(3rd Person POV)
Amaru wasn't having it. A hip-hop bar should stay a hip-hop bar, not turn into some pop music showcase.
He watched the young elf on stage swaying his hips and letting out that signature "Hee-hee!" The crowd ate it up, mimicking the sound right back at him.
The speakers thumped with unfamiliar rhythms while bodies swayed to melodies that had no business in this basement.
"What's with this shit, man?" Amaru cornered the bar manager, who was already pouring him a beer. "Since when do we let pop songs take over a rap party?"
The portly feline demon manager shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you see—"
"Don't give me excuses, tiger. Just tell me straight."
The manager sighed heavily. "Joseph Jackson's coming to town for his tour. Word got out, and suddenly we got all these JJ fans showing up, wanting to hear his music." He gestured toward the enthusiastic crowd. "They're paying customers, so..."
"Joseph Jackson." Amaru tasted the name like something bitter. "That demon's really got the whole pop scene locked down, huh?"
He'd heard the name before, but seeing JJ's influence reach even underground hip-hop spots was something else.
"I don't get the hype," Amaru continued, taking a long drink. "His music's got nothing on what we're doing here. Hip-hop's got more soul, more truth."
The manager grinned and slapped his shoulder. "Maybe you should actually listen to the guy before writing him off. I've got a VHS of his World Cup performance if you want to see what the fuss is about."
Amaru snorted. "Pass."
"Your loss."
"Hip-hop's gonna overtake pop eventually," Amaru said, his voice carrying conviction. "Mark my words. One day I'll be holding a Grammy for this music."
The manager's eyebrows shot up. "That new award show Hellfire's putting together? Man, you dream big."
Amaru's jaw tightened with determination as the pop music continued playing behind them. Whether he liked it or not, change was coming to his scene.
---
News of Joseph's upcoming concert in Harlem City had thousands of residents buzzing with excitement. While he didn't command national headlines like Arthur, the local media was all over the story.
Reporters clustered around the airport's landing area, cameras ready as the Hellfire airplane touched down. The moment Joseph emerged, questions flew at him from every direction.
"Welcome to Harlem, JJ! We've been waiting for you," called out a reporter from Channel 7. "Why did you choose our small city instead of major markets like Angel City or Apple City for your first U.S.E. concert?"
About twenty reporters had gathered—not the suffocating mob he might face elsewhere, but still overwhelming for Joseph. This was only his second time receiving such attention on foreign soil, especially in a human-dominated nation.
Joseph adjusted his jacket and stepped closer to the microphones. "I've been hearing about a new sound that's gaining popularity here. Hip-hop, I believe?" His smooth voice carried genuine curiosity. "I specifically chose Harlem because I want to learn more about this music firsthand."
"So you're interested in exploring genres beyond pop?" another reporter pressed, clearly intrigued.
"Absolutely. I'm eager to expand my musical understanding." Joseph's smile was warm and authentic. "Music doesn't recognize boundaries or barriers."
He continued, "I'm hoping to connect with local hip-hop artists and learn from each other. My team is even arranging for my concert to take place at one of the underground venues where hip-hop performers usually play."
It made sense—he didn't need a massive stadium here. A few thousand fans at most would attend, and he wasn't yet a major draw in this city. The intimate underground spaces would suit his purposes perfectly.
"I love that approach!" nodded a reporter from Empirican News, though his tone shifted slightly. "Just a word of caution—the hip-hop community here can be... protective of their space. Good luck with that."
Joseph caught the subtle warning in the man's voice, confusion flickering across his features. After answering a few more questions, he made his way through the small crowd of waiting fans, signing autographs and expressing genuine gratitude for their support before sliding into the waiting car.
As the vehicle pulled away from the airport, Joseph couldn't shake the reporter's words. The way he'd said "good luck" felt less like encouragement and more like a warning about potential conflict.
'Why would connecting with other musicians be complicated?' he wondered, but decided not to dwell on it.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at his hotel. Once settled in his room, Joseph immediately began planning his next move—a complete makeover that would let him explore the hip-hop scene as just another face in the crowd, free to observe and learn without the complications that came with fame.
---
Two days later, local newspapers and channels had twisted Joseph's airport interview into something far more inflammatory. Headlines screamed across Harlem City:
"POP PRINCE PLANS HIP-HOP TAKEOVER: Joseph Jackson Claims He'll 'Learn From' Local Artists—Is This Cultural Appropriation in Disguise?"
"HELLFIRE'S GOLDEN BOY TARGETS UNDERGROUND SCENE: JJ's 'Curiosity' About Hip-Hop Sparks Controversy"
"DOES JOSEPH JACKSON THINK HIP-HOP NEEDS SAVING? Pop Star's Comments Suggest He Views Local Artists as 'Learning Opportunities'"
The provocative coverage ignited fury throughout the hip-hop community. At Sip-Hop, one of the city's most influential underground clubs, rappers clutched newspapers with disgust etched across their faces.
"Look at this pop princess thinking he can just waltz in here," growled Big Tusk, a hefty orc whose gold teeth gleamed as he exhaled smoke. "Acting like we're some kind of zoo animals for his entertainment."
The orc's presence wasn't unusual anymore. Ever since Hellfire's "Lord of the Rings" films had brought orcs into popular culture—albeit as villains—the once-barbaric race had found acceptance in many nations, though discrimination still ran deep. Hip-hop had become one of the few spaces where orcs could express themselves freely.
"We should show this pretty boy what real music looks like," another rapper snarled. "He thinks his Hellfire connections make him untouchable?"
"Demon or not, he ain't welcome here," Big Tusk added. "This is our house."
Amaru sat in his usual corner booth, a girl on each arm, silently absorbing the anger around him. His eyes, however, had fixed on an unusual figure at the bar—a man in a soccer cap and dark sunglasses, nursing his drink in deliberate solitude.
Something about him seemed familiar.
It was Joseph, and he'd heard every word. His jaw clenched as he processed the hostile atmosphere he'd inadvertently created.
For the past two days, he'd immersed himself in the scene—watching street performances, studying the intricate wordplay, feeling the raw energy of freestyle battles. The music genuinely moved him; these artists possessed a creativity and authenticity that pop often lacked.
But he'd also discovered something troubling. Many of these artists weren't just musicians—they had connections to the city's more dangerous elements. His team's attempts to book underground venues had been met with outright rejection and thinly veiled threats.
'Now I understand that reporter's warning,' Joseph thought grimly.
It wasn't unprecedented for music scenes to intersect with criminal elements. Jazz had thrived in speakeasies, rock had its mafia connections. But this felt different—more territorial, more personal.
"Hey there, friend."
Joseph's thoughts were interrupted as someone slid into the seat beside him. He looked up to find a muscular, tattooed man studying him with calculating eyes.
"You look familiar," Amaru said, his tone deceptively casual. "Have we met before?"
Joseph felt his pulse quicken as he met the rapper's scrutinizing gaze, knowing his disguise was about to be tested.