Amias stared at his laptop screen, rubbing his tired eyes as the blue interface of LinkUp displayed the daily analytics. The numbers had grown faster than even his optimistic projections—24,000 total users, with over 2,000 active at this very moment. The premium tier, which he officially launched just a day ago, had already converted nearly five percent of users.
"System, projection update," he whispered, even though the room was empty.
The familiar blue interface materialized in his vision: "At current growth rates, LinkUp will reach 50,000 users within 14 days. Premium conversion is exceeding expectations at 4.8%."
Amias allowed himself a small smile. Cash flow wasn't substantial yet, at least not breaking hundreds of thousands, but the trajectory was undeniable. Each notification represented another artist, producer, or engineer connecting through his platform—building the foundation of a network that could eventually rival industry standards.
None of the income was flowing into his own pocket, being set aside for future fees—legalities, servers, a setup, developers. A few factors in an ever increasing list of expenses.
Despite his bank account statement not accounting for the app revenue the figure remained substantial. His merch drop was successful to say the least, raking in two thousand euros in 48 hours, his youtube, twitch and patreon—while not exactly having the largest following, were bringing in revenue in the thousands as well.
It was safe to say he was well on his way to making his first six figures.
Outside the window of uncle Dresmond's house, London was already fully awake, the pale January sun doing little to warm the city. His phone vibrated again—the seventh notification in the past half-hour. Since Dave's tweet and the GRM Daily Duppy release, his social media presence had exploded. Twelve thousand Instagram followers now, up from barely two thousand. His YouTube subscribers had tripled. His last Twitch stream had peaked at 500 concurrent viewers.
Opportunity was knocking. The problem was that there were too many doors and only one Amias.
He scrolled through his calendar for the day, a mosaic of commitments stacked so tightly they overlapped: content creation, System training blocks, meetings with potential partners, school assignments, studio sessions—not to mention overseeing merchandise drops.
"Overwhelmed?" a voice asked from the doorway.
Amias looked up to find his mother, leaning against the frame. The dark circles under her eyes matched his own, but she still managed to smile.
"No, just..." he gestured vaguely at the screen, "growing pains."
"That's what you call it now?" She moved into the room, perching on the edge of the bed. "When I was your age, we just called it being in over your head."
He had came over to uncle Dresmond's to spend the night given that Oakley was almost never home.
"I'm handling it," he said, closing the laptop. "Just need to find people I can trust to handle some of the business aspects."
Adrianna studied her son carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders, the slight crease between his brows that hadn't been there a month ago.
"Speaking of handling things," she began, her tone shifting to something more serious, "I've noticed you've been working really hard. Is this music thing really taking up that much of your time?"
Amias shook his head. "The music is fine. It's just—there's so much to learn, and so little time. If I want to make this work, I need to be better than good. I need to be exceptional."
"You are exceptional," his mother replied softly.
Amias didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the silver chain around his neck.
"I've been thinking," he said finally, changing the subject. "The label name. I want to call it North Recording Group. NRG."
Adrianna raised an eyebrow. "North?"
"A nickname Capari made up. But more than that." Amias shifted in his chair, suddenly animated. "North represents direction, purpose. It's about knowing where you're going, even when the path isn't clear."
His mother smiled fully now, the pride unmistakable in her eyes. "I like it. It suits you."
"I'm getting it inked today," he added, watching her reaction carefully. "And something else."
To his surprise, she didn't immediately object. Instead, she asked, "What design were you thinking?"
"A winter tree reflection. And a Bible verse. 1 Corinthians 13:7."
"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." Adrianna quoted softly. "That's a beautiful choice, Ami."
Something inside him relaxed at her approval—he stood, stretching muscles stiff from too many hours hunched over screens.
"I've got seven label meetings today," he said, moving to his closet. "Zara's meeting me as well."
"Seven?" His mother's eyebrows shot up. "For what exactly?"
"Distribution deals." Amias pulled out a crisp white button-down shirt and dark tailored pants. "I need someone to handle distribution for the music, especially in the US market, but I'm not signing away my rights."
She watched him select his clothes with a care that was new to him. "And what happens if they say no?"
Amias shrugged, but there was determination in the set of his jaw. "Then I find another way. There's always another way."
—
The tattoo studio in Camden Market smelled of antiseptic and incense. Soft hip-hop played in the background as Amias sat in the black leather chair, his mother beside him, her expression a mixture of anxiety and resignation.
"Last chance to back out," the tattoo artist, Ellie, said as she prepared her equipment. Her arms were covered in intricate designs—sleeves of geometric patterns and abstract art that spoke to her skill.
"I'm sure," Amias replied, extending his right wrist.
His mother squeezed his other hand. "Are you really sure, Ami? This is permanent."
"That's kind of the point," he said with a small smile.
Ellie transferred the stencil to his skin—a delicate design of a winter tree, its bare branches reaching upward, with a perfect reflection in water below. Simple but meaningful, exactly as he'd requested.
"This is going on your inner wrist?" she confirmed, positioning the design.
"Yes. And the verse on the other arm."
As the needle touched his skin for the first time, Amias barely winced. Physical pain seemed almost trivial compared to the emotional turbulence of the past weeks. The sensation was sharp but bearable.
"Tell me about this label you're starting," Ellie said, obviously sensing his tension and trying to distract him.
Amias focused on her question, grateful for the conversation. "North. It's not actually purposed for signing other artist. At least not now. But having a label provides certain… advantages—when I'll be raking in millions."
"Ambitious," Ellie noted, her concentration never wavering from her work.
"Necessary," Amias corrected. "The industry's broken. Artists sign away their futures for the chance at a present. I want to build something sustainable."
Adrianna watched her son with a mixture of pride and concern. "He's always been like this. Even as a child, he never just played with toys. He had to reimagine them."
The tattoo process took nearly two hours for both designs. When it was finished, Amias examined his wrist in the mirror—the tree design was elegant in its simplicity, the reflection creating a perfect symmetry. On his outer forearm, the Bible verse flowed in a clean script, with a small cross and three black birds in flight above it.
"It's perfect," he said, genuinely pleased. The ink felt right on his skin—a physical manifestation of the transformation taking place inside him.
As Ellie wrapped the fresh tattoos in protective film, Amias caught his mother studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said, shaking her head slightly. "Just remembering the little boy who used to be scared of the temporary tattoos that came in cereal boxes."
Amias smiled, but said nothing. That boy felt incredibly distant now.
—
The first meeting went exactly as Amias had anticipated—initial enthusiasm followed by thinly veiled disappointment when he clarified he was only seeking distribution, not a traditional recording contract.
"Look, kid," the A&R executive at Sony Music UK had said, leaning back in his expensive chair, "you've got talent, no question. That GRM Daily performance was impressive. But distribution-only deals? That's something we offer to established artists, not newcomers with one charting song."
Amias had remained calm, presenting his case with confidence. "The song hit number 76 on the UK charts with zero marketing budget. The Daily Duppy is already at number 51 and climbing. My social metrics are growing at three times the industry average rate."
"Numbers are promising," the executive had conceded, "but potential isn't performance. Come back when you've got a consistent track record. Or better yet, consider our development deal. We could help you build that track record."
The "development deal" they offered was the standard industry trap—modest advance, minimal creative control, and the label owning everything in perpetuity. Amias had politely declined and moved on to the next meeting.
The day continued in much the same pattern. By the fifth meeting, at a Warner subsidiary office in Kensington, Amias could practically recite the rejection speech before it was delivered.
Zara joined him for the sixth meeting, slipping into the conference room just as introductions were being made. Her presence was a welcome boost—her sharp observations complementing his business focus.
"They're not taking you seriously," she whispered as they left the Universal building. "They see your age and think they can push you around."
"They don't understand what we're building," Amias agreed, checking his phone for the address of the next meeting. "They're still operating on an outdated model."
By the time they reached the nineth and final meeting, at a boutique label in Shoreditch, Amias's initial optimism had faded considerably. The pattern was depressingly consistent—interest in his talent, skepticism about his business model, and ultimately, rejection of his terms.
"I think that's enough rejection for one day," Zara said as they left the final office, her arm linked through his. "Nine meetings, nine nos. Time to regroup."
They found a quiet spot in a nearby park, sitting on a bench overlooking a small pond. The January chill had kept most people indoors, giving them a rare moment of privacy in the bustling city.
Amias leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the water. Birds skimmed across the surface, creating ripples that expanded and faded.
"How are you feeling?" Zara asked, her voice gentle.
"Frustrated," he admitted. "They all see the potential, but they want to own it. Not partner with it."
Zara moved closer, her shoulder touching his. "Maybe you should give it time. All this failure can get to you, especially with how hard you work."
She reached out, rubbing his tense shoulders with a firm touch. "They can't lowball you forever. Maybe take a break, come back stronger?"
"No." Amias's voice was quiet but resolute. "I can't stop now."
He thought about a Jordan Peterson lecture he'd watched recently—about how most people didn't actually want to succeed; they just didn't want to fail. About how the average person camouflaged themselves, hid their potential, refused to stand out.
"The path to success is paved with failure," he said, more to himself than to Zara. "The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward."
Zara studied him for a moment, then smiled.
"Hey, did you check your Spotify page recently?"
Amias frowned slightly. "Spotify? No, why?"
"Don't they have some kind of artist development program? RADAR or something?"
"Yeah, they do," he said slowly, his mind already racing ahead. "Why?"
"Just wondering if you might be interested in that," she said with a shrug. "Since the traditional labels aren't getting it."
Amias turned to look at her fully, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Zara raised an eyebrow. "I know that look. What are you thinking?"
But Amias just stood, energy suddenly renewed, offering his hand to help her up. "I'll tell you later on. But I think I just found my distribution deal and a way to make LinkUp even more valuable."