The bitter taste of defeat lingered in Amias' mind as Monday afternoon found him hunched over his computer, headphones clamped to his ears. Ever since his return from school, he'd been locked in this position, fingers dancing across the keyboard, adjusting levels, tweaking sounds.
His room had mostly recovered from yesterday's clothing explosion. He'd managed to organize the new pieces into his wardrobe and drawers before his mother had noticed, though she'd given him a curious look at breakfast when he appeared wearing an outfit she didn't recognize.
"New shirt?" she'd asked, eyebrow raised.
"Bought it yesterday." he'd lied smoothly, the fabrication coming easily.
Now, as afternoon sun filtered through his blinds, casting stripes across his desk, Amias nodded his head to the beat pulsing through his headphones. The REDEMPTION track remained a work in progress—a draft that was nowhere near the quality of the original. But that wasn't what had him excited today.
Since Friday night, when he'd first started working on his stats, sothing unexpected had happened. The more he practiced, the more beats he created, the more his own creative voice began to erge.
His thoughts drifted back to Saturday night, after leaving the studio, after seeing Temi on that guy's lap. The frustration, the disappointnt—it had all channeled into his lyrics.
Flashback
"Screw it," Amias muttered, scrolling through a collection of beats he'd downloaded from online. His throat still hurt from trying to mimic Nemzzz's flow, but there was an energy inside him that needed release.
He stopped on a bouncy UK drill beat with a distinctive bass pattern. Sothing about it caught his attention—the way it moved, aggressive yet lodic.
Amias took a swig of water, easing his raw throat, and then positioned himself in front of his microphone. He'd spent hours reading Oakley's lyrics, studying J. Cole's flows, absorbing patterns and techniques. Now it was ti to apply them to sothing of his own.
The blank docunt stared back at him from his screen. He started typing, the words flowing as naturally as breathing:
"Trap phone's buzzing like a wasp nest, paranoia's my new perfu..."
The lines ca quickly after that, thoughts and experiences transforming into bars, images crystallizing into verses. He wrote about the life he knew—the estates, the hustle, the constant vigilance required to survive. But beneath the familiar drill tropes, he wove in sothing more personal—his frustrations, his dreams, his determination to break free of the cycle.
For hours, he alternated between writing and recording, laying down segnts of vocals, adjusting levels, redoing takes when his voice cracked or the flow faltered. The familiar strain in his throat returned, but he pushed through it.
"Tryna see how much bread I can bake, Why'd you think I'm bruckin' this weight?"
He repeated the chorus, tweaking his delivery, finding the pocket in the beat where his voice sat just right. When the flow locked in, when everything aligned, it felt like electricity coursing through his veins.
By Sunday night after unpacking that reward, he had the skeleton of sothing real. Not perfect, rough around the edges, but undeniably his. The song had shape now—two verses, a chorus, a bridge. But sothing was missing. The ending felt incomplete, trailing off rather than concluding with impact.
He tried different approaches—extending the final chorus, adding ad-libs, crafting an outro—but nothing felt right. Frustration mounted as Monday morning arrived, and still, the perfect ending eluded him.
And now, back from school, Amias found himself stuck in the sa spot. The track was good—better than he'd expected—but that final section remained elusive. He'd been staring at the waveforms for hours, playing the song on repeat, trying to hear what should co next.
A knock at the front door broke his concentration. Removing his headphones, he heard his mother answer, followed by a familiar voice.
"Is Amias in? Need to chat with him about sothing."
Zain. Back from university by the sound of it.
Amias saved his project and stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long. By the ti he reached the hallway, his mother was already letting Zain in.
"Hey," Amias said, taking in Zain's appearance with mild surprise. Gone was the usual tracksuit, replaced by a button-up shirt and dark jeans—his university attire. With his neat haircut and glasses, he looked like soone's older brother who was studying to be an accountant, not soone who occasionally moved product through the estates.
"Wagwan, bro," Zain said, giving him a fist bump. "You look dead. Late night?"
"Sothing like that," Amias replied, leading him back to his room. "Just got back from uni?"
"Yeah, last seminar of the day." Zain was in his final year, balancing classes with his other activities. At 22, he straddled two worlds—the estate and the university—with a practiced ease that Amias had always admired.
Once inside his room, Zain whistled at the equipnt setup. "You taking this serious fam. You working on sothing yet?"
Amias hesitated. He hadn't planned on sharing the track with anyone yet, especially not in its unfinished state. But Zain had always been straight with him, never sugar-coating feedback, never offering empty praise.
"Yeah, actually. Been working on it since Saturday." Amias settled back into his chair. "My first proper track."
Zain raised his eyebrows. "For real? Let hear it, then."
"It's not finished," Amias warned, but Zain was already making himself comfortable on the edge of the bed.
"Don't care. Play it."
With a resigned sigh, Amias adjusted the volu and hit play. The drill beat filled the room, followed by his own voice:
{Reference Track: I'm Tryna by Pozer}
[Verse 1]
Trap phone's buzzing like a wasp nest, paranoia's my new perfu,
Seen hoes switch sides quicker than a R.A.T.S. jaw clicks,
Loyalty's a myth—she'll kiss your cheek while her hand's on that man's grip.
APD can't lock what they can't catch—I'm smoke in the wind,
Doctor can't save what's already dead, like trust in these ends.
Too many bodies in the ledger, but my soul's on layaway,
Stackin' sins like Tesco receipts, but the price never fades.
To judge the grind, I'm all in—life's a fixed horse race,
Roll the dice, let 'em fly, pray the story's front-page.
---
[Chorus]
Tryna see how much bread I can bake,
Why'd you think I'm bruckin' this weight?
Cut the cake into different shapes—
Supply and demand, I got plates for days.
Pull up on estates, but it's all snakes,
No familiar faces, just fake handshakes.
Feds in the rear, fully gas, no brakes—
Blacked-out ding-dong, no plates, no mates.
---
[Verse 2]
Dots ca long, chopped 'em shorter, spliff talk
Death's 'round the corner, but I'm numb like I'm sippin' tonic.
Masked up, creepin' like a Scooby-Doo villain,
Tryna put man's son on a T-shirt "RIP" in the millions.
Six-shot spin, parked in the cut like a pelican,
Weak in the knees? Nah, he's stiff, call it dical adrenaline.
Slap more than one, but I ain't inna Love Island brawl,
This ain't WWE I'm climbin' walls, no ladder, no call.
Tryna better my circumstances "Amias' now Picasso,"
Still live for the fam, but I'm strapped like a samurai
Back mine out the sheath, you're dead if you harm
Don't know if I'd chart, but the bando's my algorithm.
---
[Bridge]
"Yutes chat slick, but their CV's blank,
Neeks in my DMs tryna link—nah, fam, I ain't.
Teeth in the ride, but the gloves stay clean,
Bro said he knows —cap,
We're strangers on the screen.
Bill spliffs thicker than a cricket bat,
Cut ties if they squeak like a R.A.T. pack,
I don't indulge if it ain't 'bout racks—facts."
---
[Verse 3]
"Shake it, shake it, she wanna shake it
I don't do bets like William Hill, but I bet I'ma die tryna get to the bag
Bad one said that she proud of
But I know all she wants is a Prada bag
I'm running up lag even if my feet cramp
Cuh where I'm born from, nah I won't go back
Shake it, shake it—she's twerkin' for the 'Gram and the P's
Nah, I'm bettin' on God's grace
Cuz where I'm from, heaven's just a postcode with no case…"
{Track Quality: Black and Tan by YT} (How the flow sounds before mixing)
As the track played, Amias watched Zain's reaction from the corner of his eye. The older boy's head bobbed unconsciously with the beat, his expression thoughtful. When the bridge hit, Zain's eyebrows rose slightly. And when the track reached its incomplete ending, trailing off awkwardly, he winced.
"That's it?" Zain asked as silence filled the room.
"That's the problem," Amias admitted. "Can't figure out how to end it."
Zain leaned back, studying Amias with new interest. "Bro, I thought you'd be ass. No offense, but everyone thinks they can rap these days." He shook his head. "But this? This is actually good. Like, proper good."
The praise sent a warm current of satisfaction through Amias' chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, man. Your flow's tight. Lyrics are proper. And that bridge? Sounds like sothing Cench would spit."
"That was the idea," Amias said, pleased that Zain had caught the influence. "Still doesn't solve my ending problem, though."
Zain thought for a mont, then leaned forward. "You're overthinking it. That first chorus hits hard. Just bring it back at the end, maybe repeat it twice. Simple, effective. Bookends the whole thing."
Amias turned back to his computer, considering. It was a straightforward solution, but maybe simplicity was exactly what the track needed. He made the adjustnts, dragging the chorus to the end, duplicating it for emphasis.
"Like this?"
He played the revised ending, and instantly knew Zain was right. The repeated chorus gave the track the closure it needed, bringing it full circle while hamring ho the hook.
"That's it," Zain nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Now it's a proper track."
Amias played the song from the beginning again, this ti with the new ending. The beats pulsed through the room, the bass making the small figurines on his shelf vibrate. His voice, confident and precise, flowed over the instruntal with surprising assurance.
Zain was fully engaged now, bobbing his head more vigorously, occasionally pointing at certain lines with an approving nod.
As the track ended, a mont of silence hung between them before Zain broke it.
"Bro, you've been holding out," he said, voice serious. "How long you been writing like this?"
Amias shrugged, unsure how to explain his sudden leap in ability. "Just started getting serious about it. Been working on my skills."
"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it." Zain pulled out his phone, checking the ti. "We need to get this engineered properly, though. The mix is decent for ho recording, but it needs that professional touch."
"Engineered?" Amias repeated, caught off guard. "I wasn't thinking about releasing it or anything."
Zain looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Are you mad? You can't sit on this. This is good—like, streaming-platform good. First-track-blowing-up good."
"I don't know..." Amias hesitated, the idea of putting his music out into the world both exhilarating and terrifying.
"I do." Zain stood up, energy radiating from him. "I know a guy who does engineering for cheap. Quality work, too. Used by so of the rising artists in the scene."
Amias felt a flutter of excitent despite his reservations. "How much?"
"For a single track like this? Maybe a hundred, hundred-fifty." Zain was already typing sothing on his phone. "Once it's engineered, you need to think about getting a simple visual together."
The conversation was moving faster than Amias could process. From working on the track alone in his room to suddenly discussing engineering and videos—it was a lot.
"Slow down," he said, raising his hands. "I haven't even decided if I'm releasing it."
Zain paused, looking up from his phone. "Bro, what's there to decide? You've got talent. This track bangs. Why wouldn't you put it out?"
It was a fair question. Why was he hesitating? Part of him worried about reaction—what if people hated it? What if they laughed? But another part, a growing part, felt a surge of pride at what he'd created.
"Let think about it," he said finally. "But yeah, maybe getting it engineered would be a good first step."
Zain nodded, satisfied with the concession. "Smart move. Look, I've got to head out—promised my mumsy I'd pick up so things from the shop. But send that track. I want to listen to it properly."
As Amias transferred the file to Zain's phone, a notification appeared in his peripheral vision:
[Sound Engineering: 51/100 ( 1)]
[Flow Control: 53/100 ( 1)]
patréon/c/SincereRoses
Reviews
All reviews (0)