"—completely unacceptable," his mother was saying, her Guyanese accent thickening as it always did when she was angry. "Three weeks we've been without proper heating."
Mr. Avery, a thin man with perpetually damp-looking hair, sighed dramatically. "As I've explained, Mrs. Mars, the parts are on order. These things take time."
"Time? It's January! My child is freezing at night."
Amias approached cautiously, catching his mother's eye. Her expression shifted slightly, relief mixing with the anger.
"Amias," she acknowledged. "Tell Mr. Avery about the temperature in your room last night."
"It was cold," Amias said simply, not wanting to get too involved. "Had to sleep with three blankets."
Mr. Avery looked pained. "I understand your frustration, but there's nothing more I can do to expedite the process."
"That's not good enough," his mother insisted. "We pay our rent on time, every month. We deserve a working heating system."
The argument continued for another ten minutes, neither side conceding ground. Eventually, Mr. Avery promised—again—to call the supplier first thing Monday morning, and retreated to his car.
"That man," his mother muttered, watching him drive away. "Useless."
Amias followed her inside, up the concrete stairs to their flat. Once inside, she visibly deflated, the anger giving way to exhaustion.
"Thank you for coming back," she said, sinking onto the sofa. "He takes me more seriously when I'm not alone."
Amias nodded, understanding. A single woman was easy for people like Mr. Avery to dismiss. Add a tall teenage son to the picture, and suddenly they paid attention.
"Where were you?" she asked, noticing his thoughtful expression.
"With Oakley."
She nodded, a complex mix of emotions crossing her face.
"I helped with a song," Amias said carefully. "Wrote some lyrics. They liked them."
Her expression softened. "That's good. Using your talents."
She didn't say more, but Amias could read the unspoken message in her eyes.
That night, despite the chill in his room, Amias slept deeply, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion after the marathon studio session. His dreams were a confusing swirl of beats and faces—Temi on the lap of that guy in the Nike tracksuit, Oakley nodding along to his lyrics, his mother arguing with Mr. Avery.
Time passed as he woke late Sunday morning, his throat feeling marginally better but still rough. His phone showed several missed calls from Wyge yesterday and a text from Zain asking if he was coming back to the studio that very same day.
But he couldn't. He had to sort out one of his runners with a bag—a delivery that couldn't wait. The weed business might not be his passion, but it paid bills.
The day passed in a blur of monotony. By evening, he was back in his room, throat still tender but much improved, staring at his computer screen with renewed determination.
He'd used the downtime wisely. While his voice recovered, he'd focused on writing—pages and pages of lyrics, experimenting with different flows and cadences. He couldn't perform them vocally yet, but the process of crafting them, of thinking about how they'd sound when delivered, had pushed his skills forward.
Amias checked his stats:
Base Musical Statistics
Lyrical Composition: 81/100
Flow Control: 52/100 (+3)
Rhythm Recognition: 52/100 (+1)
Music Theory: 76/100 (+1)
Stage Presence: 46/100
Freestyle Ability: 77/100
Melodic Perception: 53/100 (+3)
Vocal Projection: 77/100
Beat Production: 58/100 (+2)
Sound Engineering: 50/100
He nodded with satisfaction. The writing work had paid off—Flow Control up to 52, Rhythm Recognition and Music Theory nudged forward, and Melodic Perception jumping three points to 53. Even Beat Production had increased to 58 as he'd experimented with different structures and sounds.
The REDEMPTION track remained challenging—recreating the beat in itself was harder than he'd anticipated. But the other beat, the one based on J. Cole's style, was coming along nicely, about three-quarters complete.
But tonight, he felt like experimenting. Exactly what he did when he found himself tired of continuous work towards completing the task. He opened a project in FL Studio and navigated to a beat he'd been experimenting with—a grime beat with an edge of his own. He'd made this last night while playing around with the bass for REDEMPTION.
As his fingers moved across the keyboard, he felt that sense of flow, of being in perfect harmony with the music.
{Reference Beat: "Gang" by Kairo Keys}
Just like the beat on of REDEMPTION, he incorporated a bouncy undercurrent that gave the track distinctive character.
The lyrics he'd been working on came easily, flowing from some deep well inside him:
"Man don't care 'bout your perception, this is my reflection
Estates raised me, concrete saved me, this ain't no deception..."
He murmured the words, testing how they felt in his mouth, how they aligned with the beat. It felt right—natural in a way that surprised him.
Later, he switched to another project for a different vibe. This one had a mellower tone, more introspective, allowing him to explore a different side of his writing.
Hours passed. Amias stretched, his back cracking as he arched against his chair. His eyes burned from staring at the screen, but satisfaction hummed through his veins. Everything was above 50 now—except Stage Presence, which stubbornly remained at 46.
"Right," he muttered, eyeing the stat with determination. "Let's see what we can do about you."
According to the system, he needed performance practice—actual physical presence and delivery. But how could he develop that alone in his bedroom?
The answer, apparently, was bizarre but effective exercises. For the next hour, Amias delivered passionate speeches to his mirror, channeling Julius Caesar addressing his troops before battle:
"Friends, Romans, countrymen!" he declared, his posture straightening, his gestures growing more confident with each repetition. "The die is cast! We cross the Rubicon today!"
He felt ridiculous, but the system insisted, so he continued. Next came character work—adopting different personas, practicing how they might move and speak.
"Yo, this beat is TRASH, my guy!" he exclaimed, embodying an overly enthusiastic music reviewer, bouncing on his toes with exaggerated energy. "Absolute GARBAGE! I love it!"
Then came the most humbling part of all—dancing. The system had somehow determined that K-pop choreography would effectively boost his Stage Presence. So there he was, a nearly six-foot-tall teenager from West London, attempting to follow along with BTS dance tutorials on YouTube.
"This is mad," he gasped, twenty minutes into a particularly intense routine. Sweat poured down his face as he tried—and mostly failed—to hit the intricate movements. His lanky limbs weren't built for this precision.
But he kept going. Staggering through boy band choreography, sweating through his t-shirt, occasionally crashing into furniture when a move took him too close to his desk.
"Five, six, seven, eight," he counted under his breath, trying again. His side burned with a stitch that felt like someone was jabbing him with a knife. His legs trembled with fatigue.
Finally, after what felt like centuries, he collapsed onto his bedroom floor, panting. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his muscles screaming in protest.
"This better be worth it," he groaned.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his breathing slowly returned to normal. After a moment, he summoned the interface, checking his stats one more time.
Stage Presence: 51/100 (+5)
"Thank god," he breathed, relief washing over him. He'd done it. All stats at 50 or above. The quest was complete.
As he lay there recovering, his thoughts turned to the reward—the wheel. Two chance points from completing this task. He could spin twice with one point each, but something told him to combine them. The more CP in a spin, the better the potential reward.
"Full send," he muttered, making his decision. Two points into one spin.
The wheel materialized in his vision, a glowing circle of possibilities. He willed it to spin, watching as the sections blurred together in a whirl of color. Gradually, it slowed, the pointer hovering over one section, then another, before finally stopping.
DING!
[Flacko Mode] (Rare) "You don't chase the wave—you make it."
——————
+30 Fashion Sense
+15 Style Awareness
+10 Charisma
+10 Branding
——————
Passive Skill: "Innate Stylist"
You naturally grasp fashion without overthinking.
Starter Kit: You don't need designer to look like you belong there.
——————
Amias blinked, processing the information. Flacko Mode—a reference to A$AP Rocky, known as much for his fashion sense as his music. Not what he'd expected, but potentially useful.
His Fashion Sense stat jumped dramatically to 72/100, while Charisma rose to 70/100. The bonuses to Style Awareness and Branding would probably help as well.
"Alright then," he said, pushing himself up from the floor. "Let's see this starter kit."
Following the system's instructions, he focused his mind, willing the kit to materialize. There was a strange ripple in the air—and suddenly his bedroom floor disappeared beneath a mountain of clothing, shoes, and accessories that seemed to manifest from nowhere.
"What the hell?" Amias exclaimed, digging his way out from under the pile.
He began sorting through the items, surprise giving way to appreciation. There were no major designer labels—no Gucci or Balenciaga—but the selection was impressive nonetheless. Pieces from obscure Italian brands, artistic Japanese labels, and underground London designers. Each item was carefully chosen—quality materials, interesting cuts, pieces that could be combined in multiple ways.
There were distressed jeans from Horse Brand with unique stitching patterns. T-shirts from ArtWear Collection featuring hand-painted graphics. A gorgeous brown leather jacket from an Italian workshop he'd never heard of. Boots from a small Portuguese manufacturer that looked both sturdy and stylish.
"This is actually... good," he murmured, holding up a black-and-white patterned button-up that somehow looked both classic and avant-garde.
It wasn't flashy wealth signaling—it was something more subtle and intelligent. Clothes that would make people look twice, wonder where he'd found them. Pretty good in actuality.
Amias spent the next hour trying different combinations, surprised at how instinctively he could now assemble outfits. The Innate Stylist passive skill was apparently already at work, guiding his choices without conscious effort.
He stood before his mirror, dressed in black cargo pants with subtle taping details, a cream-colored oversized sweater, and dark boots. Simple, but there was something about the proportions, the way the pieces worked together, that elevated the look from basic to intentional.
"Not bad," he admitted, turning to see the outfit from different angles. "Not bad at all."
His phone buzzed on his desk—a message from Wyge.
"Cuz Cuz. Why you docking me my G? Either way. Studio Wednesday. Oaks wants to hear what you've been cooking. Can't say no."
Amias smiled, looking from his phone to his reflection and back. If only he'd gotten this system sooner in life. This—this was amazing. Now he definitely needed to get some sleep as the stich in his side was a lingering pain that didn't seem to be easing on its own any time soon.
But first, he needed to clean up the clothing explosion in his room before his mother saw it and started asking questions he couldn't answer.