The bitter taste of defeat lingered on Amias' tongue as he trudged up the concrete steps of White City Estate. Fifty quid gone, just like that. Jordan's smug face as he lifted the controller in victory still burned in his mind.
"Better luck next time, fam," Jordan had laughed, pocketing Amias' cash with practiced ease.
Now, with the midnight air nipping at his face, Amias fished his keys from his pocket. The weight of the day—Leatherback's lecture, the canceled Camden run, the FIFA loss—pressed down on his shoulders. But beneath it all, a current of anticipation hummed through his veins.
The music equipment waited for him inside. The songs. The potential.
His mum's soft snores drifted from her bedroom as he slipped inside their flat, toeing off his trainers by the door. The digital clock on the microwave cast a green glow across the kitchen: 00:27. Late, but not too late.
Not for what he had planned.
His room was a chaos of cables and equipment, but to Amias' eyes, it was beautiful. Professional. His. He paid thousands for his after all. He settled into his chair, feeling the plastic creak beneath him as he booted up his computer. The system interface flickered to life in his peripheral vision.
{"Current Task: All stats must reach 50"}
Amias cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck to release the tension. "Let's get this done," he muttered, opening up FL Studio. The blank project stared back at him, possibilities infinite.
His thoughts drifted to the stat sheet. With his Music Theory at 75 and those amplifiers—that beautiful double-rate modifier until 50, plus the permanent 10% XP boost—this shouldn't take as long as he'd feared. Hell, with the Adaptive Genius modifier doubling all his gains, he might knock this out in a week.
"Might as well combine this quests with those song structures," he said, reaching for his headphones. Why waste time when he could improve his stats and master those unreleased tracks at the same time?
The first song unfolded in his mind like a blueprint: [REDEMPTION - KidWild ft. Nemzzz]. The beat structure was there, waiting to be built. Amias' fingers hovered over the MIDI keyboard, suddenly uncertain. This was mostly KidWild's song but it involved Nemzzz's flow—he had it but could he really replicate that?
Only one way to find out.
He closed his eyes, letting the percussion pattern flow through him. Four hours later, his throat raw from trying to emulate Nemzzz's and KidWild's flow, sweat beading on his forehead, Amias sat back and checked his stats:
Sound Engineering:47/100 (+1)
Flow Control:47/100 (+1)
Rhythm Recognition:50/100 (+1)
Lyrical Composition:81/100 (+1)
"Hold up," he murmured, leaning forward. The stats had barely moved. Four hours of work for a handful of points? At this rate, he'd be at it for weeks, not days.
He took a swig from his water bottle, contemplating. Maybe there was more to it?
"Right," he nodded to himself. "The lower stats are playing catch-up with the higher ones. It definetely should be moving faster, shouldn't it?"
Two more hours passed in a blur of loops and samples. The beat for REDEMPTION was taking shape, though his attempts to recreate the flow had left his throat parched and aching.
What was it Zain had said about his old beats? "They were ass, but that SpongeBob one you did was creative." The memory made him grimace. He wasn't a noob anymore, working with a cheap phone app. He had proper equipment now, proper skills. Sort of.
The clock on his computer read 02:42 when he finally sat back, rubbing his eyes. Thanks to his No Days Off trait, his stamina was holding up better than expected, but his throat felt like sandpaper, and his fingers were starting to cramp.
He checked his stats again:
Sound Engineering:48/100 (+1)
Flow Control:48/100 (+1)
Melodic Perception:47/100 (+1)
Better, but still slow going. This quest would require more than just a few marathon sessions.
His phone buzzed on the desk—a WhatsApp notification from Zara. He picked it up, a small smile playing on his lips as he read her message.
"You'll never believe what Jamie did to my new dress. Little monster took scissors to it because he wanted to 'improve' it. MUM SAYS I HAVE TO FORGIVE HIM. I'm actually going to lose my mind."
Amias chuckled, thumbs tapping out a response: "Tell your brother I said he's got a future in fashion design."
Her reply came instantly: "Don't encourage him! Why are you even up this late? Wait. How has your day been?"
"Lost £50," he admitted. "But I'm onto something better now."
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. "Cryptic much? You OK?"
He hesitated, looking at the studio setup around him. How could he explain any of this to her? "Yeah, just working on some music stuff. Tell you about it later?"
"I'll hold you to that. Get some sleep, music man."
Amias set his phone down, that warmth in his chest again whenever he talked to Zara. She'd always been there, steady as a heartbeat in the background of his life. But right now, he needed to focus.
He turned back to his computer, the half-finished beat for REDEMPTION waiting. The blank space where J. Cole's HYB would eventually live. The unfinished quest.
The night deepened around him as he lost himself in the work. His muscles weren't used to this—the precise movements required for production, the sustained effort of delivery. Water helped his throat, but he needed practice.
By midnight, fatigue had settled deep in his bones, but the satisfaction of progress kept him going. He switched to HYB, trying to recreate what he could of J. Cole's track. The idea that his cousin might feature on it—might deliver lines that Amias now possessed—sent a thrill through him.
His mother's voice cut through his concentration. "Amias! School tomorrow. Bed. Now."
"It's Friday, Mum," he called back, not taking his eyes off the screen. "No school tomorrow."
"Still need sleep," she grumbled, but he heard her bedroom door close again.
The hours blurred together. Click. Type. Play. Adjust. Repeat. The beat for REDEMPTION was taking shape—rough, unpolished, but recognizable. He tried rapping along, the words flowing from his memory:
"This part of my life's redemption, I see it, I want it, we get it—"
His voice cracked, and he winced. That flow wasn't there yet. But it would be. He could feel it building, like pressure behind a dam.
The sun was peeking through his blinds when exhaustion finally claimed him. His head drooped, then jerked back up. His eyelids grew heavier with each blink. The last thing he remembered was trying one more take, one more adjustment...
Before he fell asleep.
<>
Sunlight streamed across his face, warm and insistent. Amias blinked awake, disoriented. He was still in his chair, his lanky frame splayed across the plastic, neck stiff from the awkward angle. His computer hummed softly, FL Studio still open, showing the waveforms of his night's work.
"Oh man." He blurted out, glimpsing at the time: 11:48 AM.
Despite having just awaken, a sense of excitement filled his bones, his mind turning as he recalled last nights events.
"My stats…" His pupils dilated, a holographic interface summoning itself as if called by the very thought of it. His eyes, illuminated by a sea of blue, searched out for his stats.
As they appeared, he stretched, wincing at the protest from his muscles, and immediately checked his stats:
Sound Engineering:50/100 (+2)
Flow Control:49/100 (+1)
Rhythm Recognition:51/100 (+1)
Melodic Perception:50/100 (+3)
Beat Production:56/100 (+2)
Stage Presence:46/100 (+2)
A slow grin spread across his face. He was close.
Taking a moment, he saved his work, the satisfaction of achievement washing over him in waves. Just like the quest, the beats were far from finished—rough drafts at best—but the framework was there. And more importantly, his skills were growing.
As the updated page showed:
Base Musical Statistics
- Lyrical Composition: 81/100
- Flow Control: 49/100
- Rhythm Recognition: 51/100
- Music Theory: 75/100
- Stage Presence: 46/100
- Freestyle Ability: 77/100
- Melodic Perception: 50/100
- Vocal Projection: 77/100
- Beat Production: 56/100
- Sound Engineering: 50/100
He'd done it—well, almost. Sound Engineering had crossed the threshold to 50, and most of his other stats were either at or above the target. According to the system's scale, he was hovering between Average professional capability and Established professional for most metrics, while four of his stats gave him the quality of a World-class musician.
The realization sent a quiet thrill through him. Decent. More than decent—good.
When he attempted to clear his throat, a sharp pain made him wince. The night of intense vocal practice had taken its toll—his voice sounded like he'd gargled gravel, raspy and strained. No way he'd be spitting any bars today.
"Breakfast!" his mother's voice drifted through the door.
Amias stretched, feeling the stiffness in his neck from sleeping hunched over his desk. His muscles protested as he stood, the price of his marathon production session.
In the kitchen, his mother took one look at him and frowned. "You look terrible."
"Thanks, Mum," he croaked, wincing at the sound of his own voice.
Her expression shifted from disapproval to concern. "What happened to your voice?"
"Just a sore throat," he muttered, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table.
She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. "No fever. Have you been shouting at those video games all night?"
"Something like that," Amias said, reaching for a glass of water. Each swallow felt like sandpaper.
His mother clicked her tongue, disappearing into the bathroom. She returned with a bottle of medicine and a spoon. "Make sure and take this. Twice a day, no more."
"Cheers," he said, downing a spoonful and grimacing at the bitter cherry taste.
His mother stood there, staring at him incredulously.
"What?" He couldn't help but ask.
"Did you even hear what I said?" A frown forming once again.
"Yeah," Amias raised a brow. "'Twice a day and no more'" He repeated.
Content, his mother nodded slowly, her pointed stare remained for only a moment before she scurried off to the living room.
After breakfast, he was heading back to his room when his phone buzzed. Zain's name flashed on the screen.
"Yo," Amias answered, his voice still raspy and talking only causing him pain.
"Mans outside your door. Come down."
Amias peered through the window. Sure enough, Zain was lounging on the steps, looking completely at ease in black Nike tracksuit bottoms and a North Face puffer.
"Be down in a sec," he said, pocketing his phone.
Five minutes later, Amias pushed through his apartment door, squinting in the winter sunlight. Zain looked up, a grin spreading across his face.
"Wagwan, broski," Zain bumped his fist. "You sound like shit."
"Feel like it too," Amias admitted, dropping down beside him on the steps. The concrete was cold through his jeans.
"What happened?"
"Long story."
Zain nodded, not pressing further—one of the things Amias appreciated about him. "Heading to meet Cench and them. You down to roll?"
Amias hesitated. The beat structures waiting on his computer, the stats that needed improving... But the thought of another day cooped up inside made his decision for him. "Yeah, I'm there."
They set off, cutting through Shepherd's Bush Market, the familiar sights and sounds of their neighborhood unfolding around them. The market was alive with activity—vendors calling out prices, the smell of fresh bread and spices filling the air, music drifting from shop doorways. Groups of kids on BMX bikes weaved through pedestrians, while old men gathered around tables playing dominoes, their laughter punctuating the ambient noise.
"Cench has been talking about this new track," Zain said as they navigated through the crowd. "Reckon it'll blow up."
"His last one did numbers still, plenty people are listening to him, anything he releases now is bound to do bare numbers." Amias replied, nodding to a group of older boys lounging outside the betting shop. They nodded back, a silent acknowledgment.
As they passed the Sainsbury's, Amias spotted Tyler across the street, his arm linked with an elderly woman who moved slowly, her cane tapping against the pavement.
"Yo, Tyler!" Amias called out, his voice cracking.
Tyler looked up, recognition dawning on his face. "Amias, fam! You good?"
They crossed the street to meet them. Tyler's grandmother beamed at Amias, her face a map of wrinkles.
"Mrs. Johnson," Amias smiled, softening his voice. "Looking beautiful as always."
"Such a charmer," she chuckled, patting his arm. "Not like this one. Only takes me shopping when he wants something."
"Nah, Nan, that's cold," Tyler protested, but he was grinning.
They chatted briefly, Zain checking the time on his phone. "We gotta bounce," he said eventually.
"Hitting the studio?" Tyler asked, his eyebrows rising slightly.
Zain nodded. "Pull up later if you want."
"Might do actually," Tyler said, glancing at his grandmother. "Gotta get Nan home first."
Back on their route, Zain led Amias toward the parking lot where his 2008 Vauxhall Corsa waited, slightly dented but clean. "Now don't scorn my thing, you know man's been saving for a GTR," Zain said as they climbed in. "But this'll do for now."
Amias chuckled but said nothing.
The car smelled faintly of weed and air freshener. Zain cranked the engine, bass-heavy drill music immediately thumping through the speakers. He turned it down slightly. "So, music equipment, yeah? You must have spent some G's on those Ami."
"Yeah," Amias said, trying to sound casual and again, speaking only hurt his throat. "Just some basic stuff."
"But really, must've cost though."
Amias shrugged. "Worth it to be fair."
Zain didn't pry further as they drove through the familiar streets of West London, eventually pulling into the parking lot of a nondescript commercial building. From the outside, it looked like any other office complex, but Amias knew better. The top floor housed a recording studio.
Inside, they took the elevator to the fifth floor. The corridor was dimly lit, the walls covered in band posters and promotional flyers. At the end, a heavy door with Frequency Studios stenciled across it in faded letters stood closed.
Zain rapped his knuckles against it in a specific pattern. A moment later, it swung open.
The smell hit Amias first—weed, cologne, and the peculiar metallic scent of recording equipment. The space beyond was large, divided into sections. The actual recording booth was visible through a window, its microphone hanging suspended, while the main area was filled with couches, tables, and chairs.
And people. Lots of people.
Some faces Amias recognized immediately—regulars from the estate, a few girls who always seemed to be around. Others were unfamiliar, including two boys in the corner wearing ski masks despite being indoors, their eyes following Amias as he entered.
Oakley himself sat in an oversized chair that might as well have been a throne, his lanky frame draped across. Beside him, his younger brother scrolled through a phone, both of them dressed in black except for their gleaming white trainers.
"Zain," Oakley called out, his voice carrying across the room. "Thought you got lost or something."
"Nah, just collecting this one," Zain replied, jerking his thumb at Amias.
Oakley's gaze shifted, assessing Amias with interest. "Little cuz," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Haven't heard from you in a while you know."
Before Amias could respond, a mountain of a man broke away from a group near the window. Wyge. He crossed the room in a few strides, his face splitting into a grin.
"Lil cuz!" he boomed, engulfing Amias in a bear hug that lifted him off his feet. "Man's growing still. Soon you'll be taller than this one." He jerked his head toward Cench.
"That's cap," Oakley said lazily. "But man's looking healthier at least. Not so skinny anymore."
Amias felt the weight of the room's attention as Wyge set him down. These were his people—family, friends, connections—but there was always a subtle current of assessment running beneath the surface.
"Listen tho, Zain told me you copped some serious music gear," Oakley said, leaning forward slightly.
Amias nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral. He didn't expect Zain to actually tell Oakley what he'd been doing. "Yeah, been saving up, kinda."
"You know you could've just asked to pull up right?" Oakley rose a brow. "Got studio time whenever you want it."
"Well yeah, but its different," Amias stated, pretending he didn't have a mysterious force that nudged him to buy that equipment in the first place. "I could have saved a few G's but having everything sorted at home would mean I won't have to maneuver around much."
Oakley watched him with interest, Amias could only assume what thoughts were running through his mind.
"You working on anything yet?" He finally asked.
"Yeah, a little something," Amias admitted, his throat protesting as he spoke.
"Oh really?" Oakley interest visibly sharpened. "You have to show me something then Ami."
Amias hesitated. "You sure?"
"Yeah, man." Oakley's tone made it clear he was genuinely interested.
The conversation shifted, moving to plans for the evening, discussions about recent releases, gossip about mutual acquaintances. Someone passed Amias a bottle of water, which he accepted gratefully.
After about an hour, Oakley stood, stretching. "Gotta hit the store before the rest arrive. Anyone coming?"
A small group formed, including Zain. Amias started to rise, but Oakley waved him back down. "You're too young to hit Sandro's Ami. Wait here with Wyge and them."
Amias tried not to look disappointed as they filed out. Being left behind—reminded of his age—still stung, even though he understood the reasoning.
"Don't stress it," Wyge said, dropping into the seat Oakley had vacated. "Soon enough you'll be rolling with us proper."
Amias nodded, sipping his water. The conversation around him continued, discussions about shows, money moves, girls. He half-listened, his mind drifting.
Eventually, he excused himself to use the toilet, stepping into the corridor for a moment of quiet. The hallway was deserted, the sounds from the studio muffled behind the heavy door. Amias leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath.
That's when he saw her.
Temi was walking toward him from the direction of the elevators, her light brown eyes widening slightly as she recognized him. She wore fitted black jeans and a cropped jacket, her hair falling in perfect waves around her face—the same face that had distracted him in Leatherback's class.
"Amias?" she said, stopping a few feet away. That same faint smirk played on her lips, lighting up her features. "What are you doing here?"
<>
SWAMPPP
SEEYUHH