speakers—of course someone had—Highs and Lows played on repeat, but different each time.
"This what they don't understand," Joey said during a quiet moment. They sat on stone steps worn smooth by centuries, watching sunset turn canal water to gold. "They think it's about the views and streams. But it's this. These moments where time stops."
"Time doesn't stop," Amias corrected, watching a church bell tower mark another hour. "We just learn to move with it instead of against it."
The crew was skeleton—just them and their own close friends, keeping it intimate. No army of assistants, no hierarchy of importance. When the boat captain offered wine from his personal collection—"My grandfather's vintage, for special occasions"—they toasted to art and ambiguity.
"You know what's wild?" Joey said as they filmed the final sequence, Amias walking away from camera with the painting, figure growing smaller but presence growing larger. "This video's gonna outlive us. Hundred years from now, someone's gonna watch this and wonder what was under that canvas."
"Good," Amias replied. "Let them wonder."
"When it's hard to keep your eyes on the road (your eyes on the road)
You start to feel your back on the ropes (your back 'gainst the ropes)"
The Sydney concert footage looked fake even while living it. The arena was beyond sold out—they'd opened the sections usually closed for production, added seats where seats shouldn't go, and still turned away thousands.
"This is the biggest crowd for a UK hip-hop artist in Australian history," the promoter had said, like statistics could capture the energy of thirty-three thousand people screaming lyrics in accents that turned his words into new languages.
But it was the mall appearance that showed how far beyond music this had traveled. What was supposed to be intimate—hundred fans, some photos, quick exit—had become something else entirely.
"We've got a situation," Larry had said, showing aerial footage from a news helicopter. The mall was surrounded, human ocean held back by barriers that looked decorative against the mass.
"How many?" Amias asked, though numbers had stopped mattering.
"Police estimate eight thousand. Maybe more."
They'd been waiting since before dawn. Kids who'd traveled from Perth, Adelaide, places that were just names on maps to him but home to them. All here because his words had reached across oceans and meant something.
"You can cancel," Mitch suggested from the front seat, but his tone said he knew better.
"They came for me," Amias said simply. "I show up."
"You gotta take the highs with the lows (the highs with the lows)
You gotta take the highs with the lows (the highs with the lows)."
What followed was controlled chaos. Triple security, police coordination, acceptance that fame at this level came with logistics that felt military. But when he stepped out, when the sound hit like physical force, when he saw actual tears because he existed in their vicinity—protocol evaporated.
He moved along barriers like swimming through sound. Every hand touched, every photo taken, every signature scrawled was a small redemption. These people had carried him here on streams and shares and love translated into data. The least he could do was be present.
"How long you been here?" he asked a girl whose handmade sign was wilting from hours of holding.
"SINCE YESTERDAY!" she screamed, then looked embarrassed by her volume. "Sorry, I just—you're actually here! In Australia! Talking to me!"
"Since yesterday?" He unclasped the chain he wore—not the expensive ones saved for videos, but one that mattered. First gold he'd bought with music money. "This is yours now."
She didn't faint, but her friends had to hold her up. The sound she made wasn't quite scream, wasn't quite sob, was entirely human facing the impossible made real.
Three hours later—hoarse, hand cramped, security increasingly aggressive about extraction—he finally made it back to the car. The crowd had doubled despite best efforts, spilling beyond barriers into streets that weren't designed for this kind of love.
"You can't keep doing this," Larry said, pulling away from chaos. "It's genuinely dangerous now."
But Amias was watching through tinted windows, seeing himself in their hunger. How many hours had he spent hoping someone would notice? How many nights lying awake thinking success was for other people?
"We find better ways," he said. "But we don't stop connecting. That's how we got here."
"You're lost, and you're runnin' out of hope (and you're runnin' out of hope)."
The studio session at Abbey Road wasn't planned. Nothing with Fred was planned—he existed in a state of perpetual inspiration, dragging everyone into his wake.
"Listen," Fred was saying, fingers finding patterns on a piano that had recorded history. "What if we take the entire second album and perform it backwards?"
"Backwards?"
"Not literally," though with Fred, literally was always possible. "But emotionally. Start where you end, end where you began. Make them feel the journey in reverse."
They worked until dawn painted the studio gold. Not just music but alchemy—transforming pressure into beauty, success into sound. The engineers had long since given up trying to follow their process, instead just making sure everything was recorded.
"This part," Amias said, playing a melody that had been haunting him for weeks. "It needs to feel like drowning in honey."
"Dark honey," Fred agreed, already adding layers that turned sweetness sinister. "The kind that traps flies."
By the time they emerged, London was fully awake. The car waited, but so did fans who'd somehow divined their location. The crowd was manageable—maybe fifty people—but their energy was nuclear.
"Amias! Amias! Just one photo!"
"Sign my arm! I'm getting it tattooed!"
"My daughter's in hospital—she loves your music—could you just—"
That one stopped him. A woman, maybe forty, holding a photo of a girl attached to machines but smiling.
"What's her name?" he asked, taking the photo gently.
"Elise. She's... it's been rough. But your songs help her sleep."
"And you lookin' for the best way to cope (the best way to cope)"
He signed the photo, then pulled out his phone. "What hospital?"
"Great Ormond Street, but you don't have to—"
"I'll visit," he said, meaning it. Adding it to a calendar that Adrian would somehow make work despite impossibility. "This week."
The woman's tears were worth more than any chart position.
"Just know we all been there before (we all been there)
You gotta take the highs with the lows (the highs with the lows)."
The Surrey garage opened on reasonable success. No Bugattis or Ferraris—he wasn't that lost. The BMW from Oakley and Wyge sat in the first bay, still his daily driver despite having options. Beside it, a Sprinter for when he needed to move teams or equipment. The Aston Martin. The Tesla model S Plaid. The classic Mustang bought on impulse because it reminded him of Texas in complicated ways.
"Admiring the fleet?" Mitch appeared with security's silent efficiency.
"Remembering when one car felt impossible," Amias admitted.
"The BMW?" Mitch nodded toward it. "You take better care of that than the others."
"Gift from family." Amias explained, though family was flexible definition now.
His mother's necklace caught the light as he moved—still there, always there. The pendant holding photos that burned into memory. Through everything, it hadn't come off. Not for videos, not for complaints, not for anything.
"ARES!"
The dog burst into the garage like controlled chaos—all muscle and enthusiasm, tail threatening structural damage. The pitbull Yourrage had sold him for ten thousand dollars, which was insane but somehow worth it for the bloodline and the story.
"Easy boy," Amias laughed as Ares tried to prove love through collision. "Where's your ball?"
The dog vanished, reappearing with a tennis ball that had seen better months. They played in the driveway, Ares streaming across manicured lawn that cost more annually than most salaries.
This was the life built from verses and vision. Guards at the gate—discrete but present, necessary after too many stories of success becoming tragedy. A house that could hold three families but felt right for one still learning what family meant. Cars that whispered rather than screamed. A dog whose bloodline cost as much as a car but who just wanted to play fetch and be loved.
"Normal," Amias muttered, watching Ares demolish another tennis ball with pure joy.
Nothing about this was normal. That's why it worked.
"To talk about the highs and lows, the ups and downs."
Red Bull Studios London Mars Creative Wing had transformed under his influence. What started as standard recording facility now housed some of Europe's most advanced equipment. The main control room looked like NASA mission control had mated with Abbey Road—screens everywhere, possibilities limited only by imagination.
"The new cohort is here," Emma materialized with her eternal tablet. "Twelve producers, four engineers, three artists. All hungry."
These were the people Red Bull was betting on—not established names but potential energy.
"Let's meet them," he said, following her through corridors that had become familiar as home.
It was controlled chaos. Kids who looked impossibly young sat before equipment worth fortunes, building sounds that didn't have names yet. The energy was familiar—that specific hunger that came from having everything to prove.
"This is Amias," Emma announced unnecessarily. They knew who he was. He was why they were here.
"Don't let me interrupt," he said, but of course his presence changed everything. The casual creativity became performance, everyone suddenly aware they were being watched by someone who'd made it.
One producer—couldn't be older than nineteen—was working on something that caught his attention. Drill drums but wrong, deliberately broken, rebuilt into new patterns.
"What's that?" Amias asked, genuinely curious.
"I don't know yet," the kid admitted. "Just feeling for something different."
"Play it again."
The beat filled the room—aggressive but vulnerable, hard but human. Amias found himself nodding, mind already building melodies over it.
"You mind if I try something?"
The kid's eyes went wide. "Bro, please. Yes. Whatever."
Amias slipped into the booth, muscle memory taking over. The words came without forcing—something about transformation, about hunger becoming fuel, about mirrors showing more than faces. One take, no punch-ins, just truth over broken drums.
When he emerged, the room had filled. Other producers, engineers, Emma with her phone out definitely recording. The kid at the board looked like he'd seen God.
"That's yours," Amias said. "Do something special with it."
"I... bro... thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just remember this feeling when you're where I am. Pass it forward."
He spent the rest of the afternoon moving between studios, listening more than talking. These were the future—kids like him, with laptops and limitless imagination, building tomorrow's sound from bedrooms and borrowed spaces. His presence was endorsement, encouragement, evidence that the dream wasn't delusion
Germany arrived with efficiency that felt like satire. Stefan had sent a car—not flashy, just perfect—and a schedule that accounted for every minute without feeling restrictive.
"Golf is meditation with competition," Stefan explained as they stood on the first tee of a course that looked painted rather than grown. "Also where real business happens."
Amias held the club like it might explode. Colonel Morrison had given him exactly two lessons, both ending with variations of "perhaps cricket would suit you better."
"I should warn you," Amias said, addressing the ball with hope rather than technique, "I'm genuinely terrible."
"Perfect," Stefan smiled. "Honesty on the golf course predicts honesty in business."
The swing was everything wrong—all arms, no hips, contact that sent the ball forty-five degrees from intended. It disappeared into trees that probably had protected status.
"Interesting approach," Stefan said diplomatically. "Very... creative."
By the fourth hole, Amias had lost enough balls to stock a driving range. But between searches for errant shots, real conversation happened. Stefan outlined Red Bull's vision—not just energy drinks but energy itself, culture as product, influence as infrastructure.
"Your LinkUp platform," Stefan said, watching Amias prepare another archaeological expedition. "We want to integrate it."
"How?"
"Every Red Bull content creator, every event, every collaboration—automatic fair split to all participants." He paused. "You might want to aim more left."
The ball went right, of course. Some things couldn't be fixed with success.
"What would you need from us?"
"Technical integration, obviously. But more—your story, your credibility. LinkUp becomes the standard because Amias Mars says it should be."
This was bigger than money.
"It will be handled," Amias said.
"Of course. But Amias?" Stefan waited until he had full attention. "This isn't just business. This is legacy. What do you want to be remembered for—the hits or the infrastructure?"
"Both," Amias replied without hesitation. "Why choose?"
Stefan laughed, real and surprised. "Why indeed. Shall we play the back nine, or would you prefer to preserve the forest?"
"The friends that I had to hide to come around."
Memory crashed in without invitation: that night at the warehouse. Not the killings—he'd made peace with that violence—but after. Sitting in Oakley's car, blood on his shoes, trying to understand how he'd gone from selling eighths to executing vengeance. "You good?" Oakley had asked, and Amias had said yes because what else was there to say? But good was the wrong word. He was necessary. Sometimes that had to be enough.
Dinner at Chiltern Firehouse should have felt like arrival, but surrounded by his day ones, it just felt like family. They'd taken over a private room—not because they needed privacy but because their energy would have overwhelmed civilians.
"To still being here," Zel raised his glass, champagne catching candlelight like liquid gold.
"To being here together," Zara corrected, and the distinction mattered.
"They told me that I knew you'd always come around
Come around, come around, come around, come around."
They were all present—the core who'd believed before belief paid dividends. Jordan already three drinks in. Tyler filming. Zane fresh from a hospital checkup, refusing to miss celebration. Even Fred had paused perpetual motion to eat actual food at an actual table.
"What I love," Capari said, voice carrying weight of someone who'd invested more than money, "is nobody got left behind. Could have easily been different."
"Was never the plan," Amias replied simply. "We rise together or we don't rise."
The stories flowed like wine—those early days when everything was possibility and no money. Before deals and charts made success seem inevitable rather than impossible. When making music was pure because they had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
"Remember when you thought Poland was trash?" Jordan asked Zel, already laughing at memory.
"I said it was weird," Zel defended. "There's a difference."
"You said, and I quote, 'This is either brilliant or terrible and I honestly can't tell.'"
"To work out the highs and lows, the ups and downs (the ups and downs)
No need to hide disguises comin' down (comin' down)."
"And I was right!" Zel laughed. "It's both!"
"Three hundred million streams of both," Tyler added.
"Mad," Zane shook his head. "That started as a joke. Just vibes in the studio."
"Best things usually do," Fred said, uncharacteristically philosophical. "When you're not trying, truth comes through."
They stayed until the restaurant gently suggested they leave, then spilled onto London streets still high on each other's company. The city felt like theirs—not owned but understood.
"One more?" Jordan suggested, but they all knew better. End on the high note. Always leave them wanting more.
As they split toward different cars—success affording separation but not distance—Amias felt the weight of gratitude. Not for money or fame, those were just tools. For this: people who knew him before and chose to stay through after.
"Go and get high, I promise you're comin' down
Comin' down, comin' down, comin' down, comin' down."
The painting consumed him now. Three AM in the creative room, house silent except for security's subtle presence. He'd been adding layers for months, building truth through pigment and patience.
The younger figure was complete—all hunger and sharp angles, eyes that had seen too much too early, hands reaching for everything because nothing was guaranteed. He'd painted his old friend's death in the shadows behind him, though you'd have to know to see it. Painted the weight of the knife, the gun, the choices that weren't choices.
The older figure was harder. How did you paint success without making it look like armor? How did you show growth without suggesting the hunger was gone? Because it wasn't—just transformed, refined, aimed at different targets.
He added gold at the throat—not chains but his mother's necklace, painted with brush so fine it was almost single hairs. The flowers in the pendant, the photo invisible but implied. Constants through every transformation.
The painting hurt to look at because it refused to lie. No glamorous narrative of struggle to success. Just truth: that you carry every version of yourself forward, that transformation doesn't erase history, that mirrors show more than faces.
"Chano
Amias Mars, Josif Badmon (yes, yes)
You done know this
Big up to the youth dem
All the youth dem worldwide, all the youth dem are the truth dem
Yes, and the most high, praise the most high
Chano."
"Can't sleep?"
Zara in the doorway, wearing his clothes like she belonged in them. She moved into room with practice of someone who'd watched this process from beginning.
"Almost done," he said, adding final shadows.
She studied the painting, head tilted. "It's disturbing."
"Truth often is."
"Which one is really you?"
"Both. Neither." He stepped back, seeing it whole. "That's what mirrors show—every version at once."
Dawn crept through windows, Surrey waking to another day of managed perfection. The painting was complete—two figures facing across time, carrying their specific weights, neither winning nor losing. Just existing in space between was and will be.
This would be the album cover. Would be analyzed and misunderstood, loved and hated, remembered and forgotten. Would represent something different to everyone who saw it—which was the point.
But right now, it was just truth in oil and canvas.
"You know what I see?" Zara asked softly.
"What?"
"A boy who survived becoming a man who thrives. Same person, different perspectives."
She was right and wrong simultaneously. He was the same but fundamentally altered. Like light passing through prism—still light, but showing colors that were always there, waiting for the right angle to reveal them.
His phone buzzed. The machinery of success demanding daily feeding. Studio sessions, meetings, appearances, the endless circulation of staying relevant.
A boy from Texas who learned to swim in London waters, sitting in a Surrey house he'd bought with words and will, staring at himself across time. Standing in room filled with instruments and light, girl he loved beside him, staring at painted proof of transformation.
The sun rose fully, light flooding the space like benediction. In the painting, both figures seemed to shift—trick of light or oil still settling. Past and present in eternal conversation.
"Come on," Zara said, taking his hand. "Breakfast. Your mum's probably already cooking."
He let her lead him from the room, but glanced back once at the painting. His reflection caught in the glass covering, creating third figure—present tense, real time, still becoming.
Just another man in the mirror, seeing himself whole.