The sleek BMW slid into a parking space outside Metropolis Studios, the engine purring to silence as Amias killed the ignition. For a moment, he sat still, taking in the imposing glass façade of the building—leagues beyond the modest setup at Westside where he'd been recording until now. This was where the stars came to work. This was the big leagues.
He glanced at his phone, propped against the dashboard. The live chat was scrolling rapidly, viewers throwing up fire emojis and questions faster than he could read them.
"Alright, alright, I see you lot in the chat," he said, grinning at the camera. "Two hundred and sixty of you? Mad. Appreciate the support for real."
He scrolled through some comments, responding to a few questions about his plans.
"Yeah, I'm at a studio right now. My cousin hooked it up." He didn't need to explain who this cousin was; most of his growing fanbase knew the connection to Central Cee. "And listen, big announcement—I'm doing a GRM Daily Duppy freestyle tomorrow. That's dropping before Redemption, alright?"
The chat exploded with excitement. Amias smiled, genuinely touched by the enthusiasm.
"Anyway, I gotta head in now. Catch you lot later, yeah?"
He ended the livestream, pocketed his phone, and stepped out into the crisp January air. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he approached the entrance. This was what he'd been working toward.
Inside, the reception area gleamed with polished surfaces and sleek furniture. A security guard directed him toward the elevator after checking his name against a list. As he rode up to the third floor, Amias closed his eyes briefly, centering himself.
The doors opened to reveal a long corridor lined with studio rooms. From behind one door, he could hear the muffled thump of a bass line; behind another, someone was laughing loudly. He followed the numbers until he reached Studio 3C. Before he could knock, the door swung open.
"There he is!" Oakley grinned, pulling him into a brief, tight hug. "Come through, fam."
The studio was everything Amias had imagined and more—state-of-the-art equipment, acoustic paneling on the walls, a separate booth with a professional-grade mic setup. Several people were already there: Wyge lounging on a couch near the back wall, Zel, who was already here, fiddling with equipment, Taz scrolling through his phone, and a couple of others Amias recognized as part of Oakley's regular crew.
"Ay, North in the building!" Taz called out, using the nickname some had started calling Amias by.
"Just Amias is fine," he replied with a slight smile, dropping his bag on a chair.
Zel crossed the room to greet him, dapping him up. "Bout time you showed up. Been telling these man about what we've been cooking."
Over the next hour, Amias showcased the tracks he'd completed for his upcoming mixtape. The reaction was electric—heads bobbing, occasional shouts of approval when a particularly hard bar landed. By the time he had finished recording GDP with Oakley, the studio was filled with outright disbelief.
"That's GBP, the price go up if it's USD
Better watch your words, I'll get you X'd 'bout the shit you tweet (on God)
I told lil' bro if it's personal, he better jump out and do it on feet
We got somethin' in common with scuba divers, why? 'Cause the guys in deep"
Oakley was shaking his head, a mixture of pride and competitive fire in his eyes. "Now I've got to step my game up. Can't have my little cousin showing me up like that."
By the time they had a rough mix, the energy in the studio had shifted completely. What had started as Oakley doing his cousin a favor had transformed into a genuine collaborative session between equals.
"This could be serious," one of the producers—LiTek—commented as they listened to the playback for the fourth time. "Like, chart serious."
"Speaking of," Oakley turned to Amias, "Zel was telling me you're planning to drop a mixtape in February? You just started properly this month, yeah?"
Amias nodded, conscious of the eyes on him. "Got five tracks done already. Six with this one."
"That's basically an EP already," Taz pointed out. "And quality too, from what I've heard."
"You could easily hit UK Top 20 with the right push," A2Anti added, speaking up for the first time. "Especially with a feature from Cench on there."
If it's anything less than top 3, I don't want it, Amias thought, though he kept that to himself.
"It's still missing something though," he said aloud, frowning slightly as he stared at the track listing on his phone.
The beats were hard. The lyrics were sharp. The flows were intricate. But there was an emptiness at the center of it all—a lack of soul that he couldn't quite define but could definitely feel. It was like looking at a perfect replica of a painting instead of the original; all the elements were there, but some essential quality had been lost.
Zel threw his hands up. "Here we go again with this. I've been hearing about this 'missing something' for days now."
"What do you mean?" Oakley asked, curious.
Amias struggled to articulate the feeling that had been gnawing at him. "It's like... there's no spirit to it. Hard beats, catchy hooks, decent wordplay—it's all there technically. But it feels..." He gestured vaguely. "Hollow."
The room quieted, several faces showing confusion. LiTek shook his head.
"Sometimes you just gotta trust the process, you know? Not everything needs to be revolutionary."
"Why don't you sing then?" Oakley suggested casually.
The room went still. Amias felt his chest tighten.
"What?" Zel asked, looking between them.
"Yeah," Wyge nodded, warming to the idea. "Add some melody."
"Amias can sing," Oakley explained to the confused faces around them. "Proper good too."
The words hit like a physical blow. Amias's hand moved unconsciously to the silver locket hanging around his neck, fingers closing around it tightly. The metal felt cold against his palm as memories surged unbidden.
—
He was nine years old, standing in the living room of their Texas home. His mother was playing music on their old stereo system—Alicia Keys, "If I Ain't Got You." Her voice, though tired, was beautiful as she sang along, eyes closed as if transported somewhere far from the walls of the house.
"Come sing with me, Ami," she said, holding out her hand to him.
He joined her hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. Their voices blended—hers rich and soulful, his high and clear but with surprising control for his age. Something about the harmonies they created seemed to lift the weight from her shoulders. Tears formed in her eyes, but she was smiling—a real smile, not the strained one she wore most days.
"That's my boy," she whispered, pulling him close. "You got angel's wings in that voice."
The door crashed open, shattering the moment. Raymond Mars filled the doorway, his imposing frame tense with anger.
"Adrianna," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "What do you have my son doing?"
His mother's body stiffened. "We're just singing, Ray. He's got a beautiful voice—"
Raymond crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Amias by the throat, not hard enough to choke but firm enough to silence.
"Ain't you know you not supposed to be sounding like no woman?" His father's breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes as he bent down, face inches from Amias's. "Mars men don't sing like that. We don't whine and cry through music. You want to be soft, boy?"
"Ray, please—" His mother's plea was cut short as Raymond shoved her aside, his attention fixed on Amias as he unbuckled his belt.
"Need to teach you what it means to be a man in this family."
The first lash caught him across the shoulder blades, a line of fire that stole his breath.
—
"No." Amias's voice cut through the studio, sharper than he'd intended. "I don't sing."
The abruptness of his refusal silenced the room. Oakley studied him, something like understanding flickering in his eyes.
"You sure, fam? Might be what's missing."
"I said no." Amias stood, needing suddenly to be anywhere else.
He strode out before anyone could respond, ignoring the confused glances exchanged behind him. In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, forcing the memories back into their compartment.
He wasn't that scared child anymore.
—
Two hours later, Amias and Zel were alone in the studio Oakley had arranged for them. The space was pristine, every piece of equipment top-of-the-line. Under different circumstances, Amias would have been ecstatic, inspecting each item with meticulous attention. Now, he simply sat before the console, playing back their latest recording.
His own voice filled the room, confident and sharp over a hypnotic beat:
"These rappers fish for compliments, I'm catchin' bodies
Chess not checkers, your move's sloppy
My flow tsunami, your shit droppy
Mind clear as vodka, yours foggy"
He nodded along, feeling the rhythm but still sensing that elusive missing element.
"Word to my ancestors, I'm channelin' spirits
My pen bleeds truth, critics can't fear it
Took the long road, wouldn't steer it different
Every loss taught lessons, made me more efficient"
"They sleepin' on me like I'm a mattress
While I'm buildin' this brick by brick, what's your practice?"
Zel hit pause, spinning in his chair. "This is heat, bro. I don't know what more you're looking for."
Amias sighed. "Doesn't matter. But We need an engineer to mix this properly. Let me talk to reception."
In the hallway, he approached the front desk where a young woman with high cheekbones and a warm smile sat organizing papers.
"Excuse me," he said, offering his most charming smile. "The studio we're in—we need an engineer if one's available."
She looked up, her professional demeanor softening slightly as she met his gaze. "Let me check what we have." She typed something into her computer, then nodded. "We've got someone free. I'll send them right over."
"Appreciate that," Amias replied, lingering a moment longer than necessary before heading back to the studio.
He and Zel were discussing potential changes for the mixtape when a knock came at the door. Amias crossed the room and pulled it open, the casual greeting dying on his lips as he recognized the face staring back at him.
Jaime. A name he didn't know in that moment but one he'd come to know soon after.
The same Jaime who had held a gun to his chest that night in the apartment. The same Jaime whose finger had tightened on a trigger that, by some miracle of fate, had jammed at the crucial moment.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Amias' body tensed, ready to react if necessary, mind racing through potential scenarios. But Jaime made no aggressive move, though his eyes widened slightly in what might have been recognition despite the mask Amias had worn that night.
Amias' hand twitched, muscle memory reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"Uh, they sent me," he said, voice carefully neutral. "Heard you need a engineer."
Amias studied him for a long moment, mind racing. This could be a setup, revenge for Dyno. But Jaime seemed genuinely surprised to see him, and he was alone, apparently unarmed.
"Yeah," Amias finally said, stepping aside to let him in. "Come through."
The tension in the room was palpable as Jaime set up at the console, though Zel, unaware of their history, chatted easily about the track they were working on. For twenty minutes, they worked in professional silence, Jaime making adjustments to levels and EQ while Amias watched his every move from the corner of his eye.
When Zel excused himself to use the bathroom, the atmosphere thickened even further.
Jaime spoke first, his voice low. "Hey, you know, I'm not sure if I'm tweaking or something, but..." He hesitated, studying Amias's face. "Those eyes. I remember them."
Amias considered denying it, playing dumb. But what was the point? "It was me," he confirmed simply.
The simple confirmation hung in the air between them. Jaime swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Cool, cool," he said, nodding too many times. "Listen, I'm just here to work, you know? That's all."
"Okay," Amias replied, watchful still.
Jaime's fingers hovered over the controls, then stilled. "Thank you," he said suddenly, not looking at Amias. "For not killing me that day."
Amias raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.
"When the gun jammed," Jaime continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "You could have... but you didn't."
Something shifted in Amias then—not a softening exactly, but a willingness to listen rather than speak. He remained silent, watching as Jaime struggled with what to say next.
Jaime began to speak again, words spilling out as if he'd been holding them in for too long. "It's been rough, you know? Police questioning, nightmares. I still cry about my cousin sometimes." His fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of the console. "I know you weren't the one who killed him. That was the other guy."
Amias said nothing, simply allowing Jaime the space to speak. It was strange, almost like a therapy session—Jaime talking, Amias silent, the studio's soundproofed walls containing words that would never leave this room.
"To be honest," Jaime continued, gaining momentum now that the floodgates were open, "I do dislike you a lot. Now that I know for sure it's you. Do you have any idea how traumatized my brothers are? The youngest one still wakes up screaming. He was eight, man. Eight." He shook his head, fingers drumming nervously on the console. "That apartment was our home, you know? Now they're scared all the time. We had to move. Cost money we didn't have."
The words poured out of him—grief, anger, fear, all the emotions he'd been carrying since that night clearly. Amias absorbed it all, neither defending himself nor apologizing. There was nothing to say that wouldn't ring hollow.
Jaime spoke for several more minutes, describing the funeral planning, the family's grief, the constant fear that had followed them since that night. His voice rose and fell, anger giving way to sadness, then resignation.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Jaime fell silent. He drew a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling.
"But," he said, voice steadier now, "you let me live. When my gun jammed, you could have... but you didn't. That says something about your heart." He looked up, meeting Amias's eyes directly. "You can't be that much of a bad person."
The words struck Amias with unexpected force. You can't be that much of a bad person. After everything—after Apannii, Ekane, Kevin, the nameless man in the forest—here was someone who had every reason to hate him, yet saw something worth acknowledging.
It wasn't absolution. It wasn't even forgiveness. But it was something—a tiny crack in the armor of certainty he'd built around himself, the conviction that he was already beyond redemption.
Jaime turned back to the console, adjusting some settings before playing back the track with his new mix. The sound was cleaner, the bass hitting harder, Amias's voice sitting perfectly in the pocket of the beat.
"Thanks," Amias said quietly.
Jaime looked up, confused. "What?"
"For telling me that."
Jaime studied him for a moment, then nodded once, a small acknowledgment passing between them—not friendship, not forgiveness exactly, but understanding.
The door opened as Zel returned, oblivious to the charged atmosphere. "This mix sounds proper now," he exclaimed, hearing the playback. "You got skills, bruv."
As they continued working, Amias felt a reminder; that even in the darkest corners of London, even in the bloodiest chapters of his story, humanity could still surprise him.