The studio at tropolis was bathed in the soft glow of ambient lighting, the darkness outside the windows transforming them into mirrors that reflected Amias's silhouette as his fingers moved across the keys of the grand piano in the corner. The lody that erged was haunting—fragnts of sothing ancient and lancholic, intertwined with modern progressions.
Three in the morning, and London slept while Amias worked.
His phone lay silent beside him, the screen still displaying the summary of his finances that he'd been reviewing for the past half hour with the tax specialist 50 had connected him with. Martin Leibowitz—a bald, bespectacled man with thirty years of experience managing the finances of musicians far more established than Amias. Their Zoom call had been brisk but thorough, covering everything from international royalty collection to tax implications of his growing business ventures.
"You're in a unique position," Leibowitz had said, his New York accent sharp even through the digital connection. "Multiple revenue streams diversifying rapidly, but still early enough to establish proper structures. Most artists don't think about this until they're drowning in audit notices."
Amias had nodded, absorbing the information like everything else the System directed him toward—efficiently, comprehensively, without emotion clouding his judgnt. The eting had been useful, one less burden on his ntal ledger. But he'd maintained his guard throughout, revealing only what was necessary. Trust was a currency he couldn't afford to spend freely, regardless of who had made the introduction.
Now, alone with the piano, he allowed his guard to lower slightly. The lody shifted beneath his fingers, becoming sothing more vulnerable. Without conscious intent, his throat tightened with the familiar pressure of words and notes seeking release—the urge to sing rising like a tide within him.
For a mont, he nearly surrendered to it. His lips parted, breath drawn in preparation—
Then mory flashed: his father's face, contorted with rage; the belt whistling through air; his mother's desperate attempts to shield him.
Amias's hands stilled on the keys, the lody dying abruptly. He exhaled slowly, burying the impulse beneath layers of practiced control. The silence that followed felt like a physical presence in the room.
"Didn't realize anyone was still here."
The voice from the doorway startled him. Amias turned to find Oakley leaning against the fra, a paper bag from so late-night takeaway place dangling from his fingers.
"Thought you'd left hours ago," Amias said, recovering his composure quickly.
Oakley shrugged, stepping into the studio and dropping the food bag on a nearby table. "Went for a food run. Needed to clear my head." He gestured toward the piano. "Don't stop on my account."
"I was finished anyway," Amias replied, closing the fallboard over the keys with careful precision.
"Sounded good," Oakley comnted, settling into one of the leather swivel chairs. "Didn't know you played."
"There's a lot of things people don't know."
A comfortable silence settled between them as Oakley unwrapped a sandwich, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. His eyes—always observant despite his laid-back deanor—studied Amias with unexpected intensity.
"I can leave if you need the space," Amias offered, already reaching for his phone.
Oakley shook his head. "Nah, you're good. Actually wanted to catch you alone without all the mandem around."
Sothing in his tone made Amias pause. This wasn't the casual conversation of family mbers crossing paths; there was purpose behind Oakley's presence here.
"What's on your mind?" Amias asked, turning to face him properly.
Oakley set his sandwich aside, wiping his hands on a napkin before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual performative confidence, replaced by sothing rawer.
"Why do you work so hard?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"What do you an?" Amias countered, buying ti to formulate his response.
"Every day," Oakley continued, gesturing vaguely around the studio, "I see you grinding. Preparing. Planning. Moving like a machine. Most man would be celebrating after getting a GRM Daily feature, linking with 50, all that. But you're here at three in the morning, working like you're still at square one." He paused, searching Amias's face. "I never even considered speaking to labels until I was years in the ga. You've been at this less than a month and you're already turning down deals and setting up your own distribution."
Amias considered the question carefully, weighing what to reveal. The System remained his secret but the philosophy it had instilled in him—that was sothing he could share.
"The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward," he said finally, the words feeling like smooth stones in his mouth, polished by frequent ntal repetition. "Nothing exceptional cos from average effort."
Oakley nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the large studio window where the London skyline glittered like a circuit board in the distance. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the subtle hum of the studio equipnt and the distant rumble of night traffic.
"I'm thinking of delaying Wild West," Oakley said abruptly.
The statent caught Amias by surprise. Wild West—Oakley's mixtape—was scheduled to drop in March. The marketing machine was already in motion, with singles charting and anticipation building across social dia.
"Why?" Amias asked, genuinely curious.
Oakley ran a hand over his hair, exhaling heavily. "Been watching you, cuz. The way you approach this shit. You've been rapping properly for what—three, four weeks? And you've already got half a quality mixtape completed. Your writing... it's different. Technical but authentic. And the way you're handling the business side..."
He trailed off, shaking his head slightly before continuing.
"Made realize I ain't been taking this serious enough. In my studio in Shepherd's ushB, it's girls, drinks, mandem—more like a party than work. Your sessions? All focus, all purpose."
Amias recognized the admission for what it was—not just professional respect, but a rare mont of vulnerability from soone who had learned early to guard his thoughts behind an impenetrable exterior.
"So I need to commit to this properly," Oakley continued. "Like you. Take the ti to make sure Wild West is actually the best it can be."
The words hung in the air, a request for validation thinly disguised as a statent of intent. Amias weighed his response carefully.
"You want to be honest with you?" he asked.
Oakley held his gaze steadily. "Yeah."
"Your marketing is solid," Amias began, shifting into an analytical mode that ca naturally when discussing strategy. "Your mixtape concept is well-planned, your rch sells out consistently. You've got the foundations covered better than most."
Oakley nodded, waiting for the inevitable "but" that hovered unspoken between them.
"But," Amias continued, not disappointing, "there are gaps. Where's your tour tech strategy? Your US distribution plan? The rch is moving, but where's the high-end collector pieces to maximize revenue from your core fans? And so of those older tracks you're planning to include—they should be re-recorded with the equipnt you have access to now. The sound quality difference is noticeable."
He paused, watching his words land. Oakley didn't appear offended—just thoughtful, processing.
"You've got a lot of producers and engineers reviewing the project," Amias continued, "but what you really need is cohesion. The singles you've already released—Loading, Commitnt Issues, Pinging, 6 for 6, Day in the Life—they're your strongest material, and they're already out. What's left on the mixtape that will make people say, 'I haven't heard anything like this from him before'?"
The question lingered, unanswered but acknowledged in the slight furrow of Oakley's brow.
"Right now," Amias concluded, "you've got a number one contender, not a number one blowout."
Oakley absorbed the critique silently, fingers tapping against his knee in an unconscious rhythm. When he finally spoke, there was no defensiveness in his tone—only curiosity.
"The US distribution thing—I've been holding off deliberately. Wanted to dominate the UK market first, build more leverage for when I negotiate with the Arican labels."
Amias nodded, understanding the logic but seeing its limitations. "Makes sense as a strategy. But what if I told you I could get you a deal—a good one—better terms than any label would offer right now?"
Oakley's eyes narrowed slightly. "How?"
"Don't worry about the how," Amias replied, the beginnings of a plan forming as he spoke. "But if I can make it happen, would you accept?"
"I'd have to review the terms," Oakley said cautiously, "but if it's as good as you're suggesting... yeah, I'd consider it."
Amias nodded, ntally adding another item to his growing list of objectives. The conversation lulled montarily as Oakley reached for his sandwich again, taking another bite before his attention was caught by sothing on Amias's wrist as he reached for his phone.
"Is that a tattoo?"
Amias extended both arms, displaying the ink on his skin—the winter tree reflection on one wrist, the Bible verse with its accompanying design on the other forearm.
"Just got them earlier today—well yesterday." he confird.
Oakley leaned closer, examining the detailed work. "These are tough. Really clean lines. Who did them?"
"Artist nad Ellie, studio in Camden Market."
"Your mum was alright with it?"
A slight smile touched Amias's lips. "She ca with ."
Sothing like approval flickered across Oakley's features. He leaned back in his chair, returning to their previous topic with renewed focus.
"About the mixtape—you think I should delay it, then?"
"Actually, no," Amias replied, surprising him. "I think you should release it earlier."
Oakley's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"I'll give you a daily schedule—the sa one I use. If you follow it, you'll be able to release a better mixtape sooner rather than later." Amias's tone left no room for doubt. "Montum is everything in this ga. You've got it now—use it."
"Bet," Oakley said after a mont's consideration. "Let see this miracle schedule of yours."
Amias reached for his phone, pulling up the detailed itinerary that had beco his blueprint for maximum efficiency—a regin designed by the System's Legend Maker path.
"Five a.m. wake-up," he began, scrolling through the docunt. "Cold shower, ten minutes of ditation, voice training exercises while preparing breakfast..."
Oakley's eyes widened increntally as Amias continued through the rigorous daily plan—blocks dedicated to business developnt, content creation, studio ti, physical training (for Amias, swimming), networking, and strategic study sessions, all ticulously organized with barely a mont wasted.
"Jesus," Oakley muttered when Amias finished. "And you actually stick to this?"
"Every day," Amias confird. "With adjustnts for specific opportunities, of course."
"And it works?"
"Look at what I've accomplished."
The statent wasn't boastful—just factual. Oakley nodded slowly, a new respect evident in his expression.
"I'll give it a go," he said finally. "Not promising I'll hit every mark, but I'll try it."
A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that only exists between people connected by sothing deeper than circumstance. Oakley finished his sandwich, crumpling the wrapper thoughtfully before speaking again.
"Hey, where'd you get that beat you used in the second part of your Daily Duppy freestyle? The Caribbean vibe one?"
A strange sensation rippled through Amias—like déjà vu but more substantial. He felt the System's notification before he saw it, a subtle vibration against his consciousness.
FUTURE PATH ALIGNING—CRITICAL JUNCTURE IDENTIFIED
This notification will not repeat. A future event from your original tiline is recurring despite your altered path.
Amias blinked, processing the alert while maintaining his outward composure.
"Got it from LiTek originally," he answered smoothly. "Worked on it, restructured so elents, enhanced the bass."
"It's sick," Oakley said, genuine appreciation in his voice. "You mind if I remix it? Or sample it for sothing?"
"For sure," Amias replied, weighing his options carefully. "Actually, Tion Wayne also asked about it."
"Yeah?" Oakley raised an eyebrow. "Might be worth letting him have it too. Could be a good payout for you."
Amias shook his head. "Too many uses would dilute the impact. Make it sound played out before it even gets a chance to breathe." He made his decision: "It's yours if you want it."
"Right, appreciate that," Oakley said, nodding. "Think I've got an idea for sothing on the mixtape—could work really well with that beat."
"Consider it done, then."
Oakley leaned back in his chair, studying Amias with renewed interest. "Your mum ntioned you're heading to New York in a few days. For 50's show?"
"Yeah," Amias confird. "Opening slot on two."
"That's mad," Oakley said, genuine admiration coloring his words. "Fifty Cent actually ntoring you."
Amias shrugged slightly. "Don't know if I'd call it ntoring yet. He's too busy for that level of commitnt. More like... guidance. Opening doors."
"Still," Oakley insisted, "that's a major connection. You planning on breaking into the US market properly, then?"
"Yes," Amias answered without hesitation. "And so should you."
The directness of the statent seed to catch Oakley off guard. He considered it for a mont before responding.
"You've got it all mapped out, haven't you?" There was a mixture of amusent and genuine curiosity in his tone. "What exactly are your plans once the mixtape drops?"
"Let's take over UK rap," Amias said simply.
Oakley caught the specific phrasing imdiately. "'Let's'? As in both of us?"
"Yes."
A slow smile spread across Oakley's face. "And after that? After both our mixtapes land?"
Amias t his cousin's gaze steadily, the weight of his ambition evident in the quiet certainty of his response.
"Then we take over rap itself."
The words hung in the air between them—not a boast but a blueprint, spoken with such conviction that it seed less a prediction than an inevitability.
Outside, the first hints of dawn began to lighten the London skyline, the city still sleeping, unaware of the plans being laid in the quiet of tropolis Studios. The cousins regarded each other in silence, sothing unspoken but powerful passing between them—recognition, perhaps, that separately they were formidable, but together they might be unstoppable.
Oakley extended his fist. Amias t it with his own.
"North and West," Oakley said softly, giving Amias' new label na its first verbal acknowledgnt alongside his own brand.
"The new compass points of music," Amias agreed.
And in that mont, as the pale January sun began its ascent over London, it felt less like youthful arrogance and more like prophecy.
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