Chapter 70: The Z3 Boy
Monday, January 4, 2016 (Night)
Michael drove back to his house with the windows down, letting the cold night air hit his face. The pain in his pectorals and arms was a constant reminder of his physical weakness, but also of his new discipline. He felt awake. Alive.
He arrived at his secluded house in the canyon. He parked the Corolla next to the dirt road.
He went in, threw his gym bag in a corner, and went straight to the shower. The hot water was a momentary relief for his tense muscles, but he knew that tomorrow the pain would be worse. Amy had warned him.
He got out of the shower, put on clean, comfortable clothes, and ate a quick sandwich in the kitchen, standing up, looking out at the darkness of the backyard.
His mind wasn't on the physical pain. It was on the music. The conversation with Amy, the feeling of being a rookie at the gym, contrasted violently with his digital reality. At the gym, he was nobody. On the internet, he was a minor god.
He finished eating and went up to his studio.
He turned on the MacBook Pro. He opened the beamer_boy_v1 project he had started days ago, when his throat was still too hoarse to sing. The instrumental was ready: a perfect mix of nostalgic grunge and bouncy trap.
He put on his headphones. The Modest Mouse guitar sample filled his ears, melancholic but rhythmic.
Michael stepped into the booth. He adjusted the microphone.
He didn't want to sing right away. He needed... to explain something. He needed to process the absurd change his life had undergone in the last few months. From being invisible to being viral. From having no friends to having a team. From being alone to being surrounded, but feeling alone in a new way.
He pressed record. The beat started playing.
Michael approached the microphone, speaking, not rapping. His voice was conversational, almost confused, as if he were talking to an imaginary friend at three in the morning.
'Man, I don't know what the fuck goin' on lately, bro...'
He sounded genuinely perplexed. The speed of his ascent made him dizzy sometimes.
'Everybody actin' real different and shit...'
He thought of the people at school. Of the girls who smiled at him now. Of the guys who ignored him before and now wanted to be his "bros".
'Ain't nobody, nobody was talkin' to me, like, a few months ago...'
He remembered the endless days at the Burger Barn, scrubbing dishes, being invisible to the world. He remembered the first weeks at school, sleeping in the back row, being the "Zombie". No one talked to him then. No one knew who he was.
'And now everybody hittin' my phone up and shit...'
He thought of the constant notifications. The DMs. The emails from promoters. The fake "friends" appearing out of nowhere. His phone never stopped vibrating.
He stopped the recording. Listened to the intro.
It was perfect. It wasn't written lyrics; it was a thought out loud. It captured exactly the strangeness of his new reality. The transition from ghost to local celebrity.
He prepared for the chorus. The song's energy was about to rise, and with it, his own ambition.
The spoken intro ended. The beat changed subtly. The bass kicked in harder and the Modest Mouse guitar became more insistent.
It was time for the chorus. The hook.
Michael grabbed the microphone stand with both hands. The movement caused his pectorals, punished by the gym session with Amy, to send him a sharp signal of pain. He grimaced, but used that physical tension to project his voice.
He wasn't speaking anymore. He was singing a catchy melody, almost pop-punk, but filtered through the sludge of trap.
'I'm a motherfuckin' Schema' boy, I'm a dreamer boy...'
He sang the line with conviction. He was a dreamer. But a dreamer with a scheme, with a master plan. He wasn't waiting for things to happen; he was making them happen.
'I love a girl that don't even fuckin' need a boy...'
He thought about the type of girl that attracted him now. Not the easy groupies at parties. But someone independent. Someone like... well, someone who didn't need him for his fame.
And then, the core of the song. The object of desire.
'Baby, I'm a Beamer boy, I need a Beamer, boy...'
'I want a Z3, that's a two-seater, boy...'
He closed his eyes and visualized the car.
It wasn't an unattainable Ferrari. It was a BMW Z3. A small, fast, two-seater roadster. It was a 90s car, accessible but stylish. It was the logical next step from his Toyota.
He imagined himself driving that Z3 through the Los Angeles hills at night, top down, leaving the gray Corolla and his "student" life behind.
'Okay, I pull my cash out, shawty pass out...'
'Take her ass out, then I spaz out...'
The lyrics became a fantasy of power and money. Pulling out cash. Impressing. Losing control ("spaz out").
'Okay, yeah I hit that, shawty, get back...'
'I got death notes, where my list at?...'
The Death Note reference came out with a sinister smile. He had his own list. A list of targets. A list of people he was going to surpass. Harris. The critics. Those who called him a loser.
He finished the first take of the chorus.
Immediately, he rewound and recorded a second layer ("doubles") to give it that thick, choral sound that characterized his best hooks.
When the two voices mixed in his headphones, it sounded massive. It sounded like an anthem.
Michael rubbed his sore shoulder. The physical pain was real, but the image of the Z3 in his mind was stronger. That song was going to pay for that car. He was sure.
The chorus ended, leaving a melodic echo in Michael's headphones. The beat continued, the 808 rumbling softly under the nostalgic guitar.
Michael prepared for the verse. He knew this part required a change of energy. The chorus was the dream ("I want a Z3"). The verse was reality.
He leaned into the microphone, changing his flow. It was no longer melodic and sung. It was rhythmic, fast, almost percussive.
'Yeah, I'm in my zone now, I put my phone down...'
'I'm on my own now, I'm on my own now...'
He sang those lines with brutal honesty. It was his current life. His phone was always exploding with notifications, but he was alone in his canyon house, disconnected, working. Solitude was no longer a burden; it was a tool.
'Ya girl, she wanna go down on a real one...'
'I hit Jake, like, "What's the deal, bruh?"...'
Then, the lyrics changed to reflect his current status.
'You see me doin' shows now, I'm a pro now...'
He smiled arrogantly as he said "pro". He thought of the $5,000 check from the Observatory. He thought of the offers Karl was negotiating right now. He wasn't an amateur anymore.
'I got hoes now and I got some dough now...'
It was a half-truth, a rap exaggeration, but it felt good to say it. He had money (in Ethereum and in the bank). He had attention.
But then, the twist arrived. The line that dismantled the entire facade of success.
'But they don't wanna hear that, they want that real shit...'
'They want that drug talk, that, "I can't feel" shit...'
Michael sang these lines with a darker, almost resentful tone. He realized the trap of his own brand.
His fans didn't want to hear how well he was doing. They didn't want to hear about his success or his money. They wanted the "Ghost Boy". They wanted the broken kid from 'crybaby'.
It was the cruel irony of his career: to maintain his success, he had to keep selling his pain. He had to keep being the sad boy, even when he was starting to win.
'I'm never comin' home now, all alone now...'
Reality hit him again. He would never go home. To his real home, in 2025. That door was closed forever.
'Can't let my bros down, can't let my bros down...'
He thought of Jake, Sam, Leo, and Nate. They had invested in him. They had put their money into Ethereum because he told them to. They had worked on Christmas for him.
His success wasn't just his anymore. If he fell, they fell. The responsibility weighed on his voice, giving it a real urgency.
He finished the verse, feeling the mix of pride and pressure in his chest. The song wasn't just about a car. It was about the price of getting it.
The song was reaching its end. The beat kept its steady bounce, but the energy of Michael's voice changed. It stopped being rhythmic and went back to being melodic, almost ethereal.
'I feel like I'm a no one, that's what they told me...'
He sang the line softly. He remembered the teachers' looks. He remembered the Burger Barn manager yelling at him for being late. He remembered how he felt just a few months ago: a nobody. An empty body in a strange universe.
But then, the next line. The most important one in the whole song.
'I'ma show ya, baby, I was chosen, ayy...'
Michael leaned into the microphone, closing his eyes. For any other artist, that line would be pure arrogance, a delusion of grandeur.
For Michael, it was a literal fact.
He had been chosen. The System had brought him here. He had the knowledge of the future. He had the songs. He had the cryptocurrency treasure map. It wasn't luck. It was destiny. Or design.
He sang 'I was chosen' with absolute conviction, a cold certainty that resonated in the recording. He wasn't waiting to win. He had already won; the world was just slow to realize it.
The beat faded out.
'Beamer boy...'
The last whisper hung in the air, bathed in delay.
Michael stopped the recording.
He took off his headphones and stepped out of the booth. His pectoral muscles protested with a sharp twinge when he stretched his arms, reminding him of the gym session with Amy, but the mental satisfaction outweighed the physical pain.
He sat down and started mixing.
He didn't look for the dirtiness of 'Sodium' or the aggression of 'Look At Me!'. This song was clean. It was bright. It was radio-friendly.
He adjusted the 808 to be round and bouncy. He put the vocals up front, crisp. It was a polished product.
In an hour, it was ready.
He exported the file: beamer_boy_final_master.mp3.
He opened the "WEAPONS" folder on his desktop.
He dragged the file inside. Now it rested next to 'Betrayed'.
He closed the laptop. The blue light disappeared, leaving the room in gloom.
Exhaustion finally hit him. He got up from the chair with a groan, feeling the stiffness in his arms and shoulders. Tomorrow everything would hurt. And tomorrow, according to Amy, was leg day.
But as he walked toward his room, Michael smiled.
Pain was good. Pain meant growth. He was building his body and he was building his empire.
He turned off the hallway light and went to sleep, dreaming of a black BMW Z3 cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway.
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