Amias let his fingers dance across the digital piano keys, each note flowing naturally from memory as he played a melancholy progression in E minor. The studio—the one Oakley had secured for him—felt like a sanctuary. Everyone had gone out for food, leaving him alone with his thoughts and music.
The melody he played was something he'd been working on for days—melancholic yet hopeful, complex chord progressions layered with delicate arpeggios. With his Music Theory now at 82/100, instruments had become extensions of himself rather than tools to be mastered. The piano and violin came most naturally, though he'd only practiced on digital versions so far.
He closed his eyes, letting muscle memory guide him. The melody he was playing had been haunting him for days—something soulful that didn't quite fit the harder tracks he'd been recording for the mixtape. It was the kind of piece that needed room to breathe, space to develop beyond the tight constraints of a three-minute rap song.
His phone vibrated against the table, breaking his concentration. Notifications were piling up—another fifty users had joined LinkUp in the past hour.
The app had officially launched yesterday thanks to the heavy lifting The System had done on the technical architecture, providing a complete blueprint that would have cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to commission from a development team. All Amias had to do was handle the business side—securing legal frameworks, setting up payment processing, and establishing the brand identity.
For now, he'd launched with just the core functionality—connecting artists, producers, and other music professionals in a specialized social network. The more complex features like royalty distribution and producer crediting would come later, once he got lawyers to get the legal frameworks finalized.
"System," he murmured, keeping his voice low even though he was alone. "Give me the latest stats on the app."
The familiar blue holographic interface materialized in his vision.
"LinkUp: 127 total users. 48 producers, 63 artists, 16 engineers. Growth rate accelerating at 22% per hour since public announcement. First connection successfully facilitated between producer in Birmingham and vocalist in Manchester."
Amias allowed himself a small smile.
He'd invested in an advertising slot in Metropolis Studios' main hall—a digital display showcasing the app to the constant stream of industry professionals passing through. It had cost a chunk of his remaining budget, but the targeted exposure seemed worth it. Every major artist and producer passed through here eventually.
His social media numbers were climbing steadily too: 7,000 on Instagram, 5,000 on Twitter, 10,000 subscribers on his music YouTube channel, and 8,000 on his content channel. The Twitch had pulled in 2,000 followers already.
The numbers weren't staggering, but the growth curve was steep—practically vertical compared to most emerging artists. The System's analytics projected he'd hit fifty thousand followers across platforms by the time the mixtape dropped if the current trajectory held.
Amias closed the app and returned to the piano, picking up where he'd left off. The melody had evolved in his mind during the brief interruption, taking on a darker, more introspective quality. He made a mental note to record it properly later.
London. The title still felt right. Simple, direct, evocative of everything he wanted to express.
Beyond that, the day had been surreal, even by the standards of his new life. Meeting Skepta and Dave—two legends of UK rap—had left him quietly stunned, though he'd maintained his composure externally.
—
Six hours earlier, he'd been working with Zel and Jaime on a beat when the studio door had swung open. The entourage that entered was small but impactful—three security personnel, two assistants, and then, unmistakably, Skepta himself. Behind him, Dave stepped into the room, his quiet presence commanding attention without effort.
Jaime had stopped mid-adjustment on the console, his mouth slightly open. Even Zel—usually unfazed by anyone—straightened his posture.
"You must be Amias," Skepta said, extending his hand. "Your cousin's been chatting serious about you."
Amias stood, his heartbeat quickening despite his outward calm. "Honor to meet you," he said simply, gripping Skepta's hand firmly.
"Heard that track you laid down with Oakley," Dave added, stepping forward for his own handshake. "GDP, is it? Serious flows, man."
What followed was a ten-minute masterclass that Amias knew would stay with him forever. Unprompted, the two artists offered advice on navigating the industry, protecting creative control, and maintaining longevity.
"Listen, this game changes fast," Skepta told him, leaning against the mixing desk. "What blows up today might sound dated next year. You want career, not just moment."
Dave nodded in agreement. "The ones who last are the ones who keep evolving. Don't get comfortable in one sound."
Skepta looked at him intently. "And watch them contracts. Everyone's your best friend until money's involved."
"50's in the building too," Dave mentioned casually as they prepared to leave. "Maybe you'll bump into him."
The visit had been brief but profound. As they'd left, Amias replayed every word in his mind, committing their advice to memory. He wasn't starstruck exactly but he recognized the value of wisdom from those who'd walked the path before him.
After they'd gone, he'd headed to another studio within the complex, where LiTek had been working with a group of producers. When he entered, they were in the middle of a friendly beat-making competition, passing a laptop back and forth, each adding elements to an evolving track.
The beat that filled the room when he walked in stopped him in his tracks—heavy bass, an infectious melody, perfectly engineered drums. It wasn't finished—clearly a work in progress—but Amias felt its potential immediately.
[Reference Beat: Doja by Central Cee]
"That one," he said, pointing toward the laptop. "How much?"
LiTek looked up, surprised. "This? It's nowhere near done, fam."
"Don't care. How much?"
The producers exchanged glances, clearly not expecting to sell what was essentially a sketch.
"Four hundred," WhyJay said finally, perhaps assuming Amias would negotiate down.
Instead, Amias pulled out his phone, transferred the money immediately, and nodded. "Send the stems to my email."
As he walked out, he heard one of them mutter, "Man's moving different these days."
—
Now, alone in his studio, Amias saved his piano composition and pulled up the beat he'd purchased. He'd made decent progress on it but it was someways away from what it could be, but there was a perfect canvas for what he was envisioning.
The door opened, breaking his concentration. His friends filtered in, carrying takeaway bags and drinks. Tyler and Jordan led the way, followed by Zara, who immediately claimed the seat beside him. Then, after Zel and Jamie came in, walking slower but steadier than last time he'd seen him, came Zane.
"Hospital food is dead," Zane announced, dropping into a chair. "Needed some proper chicken."
Amias grinned, genuinely happy to see his friend looking stronger. "About time you showed up. The song you made me release is doing its work in the charts,"
It was true—"I'm Tryna" had climbed to number 76 in the UK charts.
"Yeah, well," Zane matched his smile. "You've been doing your thing."
There was so much unspoken in that statement—the shooting, Amias's sudden rise, the mixtape, the changes that had swept through their lives in a matter of weeks.
"You look better," Amias observed, genuinely relieved to see color in his friend's cheeks.
"Feel better too," Zane replied. "My mum was crying all day yesterday when they said I could go home. Wouldn't stop thanking God and everyone else who'd listen."
Amias nodded, understanding the depth of relief Zane's family must be feeling. "You need to sit down?"
"Nah, been sitting too much," Zane said with a small laugh that turned into a wince. "Still hurts when I laugh though."
"Here," Jordan said, distributing the food containers. "Got you jerk chicken and rice. And before you say anything, yes, I remembered the plantain."
As they settled around the studio's small seating area, the conversation flowed easily between them—Zane catching up on what he'd missed, the others filling him in on the progress of Amias's career and the upcoming GRM Daily Duppy freestyle.
"That's today?" Zane asked, eyes widening. "Man, I leave you alone for a week and you're already doing a Daily Duppy?"
Amias smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through him at having his friend back. "Just got the timing confirmed this morning. Shooting at eight tonight."
"I'm coming with," Zane declared immediately.
"You sure you're up for that?" Zel asked, concern evident in his voice.
"Try and stop me," Zane replied with a determination that brooked no argument.
"When you heading to GRM?" Jordan asked, mouth half-full of chips.
Amias checked the time. "Forty minutes. Need to be there by six."
"And I'm coming with you as well," Zara stated, not asking permission.
"Your parents don't want you home early?" Amias raised an eyebrow, knowing her strict curfew.
She held his gaze, a small smile playing at her lips. "Yes, but I'm coming with you."
Something in her tone softened his resistance. He found himself smiling back, unable to maintain his usual stoic facade. "Alright then."
Tyler and Jordan exchanged knowing looks that Amias pretended not to notice.
The next half hour passed quickly as they listened to the tracks Amias had completed for his mixtape. Zane, hearing them for the first time, was effusive in his praise.
"This is madness, fam. Proper madness. You're going to blow."
Before he could respond, three sharp knocks echoed through the studio door, cutting through the ambient hum of equipment. Everyone exchanged glances, not expecting any more visitors today.
"You expecting someone else?" Tyler asked, looking toward Amias.
Amias shook his head, setting down his water bottle as he moved toward the door. "Nah, probably just someone from the studio staff."
—
Earlier that day
Curtis Jackson adjusted his fitted cap as he stepped out of the black Range Rover onto London's rain-slicked pavement. The January air hit sharp against his face, colder than New York had been when he'd left. He pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself, nodding to his security detail as they flanked him.
"Fifty! Over here, man."
Skepta was waiting at the entrance to Metropolis Studios, hand extended. Curtis grasped it firmly, pulling the UK artist in for a brief embrace.
"Good to see you, bro," Curtis said, following Skepta into the building's warm interior. "How's it been?"
"Can't complain," Skepta replied as they walked through the sleek lobby. "London's London. Always moving."
Inside, the studio complex hummed with the familiar energy Curtis recognized from recording spaces worldwide—a mix of hushed anticipation and creative electricity. He'd been in London for three days now, primarily promoting Power Book II: Ghost on various radio shows, but had carved out time to connect with the UK music scene. His respect for British grime and hip-hop had grown substantially over recent years, and maintaining these relationships was important.
Dave was waiting for them near the elevators, dressed simply in black jeans and a gray sweatshirt, a stark contrast to his commanding stage presence.
"50, respect," Dave said, shaking his hand. "Didn't know you were coming through today."
"Last minute thing," Curtis explained. "Wanted to see what's popping in the scene while I'm here. Skepta mentioned you're all checking on somebody?"
"Yeah, an artist," Skepta nodded as they stepped into the elevator. "Central Cee—Oakley. He's working on his mixtape 'Wild West'."
"He's blowing up quick," Dave added. "Got this real authentic sound."
Curtis nodded appreciatively. The elevator doors opened to a hallway lined with studios, bass lines leaking through the supposedly soundproofed walls.
As they walked, Curtis's mind drifted to Pop Smoke. It had been almost a year since the kid's death, but the wound still felt fresh. He'd seen so much of himself in Pop—that hunger, that raw talent. Had planned to mentor him properly, guide him through the industry's pitfalls. Then, just like that, some greedy motherfuckers had taken it all away in a home invasion robbery gone wrong.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was his production partner about a meeting later for a new television project. He silenced it—he'd call back after this studio visit.
"Through here," Skepta gestured toward a door marked Studio 4.
Inside, the space was alive with activity. Several young men huddled around a mixing console, while a tall, lean figure in a gray tracksuit was adjusting levels on the board. Curtis recognized him immediately as Central Cee from the videos he'd watched online—curious about this new voice coming out of the UK scene.
"Cench," Skepta called out. "Brought someone to check the session."
Central Cee looked up, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Curtis. He maintained his composure though, extending a hand. "Respect. Thanks for coming through."
Curtis took in the young artist's demeanor—calm, focused, not easily starstruck. He respected that immediately.
"Heard good things," Curtis replied, settling into a chair behind the console. "Let me hear what you're working with."
For the next twenty minutes, Central Cee played through several tracks from his upcoming mixtape. Curtis nodded along, genuinely impressed by the production quality and lyrical content. The kid had a distinct style—clear influences from American trap but delivered with unmistakable London energy and slang.
"Yo, play that one Amias made," someone called from the back of the room—a producer who'd been introduced as Taz.
Central Cee glanced over. "You sure? It's not even mixed properly yet."
"Trust me," Taz insisted. "He needs to hear this."
With a nod, Central Cee cued up another track. The beat dropped—hard drums, a haunting sample, perfectly balanced bass. Then the verses kicked in, two distinct voices trading bars. Curtis leaned forward, attention caught by the second voice especially—younger sounding, with a curious hybrid accent that slipped between London and something that sounded vaguely American South.
When the lyrics hit—"Latex gloves, I'm on a drill, watch'em fall, Jack and Jill/Up on the opps, seven to nil, Premier League, I'm in the field"—Curtis raised an eyebrow, impressed by the wordplay.
The track continued: "Two things that you'll never see is me run from an opp or a bitch in my will/Got day ones, and I'm with 'em still, fightin' demons, swallowin' pills."
By the time it reached "Internet beef, if I catch you in traffic, the fuck you gon' do, nigga, type me?", Curtis was nodding appreciatively, genuinely caught by surprise at the quality.
"Who's the second voice?" he asked when the track faded out.
"My cousin, Amias," Central Cee answered. "He's in another studio down the hall working on his own stuff."
"Y'all been rapping together long?" Curtis asked, curious about their creative relationship.
A strange look passed between Central Cee and his crew, followed by muffled laughter.
"Nah," Central Cee said, shaking his head with a hint of disbelief in his voice. "He literally just started this month."
Curtis stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he looked around at the others.
"You're fucking with me, right?"
"Swear down," a young man—introduced earlier as Wyge—chimed in. "Amias just started rapping like three weeks ago. Kid's seventeen, just turned last week. Never recorded professionally before this month."
"And he wrote his entire verse?" Curtis pressed, skeptical. "No ghostwriter?"
"None," Central Cee confirmed. "And he more than just wrote the verse—he wrote the whole song. Helped me out with a few of my own as well. He just sat there with his phone for like twenty minutes, then handed me it with all of my lyrics re-structured."
Curtis fell silent, mentally replaying the verse. If what they were saying was true, it was remarkable—the technical control, the flow switches, the confidence on the mic. All signs of someone with years of practice, not weeks.
He was seeing gemstones. Raw, unpolished, but unmistakable.
His phone buzzed again—the meeting he couldn't reschedule. With reluctance, Curtis stood.
"I've got to handle something, but I'm coming back after. Which studio is your cousin in?"
"End of the hall," Central Cee replied.
Curtis nodded, making a mental note
As he headed for the door, his mind was already racing. If this kid was really as they said—if this wasn't some elaborate joke—then he was hearing the next major voice. The kind of natural talent that comes along once in a generation. Like Em back in '99.
—
Amias reached for the door handle, twisting it open without checking the peephole first. The heavy door swung inward to reveal a sight that froze him in place.
Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson stood in the hallway, flanked by two security personnel, his unmistakable frame filling the doorway. His expression was neutral, appraising, as he looked directly at Amias.
Behind Amias, the studio fell deadly silent. He could practically feel the shock radiating from his friends.
"Amias, right?" 50 Cent asked, his voice exactly as it sounded in interviews and songs.
Amias fought to maintain his demeanor, though internally his mind was racing. This was one of the first artist he'd been introduced to when Oakley started introducing him to Hip-Hop, even before he'd occasionally hear 50's music—"Get Rich or Die Tryin'" was a regular in his mother's playlist when they were back in Texas.
"What's up," Amias responded evenly, stepping back to allow entry. "It's a surprise seeing, well, you here."
50 Cent stepped into the studio, his security remaining discreetly by the door. He took in the room with a quick, practiced glance—noting the equipment, the arrangement, the people present.
"Met your cousin Oakley earlier," he said conversationally, though his eyes were studying Amias intently. "They were playing that track you two did together."
"GDP," Amias supplied, maintaining his composure despite the surreal nature of the moment.
"Right. They told me you just started rapping this month." 50's tone carried a hint of disbelief. "Said you're seventeen?"
"Turned seventeen last Thursday," Amias confirmed, watching as 50 continued to assess him.
"You look sixteen," 50 remarked with a slight smirk.
From the corner, Jordan made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh, quickly masked by a cough when Amias shot him a glance.
"Well," 50 Cent said, settling into one of the studio chairs without waiting for an invitation. "I wanna see what all this hype is about. Play me something."
Amias hesitated momentarily, mind racing through his options. Redemption was probably his strongest track besides GDP that he'd recorded so far, but it was explicitly UK in its delivery and slang. If 50 Cent was expecting a UK accent after hearing GDP, maybe showing versatility would be more impressive.
He navigated to a file on his laptop, one he'd recorded privately two days ago—one of the song structures.
"This is something new I've been working on," Amias said, hitting play. "Called 'Highs and Lows'."
The track began with a soulful, melodic intro before dropping into a beat with complex percussion and a warm bass line. When Amias's voice came in, it carried a distinctly more American cadence his natural Texas upbringing mixing in with his [J Cole Flow]showing through in his delivery:
"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..."
As the track played, Amias watched 50 Cent's reaction carefully. The veteran rapper's expression remained mostly neutral, though his head nodded almost imperceptibly to the beat. Behind him, Zane and the others were hearing the track for the first time as well, exchanging glances of surprise and approval.
When the chorus hit—"To talk about the highs and lows, the ups and downs/The friends that I had to hide to come around"—50's eyebrows raised slightly, seemingly impressed by the shift.
By the second verse, Amias could see something had changed in 50's demeanor. The initial skepticism had given way to focused attention, the kind of listening that meant someone was actually hearing the music, not just letting it play.
When the track ended, the studio remained silent for several long seconds. 50 Cent leaned back in his chair, looking at Amias with newfound intensity.
"Amias," he said slowly, "swear on your life you started rapping this month."
"I swear to God," Amias replied, holding his gaze steadily. "Never recorded in a studio before January."
50 Cent was quiet for a moment, processing this information. Then he stood, crossing the room until he was directly in front of Amias. He placed a heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder, his expression serious.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, voice low and serious. "I see diamonds. Raw, uncut. Most people in this industry, they come in already thinking they know everything. You? You're just getting started, and you're already sounding like this."
Amias remained silent, taking in every word.
50's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly.
"How do you feel about guidance—the one on one kind?"