The walk back to Studio C felt different this ti. Amias's mind churned with Pharrell's words, that simple truth that had cut through all his excuses. The hallway seed longer, each step echoing with the weight of decisions unmade.
When he pushed open the heavy door, the scene had shifted. The energy was looser now, less formal. Dre was still at the console but leaning back, bobbing his head to sothing playing through the monitors. 50 sat on the arm of the couch, phone in hand but attention on the room. And Eminem—Marshall—was in the booth, headphones on, lost in his own world as he worked through bars.
"There he is," Dre said without turning. "Thought we lost you to the city."
"Just needed so air," Amias replied, settling back into his corner spot. Through the booth window, he could see Em's lips moving rapidly, his hands cutting through the air as he found his flow. Even without hearing the words clearly, Amias could see the precision, the way each gesture matched a syllable, each pause deliberate.
J. Cole might be his favorite rapper—the introspection, the storytelling, the way Cole could make you feel like he was speaking directly to your situation. But watching Eminem work was sothing else entirely. This was witnessing a master craftsman who'd spent decades perfecting his art until it beca as natural as breathing.
"He's been in there twenty minutes," 50 comnted, following Amias's gaze. "Won't co out till it's perfect."
The beat playing was aggressive, drums hitting like sledgehamrs, the kind of production that demanded bars with teeth. Amias found himself unconsciously nodding along, his fingers tapping the rhythm on his thigh.
After another few minutes, Em finally erged, pulling off the headphones with a satisfied expression. "That's the one," he said simply.
"Let's hear it," Dre said, already pulling up the session.
When Em's verse played back, the room went silent. The technical precision was staggering—multisyllabic rhys stacked on top of each other, flow patterns shifting every few bars, wordplay that revealed new layers with each listen. Amias found himself leaning forward, trying to catch every nuance.
"Damn," was all he could manage when it finished.
The session settled back into its rhythm. Dre started building a new beat, fingers dancing across the MPC pads. Amias pulled out his laptop but found himself more interested in watching the others work. There was sothing almost ditative about it—the way Dre's head would tilt when he found the right snare, how 50 would suddenly perk up when a lody caught his ear.
After a while, Amias drifted over to one of the other workstations where an MPC was connected to a computer running YouTube. He started scrolling through videos aimlessly, looking for inspiration. Old soul tracks, obscure jazz recordings, international music that most hip-hop producers wouldn't think to touch.
Then he found it.
The video was grainy, clearly uploaded from an old recording. So kind of Spanish or Latin Arican performance from what looked like the '70s. The opening had these lush strings, a trumpet that sang rather than played, and underneath it all, this haunting violin lody that made the hair on his arms stand up.
"Yo," Amias said, not even realizing he'd spoken aloud.
Dre looked over, and sothing in Amias's expression must have caught his attention because he rolled his chair over. "What you got?"
Amias played the intro again. When those strings ca in, Dre's eyes lit up the sa way Amias' had.
"That's it right there," Dre said, already reaching for the mouse. "That's heat."
They worked in tandem, Amias identifying the best sections while Dre handled the technical extraction. The vocals on the original were beautiful but would muddy the beat. They needed just the instrunts—that violin, the trumpet, maybe a hint of the guitar underneath.
Amias' fingers flew across the keyboard, isolating different frequency ranges. His Rhythm Recognition skill might not be his best skill, but his Music Theory combined with his Creativity ant he could hear possibilities others might miss. He grabbed a four-bar section where the violin stood almost alone, then found another piece where the trumpet did this ascending run that gave him chills.
"Don't sample it straight," Amias suggested. "Interpolate it. Replay the parts so we can manipulate them better."
Dre nodded approvingly. "You always thinking like a producer who's been sued before," he joked, but he was already pulling up a virtual instrunt to recreate the lody.
Within minutes, Amias had mapped out the exact notes—F minor to B flat, that haunting slide up to D flat that gave the lody its distinctive character. Dre took those notes and began reconstructing them with modern instrunts, keeping the soul of the original while making it their own.
"Now we need drums," Dre said, fingers already moving to the MPC.
"West Coast style," Amias suggested. "But not typical. Sothing that breathes more."
Dre laid down a pattern—kick, snare, kick-kick, snare—but it felt too standard. Amias reached over and adjusted the hi-hats, creating a rolling pattern that wasn't quite trap, wasn't quite boom-bap, but sothing in between.
"And the 808?" Dre asked.
"Long tail," Amias said imdiately. "Let it ring out. Create space."
They worked like that for maybe ten minutes, lost in the creative flow. At so point, 50 had gotten up and was standing behind them, head nodding to the erging beat.
"That trumpet," Amias said suddenly. "Rearrange it. Make it sound like... like a superhero the. That 'dun dun DUN' type pattern."
Dre caught the vision imdiately, fingers flying as he restructured the trumpet line. What erged was triumphant, almost cinematic, but still grounded in that street sensibility.
"Oh, that's tough," 50 said, his approval evident. "That's real tough."
The beat was coming together, but Amias felt it needed sothing more. He went back to YouTube, searching through more videos from the sa era. Another performance caught his eye—.
He scrubbed through until he found what he was looking for. The rapper humming—"mhhhmmm mhhhmmm"—that sent shivers down his spine. In another section, there was this chant: "Gun smoke, gun smoke."
"That," Amias said, pointing at the screen. "We need that."
He pulled the audio, isolated the vocals, and began chopping them up. He didn't want them everywhere—just strategic placent, like seasoning on a dish. The "gun smoke" beca a haunting refrain that appeared between sections, while the humming created atmosphere in the breaks.
"Play the whole thing," 50 requested.
When the full beat played through the studio monitors, the room transford. Everyone was moving—heads nodding, shoulders swaying. Even Em had put down his pad and was fully locked in.
"Yo, I might need to spit on this," 50 said, already pulling out his phone to scroll through lyrics.
"Do it," Dre encouraged, gesturing toward the booth.
50 moved with purpose, that confident stride of soone who'd done this thousands of tis but still felt the excitent. He spent a minute in the booth just vibing to the beat, finding his pocket. When he started recording, his voice ca through the monitors with that distinctive gravel, riding the beat perfectly.
{Reference Track: Gunz N Smoke by Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent & Eminem}
"They say he a big stepper
I'm just sayin' I am not the type to get stepped on
I ain't got a big weapon
Glock 17 with the switch, but the clip long
I ain't finna play wit' you
Boy, you fuck around, I'ma have to catch a fade wit' you
Get the blick in broad day wit' you
Have the lil' homies run down while bae wit' you (Gunsmoke, gunsmoke)
Little man, dope party
Got him out the night, but the nigga got four bodies
Who want smoke? Nobody
Goin' once, goin' twice, don't want to smoke nobody
Tell what you know 'bout it
Strapped right now, nigga, how you want go 'bout it?
I'm not the one you lean on
The type you wanna try apply pressure to and sche on
Pussy nigga, dream on
Run, nigga, run 'til I have to click the beam on
Red dot ya, I got ya, B.I.G. ti (Woo), who shot ya?
I dropped ya, who popped ya? Shit lit
Soon as I spot ya, ooh-wee
Why would you be fuckin' with ? (Gun smoke, gun smoke)"
When he erged, the energy in the room had shifted. This wasn't just a beat anymore—it was becoming a song.
"That's what I'm talking about," Dre said, playing back the recording. "You set the tone perfect."
50 hit Amias's shoulder—not hard, but that brotherly gesture of approval. "You know the West Coast vibe, huh?"
"Learning from the best," Amias replied, but his mind was already moving. Listening to 50's verse had triggered sothing, lyrics forming in his head. So were lines he'd written before, others ca fresh, inspired by the mont.
"Mind if I try sothing?" Amias asked.
"Do your thing," 50 said, settling onto the couch.
Amias entered the booth, adjusting the mic to his height. The beat filled his headphones, and he let it loop once, twice, finding his entry point. When he started, his flow was different from 50's—more lodic in places, but with an underlying nace that matched the production.
"Let's take a second here for this mont of violence
You sll it in the air, product of my environnt
I co from chilln' over gunshots and sirens
Nothing more gangster than my voice over these violins
Get down, lay down, it's the wolf of the Dog Pound, yeah
Playground, shakedown, Autobahn, no brakes now
Skinny nigga back pushin' weight now
New Murder Record on the plate now
More details, please do tell
What's that sll, nigga? (Gun smoke, Gun smoke)
Shit, you would too, if you knew
What a young nigga had to do
Rendezvous with Cap'ri or two
Rock shit up like Mötley Crüe
In this fight, you gotta stick and move
All my life, I had to show and prove
Still a nigga with a attitude
If you ain't gangster, this is not for you
Yeah, bullet holes in the Windsor trees (Windsor trees)
Dirty money in the laundry (Laundry)
Ten toes in the concrete (Concrete)
Niggas know where to find (Find)
I got a long reach, that river Thas reach
And you saw what happened to the last nigga
That tried to ss with my Family (Gun smoke)"
When he finished and stepped out, the room was quiet for a mont.
"That's so real West Coast shit," Dre said finally. "You sure you were born in Texas and not Cali?"
Amias laughed.
They played the track back, and it was undeniable—50 had set the perfect tone, and Amias had matched it while adding his own flavor. The beat knocked, the performances were locked in, and there was still room for more.
"This is calling for ," Em said suddenly, setting down his pad. "Play it again."
He entered the booth with that focused intensity Amias had observed earlier. But this ti, Amias could see everything—the way Em adjusted the mic just so, how he closed his eyes for the first few bars to internalize the rhythm, the slight sway that ant he'd found his pocket.
When Em started his verse, it was like watching a masterclass in real-ti. His flow shifted and morphed, sotis riding the beat, sotis fighting against it in ways that created tension. The technical skill on display was humbling—multi-syllabic rhys that shouldn't work but did, internal rhys that created their own rhythm within the rhythm.
"I rember when I was thirteen
Searchin' for how to get my revenge on the world that hurt
Thirsty for commas, them double entendres
Turned to an entrepreneur and a monster
Constantly caught in so kind of controversy (Gun smoke, Gun smoke)
That was my mantra, to taunt ya was kinda condescending
But why should I be kind to the kind of people that weren't kind to
Comin' up? So like that syrup they canceled
I'ma say, "Fuck you and your mama," then bla my rap persona (Gun smoke, Gun smoke)
That's the excuse that I used to explain my grammar
Allowing to just do what I do and not face the ramifications
So I could air my frustrations
But I'll be damned if the sa reporter's gonna shove another tape recorder
And cara in my face while I am at the Burger King
Just to grab my lil' baby daughter a hamburger like Shady oughta be amicable
Guess that's the price that you pay for all the glamour, the fa and stardom
Like when you're treated just like an animal (Gun smoke, Gun smoke)
You'll not act like one when you ca from bottom
But they gonna make wanna pull a llama
And make like I'm a chanical bull (Yeah)
Fuck around and buck these hoes, ain't talkin' no luxury clothes
Two nines I tuck, see those?
Like Rock & Roll Hall of Fars, try and duck deez, yo
Hey, what the fuck you want?
Didn't I just see you yesterday?
Fuck outta here, fuck it, bitch
Now I'm much older, and I may be calr
Run up on , and I might be a little less likely
To go crazy on ya, and let the"
Amias found himself studying every aspect—how Em used the space between bars, the way he played with his voice to create different textures, the breathing patterns that let him maintain that rapid-fire delivery without losing clarity.
"Jesus," Amias muttered under his breath.
The verse seed to go on forever and end too soon simultaneously. When Em erged from the booth, there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead—evidence of the effort, even if he made it look effortless.
"That's why he's the GOAT," 50 said simply.
They played the full track 10 tis—all three verses over that haunting beat Amias and Dre had crafted. It was undeniable heat, the kind of song that would have the streets and the critics talking.
"This is crazy," Amias said, still processing what they'd just created.
"This is hip-hop," Dre corrected. "This is what it's about. Different styles, different voices, but all serving the music."
The energy in the room was electric. Amias felt inspired, wanting to push himself further. "Yo, Dre, you got sothing darker? More aggressive?"
Dre scrolled through his beat folder. "What kind of aggressive we talking?"
"Like... paranoid aggressive. That kind of beat that makes you feel like soone's watching you."
Dre pulled up sothing that imdiately changed the room's atmosphere. The drums were sparse but hit like gunshots, the lody minimal but nacing. It was the kind of beat that demanded a certain approach.
"I want to try sothing," Amias said, already moving toward the booth. "Been sitting on so lyrics about... so real shit that happened."
In the booth, he let the beat wash over him. The lyrics he'd been carrying—his frustrations from the day—his admiration for Eminem—finally found their outlet. His flow adapted, becoming more aggressive, matching the paranoid energy of the production.
{Reference Track: Realest Eminem, Ez Mil}
"I'm on whatever you on, I ain't gon' talk on the phone (haha)
Keep that sa energy fuckin' with enemies
It's gettin' temptin' to run in your ho, huh, huh
Buddy, I'd do it alone, cuddy said, "Wait up my fam!
Don't just go hit 'em 'cause I gotta drive you
Focus on aimin' that blick at his do!"
You lot be lucky as hell that ain't nobody envious of you enough
Take it from , like a brother who dug off the mud on his head, but done ended up actin tuff
Then he just gets spat into a grave and a world where he regret what he did
'Cause he learned "Give it up or get hoed in turn"
I'm the realest in the business and everybody gon' be envious of my beginnings
Got a circus full of sinners with bodies, so stop tryna be another addition
I done got hit on the head, barely survived that shit
Minus a nine from ten, Amias' spot still sits
But forget a position, I'm tunin' myself in
Let all you rock out with it, I ain't ever gonna be an opt-out mission
Get the Glock out with it, get to poppin', dip out and smoke
With the homies, we mobbin', while I'm cleanin' the stash of my calibers
So of them might got ya' na on 'em
While I brag about shit that could happen
I am the reason that they got a chain on 'em
When I rap, they consider a Gatling
Fillin' up mags, I'm finna go clap 'em
Gettin' that bag with the G.O.A.T, Dr, this a new flow
I'm in the mode to get to killin' again with the best
Stick in your do, you're never gettin' a penny or less
Stealin' the flows, then I'ma spit it again as a test
Sick of these hoes, they get to bitchin' the bigger the breast
Nevertheless, I'ma get it in a way that you can never better
Instead of settin' a bet up, I lmight pop out at the BET."
Midway through, he shifted, attempting to match the rapid-fire flow he'd just witnessed from Em. It was ambitious, maybe too ambitious, but he pushed through, his delivery getting faster, more complex.
When he erged, slightly breathless, Em was watching him with an unreadable expression.
"You said 'got hit on the head, barely survived that shit,'" Em noted. "That's just rap cap, right?"
Amias hesitated, then pointed to his jaw, revealing the scar. It had healed well, but the mark was still visible—a reminder of how close he'd co.
"Soone tried to shoot ," Amias said simply. "Missed, mostly. Grazed here."
The room went quiet. 50 leaned forward, studying the scar with the eye of soone who'd seen his share of violence. Em's expression shifted from skepticism to sothing more complex.
"That's fresh," 50 observed. "Recent."
"Yeah," Amias confird. "It's... it's a long story. Like, hours long. Deep stuff."
"We got ti," Em said, but Amias shook his head.
"Another day, maybe. Right now, I just want to channel it into the music."
Em studied him for a long mont, then nodded. "I feel that. Sotis the booth is the only place that makes sense." He moved toward the door. "Matter of fact, let add sothing to this."
He entered the booth with renewed purpose, adjusting the mic with practiced efficiency. When he started, his flow was different—more personal, more raw.
"Guess I've really no right to complain much, hip-hop has been good to , huh? (Well)
But when they say that I'm only top five, 'cause I'm white, why would I be stunned?
My skin color's still working against (what?), 'cause second I should be to none
Being white ain't why they put at five (nope), it's why they can't put at one (whoot)
They're comin' with more venom, so the haters I'm aimin' it towards them, and
All the envious rappers, I'd torch if I'm on a joint with 'em (yuh)
And that is the only retort is I'm not played in the clubs, motherfucker, put a cork in it
Only reason they still play your shit in the clubs (why?), is 'cause you still perform in 'em (haha)
I am a guest in this house, but I turned this bitch to a mansion
That's an expansion, made it gargantuan England, Germany, France and Japan's in this bitch
Even Dubai, because my music they do buy
You die tryin' this scientists two psy-
Chiatrists could not un-screw my head up the blue eyed devil I never quit, do I?
Nah, 'cause you know you'll get washed like a bar of soap, you pussy, you wouldn't give a cigar to smoke
And I know it eats at your heart like an artichoke, because you know that's how likely you are to choke
Your heart is broke, as I rip you apart I go bananas, precede to spit every bar I wrote
I was spittin' before my mother's water broke, it's not even close, you bitch, I'm by far the goat
Gen-Zers actin' like rap experts, zip up your gaps and close your mouths
Bitch, you ain't been on this planet long enough to tell how rap's supposed to sound (nah)
Y'all need to stick to what you do best, shootin' schools up, yeah, go load up rounds
In your parents' gats and go to class and let off with the strap and go to town
Shout to the Furious Five and Grandmaster Flash, but boy (what up, doe?)
There's soone who really is furious, stay out his path his wrath avoid
And I'll be the last to toy with, a juice head whose brain is like half-destroyed
Like a teor hit it, well, there went lle l, we lost his ass to 'roids (damn)
God was like, "I got him," but I'm gonna start him at the bottom of the barrel brought him in the world
With a ma that was on valium and his father was a coward, taught him as a child when no fucking body was around
How to get himself up and out of poverty and now not even a growl in his stomach gotta be a hound
'Til they put your body in the ground, probably gonna sound like a cliché, but when haters try to beat you down
Say fuck 'em
I'm just playin', Gen Z, you know I love you"
The session continued like that—creation and collaboration, everyone pushing each other to go harder, dig deeper. They weren't just making music; they were having a conversation through beats and bars, each verse a response to what ca before.
By the ti they took a break, Amias's head was spinning with everything he'd absorbed. Watching these legends work, seeing their different approaches to the sa craft, had given him new perspective on his own artistry.
"You got potential," Em said during the break, sipping water. "Real potential. The technical ability is there, the creativity definitely. Just need to fully figure out what you're really trying to say."
"It's a process," Dre added. "Took years to find my real voice. Took Marshall even longer to figure out how to channel everything into sothing constructive."
"Still working on that," Em said with a self-deprecating laugh.
The conversation drifted to other topics—the state of hip-hop, the new generation coming up, war stories from their respective co-ups. Amias mostly listened, absorbing not just the words but the wisdom behind them.
They talked about influences, about the importance of studying the greats while finding your own lane. Em shared stories about his early battles in Detroit, how he'd had to prove himself twice as hard. 50 talked about the hunger that drove him, that need to make it out by any ans necessary.
"The ga's different now," Dre observed. "Social dia, streaming, all that. But the core is the sa—you need sothing real to say, and you need to say it in a way nobody else can."
"You're closer than you think," Em said, surprising him. "That verse you just spit? When you stopped just spoke your truth? That's your voice. That's what you connect with."
He didn't respond, and though the words resonated, echoing Pharrell's earlier observation. The advice didn't sound like what he needed to hear.
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