The last note of the track faded into the New Beverly Hills afternoon, swallowed by the low, distant hum of mag-lev traffic and the chatter of the city. I lowered the high-tech earpiece Marshall had handed me, the phantom beat of 'My Name is' still thumping against my eardrums. I let out a low whistle; the sound almost lost in the urban symphony.
"Damn, Marshall," I said, turning to the living legend currently slouched against the sun-warmed concrete beside me. "I'm impressed…. Seriously… that is good,"
He grinned, a quick, sharp flash of white in his scruffy face. "Told you I wouldn't butcher your shit."
"Butcher it? I know you wouldn't … and, Man, you've done it... That's the thing, I wanted you to do…. It made me listening to not just a track; I was listening to you. It's… authentic... And, It's to my liking. Very much so."
I offered him a fist. He looked at it for a half-second, a flicker of amusement in his eyes—probably at the sight of a seventeen-year-old kid dabbing up a rap master—before bumping it with his own. His knuckles were rough; a working man's hands, seems like even in this world he got some touching life story.
"So, the beat's solid, then? You're good with it?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
I took a bite of my now-lukewarm pizza, the grease and salt a perfect contrast to the high-stakes creative negotiation. "Are you kidding me? 'Good' is a criminal understatement. Absolutely, the beat's yours…. Just slap 'Produced by Sael VT' somewhere in the credits where people can see it, and we can cut the song 50-50, just like you offered…. Seems more than fair to me... and I am good with it,"
Marshall's grin widened. He pulled out a slim, crystalline comms device—the kind that cost more than my first car back on my original Earth—and flicked it on. A holographic interface shimmered to life above his wrist.
"Paul… Yeah, Kid's a goddamn prodigy… It's a go… Five tracks. Finalize everything…. Standard points, 50-50 split on masters, full production credit to him." He listened for a moment, his eyes scanning the foot traffic.
"Nah, don't bother with a courier. Use the VR suite…. Get our lawyer, get his lawyer, and get it done. I want this locked down before the sun sets." He cut the connection without a goodbye, the hologram winking out.
"My people are already on it," I said, the message from my Sunday, appearing as a brief, silent notification in the corner of my vision.
"My lawyer, is linking with your guy now…. Gotta love VR tech. Saves us from having to put on pants for a formal meeting."
Marshall barked a laugh, a short, sharp sound. "Pants are overrated." He settled back against the wall, looking more like a guy waiting for a bus than a multi-platinum artist who had just greenlit an entire album.
The bizarre normalcy of the moment wasn't lost on me. Here I was, eating cheap pizza on a dirty sidewalk with a man whose posters had adorned my bedroom wall in another life. The dystopian sky above us was a smear of orange and brown pollution, but for a second, it just felt… cool.
"So," Marshall started, brushing a crumb from his shirt.
"What's the word on the street? I've been hearing noises…. A lot of noise. Seems like every rapper with a working mic and a grudge is lining up to take a shot at the new kid on the block… The kid who came out of nowhere with beats no one can touch."
I shrugged, swallowing another mouthful of cheese and dough. "I've heard some of it…. Courtney, West's manager, keeps sending me links…. And I saw a lot of things on TV as well…. to me, It's… background static. I could care less, honestly."
That made him laugh harder, a genuine, hearty sound this time. "You 'could care less'? So, you do care, at least a little bit."
"Okay, fine," I conceded with a smile.
"I couldn't care less…. Semantic slip…. My point is, they're chasing clout… They're reacting a lot, and I'm not in the business of reacting; I'm in the business of creating. Let them have their fun…. It doesn't change what I'm doing."
"I like that," he nodded, a glint of respect in his eyes.
"Keep that mindset. It'll save you a lot of headaches." He checked his comms device again, a lazy smile playing on his lips. "Speaking of headaches and rappers… West is on his way here."
I blinked. "Wayne West? Right now?"
"Yeah... I sent him a pin of our location. Told him I was chilling with the golden goose... He sounded… motivated…. So, motivated in fact, he was on his way here…"
Three blocks away, in a hyper-sanitized, soundproofed recording studio that smelled of expensive synth-wood and anxiety, Wayne West was having a moment.
He paced the length of the vocal booth, his custom gold-trimmed headphones hanging around his neck, muttering the same four bars over and over again.
The beat—a monstrous, infectious thing Sael VT had casually titled 'Gold Digger'—pounded through the studio's immersive speakers. It was a beast of a track, all grinding bass, clever samples, and a rhythm that hooked directly into the lizard brain.
For days, West had been cramming, tearing up lyrical sheets, trying to craft words that could not just ride the beat, but tame it. He'd barely slept. He'd barely eaten. He was, finally, almost satisfied.
He was confident. Of course he was confident. He was Wayne West. But a sliver of doubt, cold and sharp, remained. This wasn't a normal beat from a normal producer.
This was from the Sael VT. The kid was a phantom, a savant. His approval wasn't just a formality; it was the final seal of quality. West needed to hear that "Yeah, this works."
The studio door hissed open, cutting off the track's relentless pulse. His manager, Courtney, stood there, her usually impeccable composure cracked. She was holding her tablet like it was a live grenade.
"Wayne…. Stop pacing. You need to see this."
"Not now, Court. I'm in the zone. This second verse is almost—" he began, not looking up.
"It's Heminem!" she interrupted, her voice tight. "He's with Sael…. Right now. They're out in public, eating pizza,"
That stopped him cold. "What? Where?"
She thrust the tablet toward him. On screen was a crystal-clear, slightly shaky paparazzi shot, already going viral. It showed Heminem and Sael VT, of all people, sitting side-by-side on a sidewalk curb.
The iconic skyline of New Beverly Hills was behind them. They were both laughing, a half-eaten pizza box between them. They looked like old friends.
West's blood ran cold, then immediately hot with a surge of frantic energy. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this the second it popped?!"
"It just popped thirty seconds ago! I came right to you!"
"He's showing him the track," West said, his mind racing, connecting dots at light speed.
"That's what that is…. Marshall's got his track done, and he's getting it approved in person. He's gonna lock Sael down before I even get mine in!" The thought was unbearable. Being second was not an option. Not in this.
He grabbed his jacket—a limited-edition, laser-weave windbreaker that cost as much as a small spacecraft—and a pair of essential sunglasses. "We're going. Now. Get the car. The black one. The fast one."
"Wayne, your schedule—" Courtney protested, already tapping frantically on her tablet to clear it.
"Fuck the schedule! We are going to join that little pizza party," he declared, yanking the studio door open. "We're all gonna hang out…. Because I am not getting left behind."
Marshall's prediction was, unsurprisingly, spot-on. A few minutes after he'd ended the call, a sleek, obsidian-black ground car that looked like it was forged from a single piece of shadow and menace silently glided to the curb. The tinted canopy slid back with a whisper, and Wayne West erupted from it.
Even in what was clearly a state of panicked haste, the man was stylish as heck. He was wearing designer grey sweatpants, a simple black tee, and that incredible jacket. His sneakers were so pristine they probably had their own security detail. He looked like he'd just stepped off a hypebeast runway, not out of a frantic dash across the city. He scanned the sidewalk, spotted us, and a look of profound relief mixed with intense stress washed over his face.
He jogged over, sighed dramatically as if he'd just run a marathon, and plopped down on the sidewalk next to me, completing our trio of musical hobos.
"You guys start a party without sending the group chat?" West said, his voice a mix of mock offense and genuine breathlessness.
"Just a tasting session," Marshall said, his tone easy. He gestured with his slice of pizza toward me. "Kid's a machine. He Just gave me five more tracks…. My next album is basically done."
The look on West's face was priceless. His jaw actually went slack. He swiveled his head toward me, his expensive sunglasses sliding down his nose. "For real? Five? You're serious?"
I nodded, trying to look nonchalant while internally cataloging this utterly surreal moment for future reminiscence.
"Yeah…. It's true. Same deal as we discussed before. You pass the test; you get the keys to the kingdom... He," I thumbed at Marshall, "passed the test."
West processed this for a second, the information clearly rearranging his entire mental landscape of the music industry. Then, a new kind of urgency took over. This was his test. Right now.
"Alright. Okay. Well, since we're all here…" He pulled out his phone—a custom, jewel-encrusted thing that was probably also a weapon—and navigated through it with frantic swipes. "You gotta hear this. Right now…. Don't say anything until the end."
He plugged in a pair of tiny, wireless earbuds and gently, almost reverently, placed one in my ear. He hit play.
The familiar, brassy sample of 'Gold Digger' kicked in. Then West's voice, layered and processed, came in. And… it was good. It was really good. It was almost eerily close to the original 'Gold Digger' flow I knew from my past life—the same cadence, the same rhythmic punch. He'd nailed the vibe, the energy. But… it fell short.
'Somehow this feels lacking a lot… I got the vibe, just not yet there…' I thought as I listened to the track.
It was like a brilliant cover of a classic song. The technique was flawless, the swagger was there, but that indefinable spark of raw, original genius that made Kanye's version iconic… it was missing. West was performing the idea of the track; Marshall on the other had lived it.
The track ended. I carefully took the earbud out and handed it back to him. Both he and Marshall were staring at me, waiting for the verdict. The fate of a potential mega-hit hanging on a sidewalk next to a pizza box.
West's eyes were wide, full of hopeful tension. "Well? Talk to me, VT. Don't leave me hanging. Did I nail it?"
"Hmmm… Marshall, want to have a crack at it?" I handed the sleek audio player to Marshall. His fingers, surprisingly deft for a guy who looked like he could bench-press a car, closed around it.
"Sure, why not..." He brought the buds to his ears, his expression neutral, professional. The faint, tinny thump of the bassline leaked out.
I watched his face, the subtle shifts—a furrowed brow, a slight nod, a thoughtful press of his lips. He was deconstructing it in real-time, the way a master mechanic listens to an engine knock.
He finally pulled the buds out, the cord slithering down like a black vine. "It's fire, no doubt," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"But it feels… incomplete…. Like the last piece of the puzzle is still in the box." He handed the player to West, who snatched it with the impatient energy of a kid waiting for his turn.
"Hah~ I knew it…" West listened, his head bopping, but his famous smirk was strained. He knew. He heard it too. With a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire larger-than-life persona for a half-second, he nodded.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's missing that… thing." He then did something that genuinely surprised me.
He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a different player, handing it to me. "Here…. My side of the deal. 'My Name Is'."
West took it. The plastic was still warm from his pocket and put the buds in and hit play.
The second that iconic, stuttering beat kicked in, followed by that manic, playful, lightning-fast flow, a grin spread across West face. It was perfect. It was the song. Marshall had absolutely nailed it.
The lyrics were brash, comedic, and utterly revolutionary for this world's stagnating music scene. When it finished, He let out a low whistle. "Marshall, that's not just very good… That's a genre killer right there…."
West, looking equal parts annoyed and deeply impressed, ran a hand over his impeccably styled hair. "Alright, alright, damn… It's a monster track." He then turned his full attention to me, the calculated genius behind the flash.
"Man…. You heard a hole and knows its shape, Sael…. You fixed his joint that is 100% perfect for him, in your head just by listening… You think you can help me finish mine?"
I pretended to think about it for a second, mainly to keep my inner thought from screaming 'YES! I'm going to help Kanye West finish Gold Digger! My life is complete!' I shrugged, aiming for a casualness I didn't entirely feel.
"My schedule's clear for the next two days…. So, sure. Why not?"
The relief on West's face was palpable. "Good. That's real good…. We should go to my place; I got a better setup there and there is No distractions." He paused, then a flash of his typical bravado returned.
"Well, no bad distractions…. I'll make sure you enjoy your time. Food, comfort… anything you want, I'll make sure you get it."
The offer was so grandiose it was almost cartoonish. My first thought, however, wasn't of luxury, but of protocol. A lifetime of watching mob movies and corporate espionage thrillers on Earth had its effects. "I appreciate that…. But my security has to come."
"No problem," West said without missing a beat. "The more the merrier… Got plenty of room for that."
I Spoke with Sunday in my head. 'Sunday? You getting all this?'
The smooth, synthesized voice responded instantly. "Audio and contextual analysis running…. Mr. West's offer appears genuine. A background scan of his primary residence shows no immediate security flags beyond the standard for a high-profile individual. Excessive, but standard."
"Notify Kate and Cassandra. Tell them the plan. I need them to know about this…."
There was a brief pause, filled only by the distant hum of Hollywood traffic and Marshall idly tapping a rhythm on his thigh. Then, Sunday's voice returned.
"Authorization granted. Ms. Beckinsale advises 'no contractual agreements without her present.' Ms. Cassandra's message reads: 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do. And send pics of the mansion.'"
I smirked. "Green light it is. Let's go."
The convoy that pulled out from the curb was a spectacle in itself. My own sleek, black autonav SUV's—a rolling fortress disguised as a luxury sedan—pulled up silently. Marshall ducked into a rugged, no-nonsense SUV that looked like it could survive a zombie apocalypse.
West, of course, ascended into a low-slung, hyper-expensive European sports car that gleamed under the hazy sun like a jewel. We were a three-car parade of vastly different energies, slicing through the perpetually grimy streets toward the pristine, gated hills of Beverly… or this world's equivalent.
The mansion wasn't just a house; it was an extravagant that did not care on humility. It sprawled across a hillside like a sleeping chrome-and-glass dragon, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces. The estimated cost had to be in the hundreds of millions. We passed through gates that swung open with a silent, ominous grace, cruising up a driveway lined with sculpted hedges and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than my first VR game studio. Pools glimmered at different levels, their azure water a stark, almost obscene contrast to the muted, polluted brown of the city skyline behind us.
"Home sweet home," West said, stepping out of his car and stretching with the satisfied air of a king surveying his domain.
"Nice crib, West," I offered him, my praise. Which did not impress him at all, instead he gave a look that I am clearly far richer than him. Little that he knows, I am still living with my family in our small apartment.
We followed him inside, and the interior was exactly what my Earth-brain imagined a top-tier rapper-producer's sanctum would be: a chaotic mix of impeccable taste and outright audacity. Minimalist white walls were adorned with bold, provocative art.
A pristine white rug that probably cost a fortune and looked terrifying to walk on dominated the living area. And everywhere, the glint of gold—accents on fixtures, frames, a ridiculously ornate grandfather clock in the corner. The air smelled like expensive cigars, even more expensive perfume, and the faint, sweet scent of some exotic strain of weed.
And then there were the women.
'Damn… that is a LOT of women…They were… everywhere'. I thought looking at the scene before me.
Lounging on impossibly white couches, chatting by a glass wall overlooking the city, floating from one room to another. And every single one of them was, to put it mildly, supermodel hot. We're talking genetic lottery winners, with curves in laws-of-physics-defying places and faces that could launch a thousand ships, or at the very least, a thousand subscription-based fan sites.
West gestured around the room with a casual flick of his wrist. "Don't mind them…. All of them were my hoes. My bitches. They're cool…. Treat them like they were part of the decor."
"Sure," I kept my face a mask of neutral observation, my default setting. It was a skill honed by years of navigating anime conventions without visibly freaking out. 'Just another day at the office, I told myself. A very, very weird office.'
Marshall, standing next to me, grunted. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur. "Nice. A bit too… curated for my taste, though. I prefer my girls a little less… perfect… Slimmer, but with more ass. You know? Something real."
West caught the tail end of that and grinned, turning his laser focus back to me. "What about you, Sael? What's your flavor? You strike me as a man of particular tastes…."
Both of them looked at me, genuinely curious. It was a bizarrely intimate question from near-strangers, but then again, everything about this world was dialed to eleven on the hypersexualization scale.
I shrugged, opting for honesty. "I don't really care about color or race," I said.
"That's just packaging. It's all about the… engineering. The architecture. If the foundation is solid and the design is to my liking?" I gave a small, final shrug. "I'm golden."
They both burst out laughing, a loud, genuine sound that echoed through the cavernous, gold-trimmed room.
"You hear this guy?" West clapped Marshall on the shoulder. "The engineering! I told you, man! This kid is unique!"
Still chuckling, West led us away from the living museum of beautiful people and down a hallway lined with platinum records. He stopped at a heavy-looking door, which he opened with a biometric scan.
"And this," he announced, pushing it open, "is where the real magic happens…. Everything else is just the waiting room."
We stepped into his studio. It was a sanctuary within the madness. The door, thicker than my arm, sealed behind us with a soft "thwoomp," muting the outside world into a distant hum. The room was acoustically treated within an inch of its life, all soft angles and dark, sound-absorbing panels. A massive mixing console, littered with enough faders, knobs, and blinking lights to pilot a starship, dominated one wall. Huge reference speakers were mounted flush into the walls. The air here smelled different—clean, technical, like ozone and warm electronics.
West didn't waste a second. He was a man possessed, sliding into the chair at the console like a pilot strapping into a fighter jet.
"Alright, let's do this. No time to waste." He pulled up the session for 'Gold Digger.' The familiar bassline, still somehow lacking, thumped powerfully through the room-filling speakers.
"Boom. Bap-boom-boom-bap."
He let it run through once, watching me. I closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me, comparing it to the flawless, finished track etched into my memory.
"Okay," I said, opening my eyes and pointing at the console as if I knew exactly what I was talking about. I mostly did, thanks to a lifetime of being a critical music nerd and a mind, added with my special skill. I am now sharp enough to reverse-engineer the feeling.
"The bassline is there, but it's too clean…. It needs to be… dirtier. Grittier…. Like it's coming from an old record sampled in a basement. Can you add a layer of distortion? Just a touch. Something to make it snarl."
"OH~ okay!" West's eyes lit up. He didn't question it. His hands flew across the console, pulling up plugins and parameters. A few clicks, a twist of a knob. He played it back.
The bass now had a low, gritty growl underneath it. A texture. A feeling.
"Oh, shit," Marshall murmured from the couch where he'd sprawled, an appreciative grin on his face.
"That's it," West said, almost to himself. "That's the feeling, I want…. What else?"
"The tempo," I said, getting into it now.
"When the verse comes in, try rapping just a fraction faster... Not a lot. Just enough to sound like you're rushing to get all the words out, like the thought is too urgent to wait. It'll add a frantic energy."
"Alright, Alright! Got it!!! SHIIDDDD~ this its FIRE!!" West cued up the verse, took a breath, and laid down a take. He rapped faster, the words tumbling out with a new, desperate cleverness.
He stopped and played it back. The difference was night and day. The track suddenly had a pulse, a nervous, exciting energy it was missing before.
"Holy hell, kid," Marshall said, sitting up straight. "You're a fucking ghost in the machine…. That was quick as fuck!"
Inwardly, I was reeling. It wasn't that Wayne was untalented. Far from it. He was a prodigy. He'd just been pressed for time, maybe doubting his own instincts. But as soon as I pointed him in the right direction, he didn't just walk there; he sprinted.
He was instinctively layering in the "uh!" ad-libs, tweaking the vocal chain to give it that classic, slightly distorted sound. He was literally, right before my eyes, recreating 'Gold Digger' as I remembered it.
He turned to me, a new, fierce respect in his eyes. "Okay. What's next?"
We kept on working on the track West had been laboring over—a thumping, bass-heavy beast of a beat that I'd casually dropped on him like an atomic bomb days ago—was 99% complete.
The instrumentation was flawless, a perfect replica of the Kanye West classic from my old world. But it was missing its heart. Its voice. Its soul.
"It needs the 'uh-huh, honey' part… the jazzy and soul vocals…" I said, leaning back in the producer's chair until the leather creaked a protest. "The call and response…. The soul singer."
Wayne West, a man whose presence usually filled any room, looked uncharacteristically stumped. He ran a hand over his meticulously braided hair.
"Shit~. You're right. It's the glue…. Without it, it's just… a dope instrumental." He then turned to me, a spark of wild inspiration in his eyes. "Why not, you do it."
I let out a snort that was half laugh, half choke. "My voice is best suited for yelling at laggy VR servers and ordering extra-cheese pizza, West…. Not for soulful crooning… Trust me on this."
'Actually, I can do it just fine, but if I could I don't want to show all my cards here, I am here as a producer not a singer…' My gaze drifted away from the soundboard, sweeping across the control room.
The place was packed, as it always seemed to be at West's mansion—a mix of hangers-on, junior producers, a few aspiring models, and actual staff. It was a circus, and West was the ringmaster.
'Huh? This guy is here the entire time?' My eyes scanned the faces, a gallery of opportunists and dreamers, until they landed on one that was… jarringly familiar.
It was the kind of face you'd see winning an Oscar or hosting a late-night show back on Earth. Handsome in a approachable, charismatic way, with a smile that suggested he was in on a joke you hadn't heard yet. He was leaning against the far wall, observing everything with a wary but keen interest. I pointed a finger.
"Hmmm…. Him… What's his name?"
West followed my line of sight and grinned. "Oh, that's Jamie…. Jamie Fox. He's, my dude, A hell of a party starter and planner, he does a little acting on the side… a good friend to have around me, he keeps the vibes right."
'Jamie Fox. Huh… 'I had to press my lips together to stop myself from laughing out loud. The universe, it seemed, had a truly wicked sense of humor. The looks, the name—it was too perfect. Jamie, noticing he was the sudden center of attention, stepped forward.
He was trying to play it cool, but I could see the calculation behind his eyes. Everyone in this room was looking for an angle, and a gesture from the infamous Sael Hardcox was a pretty big fucking angle.
"Mr. Sael," he said, giving me a respectful nod.
"Jamie Fox. It's a real honor…. If you need anything… parties, connections… I'm your guy." The offer hung in the air, slick and opportunistic. He'd addressed me as 'sir,' which was still weird to hear directed at my seventeen-year-old exterior.
I decided to cut through the bullshit. "Can you sing?"
The question landed in the middle of the room like a lead balloon. The low hum of conversation died instantly. Every single person, from the techs to the groupies, swiveled their heads to stare. West and Marshall Mathers, who had been quietly debating something in the corner, both did a comical double-take.
"For real?" Marshall asked, his brow furrowed.
"Dead serious," I said, my attention fixed on Jamie. "Well? Can you?"
Jamie looked like I'd just asked him to recite the laws of thermodynamics in ancient Sumerian.
"Uh… I mean, I can hold a tune in the shower…?" he offered, his confidence clearly shaken.
"That'll do…. Can you Sing something… Right now?"
"Like right now?" The poor guy looked like he wanted the ornate Persian rug beneath his feet to swallow him whole.
"Yeah, right now…. just sing anything, but preferably a jazzy tune," I said to him casually and gently, making it appeared that it was no pressure.
"Well…. alright," He cleared his throat, shot a helpless glance at West, who just shrugged, and then launched into a shaky, terribly awkward rendition of what might have been a popular love ballad.
"W... wise man~ says~"
It was… not great. But it wasn't the notes that interested me. It was the texture. The raw material was there, buried under a mountain of uncertainty and a complete lack of technique.
"Okay, stop," I said, holding up a hand. He froze mid-warble.
"You're singing from your throat. It's weak... You sound like a scared goat. You need to sing from here." I tapped my diaphragm.
"Now, take a deep breath, really fill your gut, and try it again. Don't think about being pretty. Think about being loud. Project."
He looked skeptical, but the 'sir' I'd been given earlier probably compelled him to listen. He took a breath, his chest puffing out, and tried again.
"Wiise~ Man Say~ Only fool's~" This time, the sound was stronger, less reedy.
"Better…. Now add some grit to it. Like you've been smoking a pack a day and just finished a marathon…. Don't be clean. Be real. Be… natural,"
He closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. He took another breath, and then he let it out. And what came out wasn't the shaky voice of a party organizer. It was a rich, soulful, rasping baritone that filled the control room with a warmth the expensive speakers couldn't replicate.
A synchronized chorus of "Holy shit!" and "What the fuck?!" erupted from everyone present. West's jaw was practically on the console. Marshall just stared, muttering, "No goddamn way…"
I smiled. "See? You can sing just fine."
Jamie Fox opened his eyes, looking as stunned as everyone else, like he'd just discovered he had a secret superpower. "I… I did that?"
"Told you," I said with a casual shrug, as if I'd just shown them a neat card trick and not pulled a soul singer out of a hat. West and Marshall were shaking their heads in disbelief.
"You are a truly, amazingly crazy son of a bitch, you know that?" West said, a massive grin spreading across his face.
"The fuck kind of ear do you have?"
"A good one…. Now, let's not waste it. Jamie, get your ass in the recording booth."
"Oh… alright!" Jamie, now moving with a newfound, dazed confidence, practically floated into the isolation booth. He put the headphones on, his hands slightly trembling with adrenaline.
I leaned into the mic. "You're gonna do the 'uh-huh, honey' callback lines… Simple, but you gotta put that same feeling into it. Like you're chastising your gold-digging girlfriend but you can't help still being a little in love with her. You feel me?"
He nodded, eyes wide.
"For this," I added, "I'll give you a fifty percent cut on the song's royalties."
That made him jump so high he almost hit the ceiling. "Fifty? Sir, are you—?"
"Just sing it perfect," I cut him off.
West leaned over. "Sael, you sure? That's a hell of a lot of credit to give away."
"It's his voice that'll make it a hit…. Just put my production credit on it and make sure he gets paid."
West gave me a long, appraising look, then nodded. "Sure thing, boss…. You heard the man! Roll it!"
The track started pumping through the studio speakers. Boom. Bap. Boom-ba-bap. Jamie closed his eyes again, finding his center. The red light on the recording console glowed. And then he sang.
"Uhh-huh, honey~." It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It was the final, missing puzzle piece that transformed a great track into an undeniable, world-beating anthem. He did another pass, and another, each one dripping with more character and soul than the last.
When the final note faded, there was another beat of pure silence. Then, West erupted. He jumped out of his chair, whooping and hollering, grabbing a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket that had appeared out of nowhere and shaking it violently.
"WE GOT IT! WE FUCKING GOT IT! THAT'S A NUMBER ONE! THAT'S A GODDAMN PLANET-SIZED HIT!" he screamed, spraying foam everywhere.
Marshall, Courtney, and Jamie himself just stood there, their mouths hanging open in a perfect triple-take of awe. They were hearing it now, the complete picture. It wasn't just a song; it was a cultural event waiting to happen.
Marshall was the first to snap out of it. He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"That's my cue. I need to get my ass home and start writing. You've just set the bar, Man…. Now I gotta try and reach it." He offered a rare, genuine smile before heading out, already muttering rhymes under his breath.
Not wanting to break the momentum, I turned to West, who was now pouring champagne directly into Jamie's mouth. "Might as well keep going. I'm here, you're here, the vibe is here…. Let's see what else we can wrap up today…"
***************
The door to the control room clicked shut, leaving me in the sudden, blessed quiet of the studio. The only sound was the faint hum of the machinery and the distant, muffled celebration from the hall. Courtney and West had very deliberately ushered everyone out, including a starry-eyed Jamie Fox, giving me the room.
In the hallway, just outside the door, Courtney turned to West, her usually composed features alight with excitement. "Wayne… that was… I have no words. He's not from here. He can't be."
West nodded, taking a long swig from the champagne bottle. "Otherworldly genius. Court, you hear that? That's not just a hit. That's a legacy. With him, we aren't just making an album. We're building a fucking monument."
The excitement on his face then slowly morphed into a more calculating, anxious look. "The problem is, we only got the one song from him. Marshall has, what, five? Six? If Sael walks out that door right now, we might never get another one. He's a ghost when he wants to be. We need to keep him here. We need to… incentivize him to stay until this album is in the can."
Courtney's eyes narrowed in thought. "We can't just lock him in the studio. And we can't match whatever insane money Meteor Studio is pulling in."
West snapped his fingers, a classic lightbulb-going-off-above-the-head moment. "I got it. We speak his language. We give him one of the chosen ones."
Courtney raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "One of your… 'bitches'? Wayne, be serious."
"I am serious! It's the universal language…. Look around." He gestured with the bottle toward the crowded hall, where a dozen stunning women were laughing and chatting.
"He's a seventeen-year-old guy with the libido of a rock god and the power to back it up. He's gotta have looked twice at someone. You're his shadow when he's here. Has he eyed anyone? Even for a second?"
Courtney paused, her professional mask slipping for a moment as she scanned her memory. Her eyes then widened slightly. "There is… one... The one who brought in the pizza menus earlier. He looked at her for… a beat too long. Noticed her when she bent over to pick up a dropped headset jack."
West's grin turned predatory. "Bingo!! See? The man is a king, but he's still a man…. Find her. Bring her to me… We'll make her an offer. She gets to be his… companion, his muse, whatever she wants to call it, for as long as he's gracious enough to bless us with his presence. And she'll make sure that presence is very, very comfortable."
Courtney, ever the pragmatist, saw the ruthless logic in it. In this world, everything was a transaction. And this was a transaction that could secure a masterpiece. She nodded, her expression turning resolute. "I'll fetch her."