The half-zip cotton jacket looked as though it gleamed under the harsh backstage lights. Amias rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the piece against his frame. His baggy jeans hung with calculated precision, breaking perfectly over the red butterfly Air Forces that completed the look—street but elevated, casual yet unmistakably deliberate.
He stood alone in the narrow corridor that served as the final staging area before performers entered the arena. The distant roar of forty thousand voices penetrated even these thick walls, a constant reminder of what awaited him. Forty thousand strangers about to judge him. Forty thousand potential new fans.
Through the monitor mounted on the wall, he watched 50 Cent and Dre command the stage like the veterans they were. The crowd responded to their every movement, every word, unified in adoration. The energy was electric, almost visible—like heat waves rising from summer pavement.
Amias closed his eyes, feeling the bass vibrate through the floor and into his bones. His heart beat in perfect time with the drums. This wasn't nerves. This was alignment. Everything in his life had been building to this moment—this exact moment on this exact night in this exact city.
A sound technician approached, offering an in-ear monitor. "You want to check levels again?"
Amias shook his head. "We're good." His voice was steady, almost eerily calm.
The tech studied him for a moment, perhaps expecting the typical pre-show jitters. Finding none, he simply nodded and moved on.
On the monitor, the track ended. Curtis grabbed the mic, and the venue quieted instantly, forty thousand people hanging on his next words.
"Hold up, hold up—before we continue, I got something special for y'all tonight." His voice carried weight that silenced even the furthest corners of the arena. "Been mentoring this young artist from London. Kid dropped a track called 'Redemption' that's been blowing up. Truth is, I haven't seen talent like this in a long time."
Dre stepped forward, taking his own mic. "We don't bring new artists on our stage unless they've got something different. Something real." He surveyed the vast expanse of the crowd. "Y'all mind giving him a chance?"
The response was immediate—not just polite applause but genuine enthusiasm, especially from pockets throughout the arena. People who recognized his name, who'd heard Redemption or seen his content online.
"Two minutes," the stage manager said, appearing beside him. "You ready?"
Amias nodded, his focus absolute. As Dre moved to the DJ booth, memories of yesterday afternoon flashed vividly through his mind—the hours in 50's penthouse studio, crafting what would become tonight's opening track.
"Try this," Dre had said, loading up a beat with thunderous drums and a bass line that meandered hypnotically beneath crisp percussion. The sound was unmistakably West Coast—powerful, precise, methodical.
Amias had listened intently, feeling the rhythm settle into him. Then, with a slight hesitation that even he found unusual, he'd made a suggestion to one of hip-hop's greatest producers.
"What if we add something here?" He'd demonstrated a pattern of short, gasping breaths that could be layered over the hi-hats, creating an unsettling, distinctive rhythm.
Instead of dismissal, Dre's eyebrows had raised in genuine interest. "That's different. Let's try it."
They'd worked together for hours after that, refining the track until it became something unique—recognizably West Coast but with Amias's distinctive touch. By the time they finished, even Dre was nodding along with the quiet approval that meant more than any verbal praise.
[Reference Track: Tyler The Creator - That Guy (Kendrick Lamar - Hey Now)]
"Thirty seconds!" The stage manager's voice sliced through his memory.
Amias rolled his neck one final time, feeling each vertebra align. The roar of the crowd swelled as if they could sense what was coming. He approached the entrance to the stage, darkness giving way to slivers of light that escaped from the arena beyond.
"Ten seconds!"
He couldn't see the crowd yet, but he could feel them—a living organism with forty thousand components, waiting to judge him, to embrace him, or to dismiss him entirely.
"Five!"
A tech handed him his microphone—the weight familiar, comforting.
"Now! Go, go, go!"
Amias burst onto the stage like he'd been launched from a cannon, the sudden explosion of light and sound hitting him with physical force. The arena was a universe unto itself—a vast expanse of faces stretching into darkness, illuminated by sweeping spotlights that cut through the air like physical entities. The stage was enormous, at least three times larger than any he'd performed on before, with runways extending into the audience and platforms rising at various heights.
"WHAT'S UP, NEW YORK?" His voice boomed through the arena, amplified beyond recognition yet unmistakably his.
The crowd responded immediately, a wall of sound crashing over him. He couldn't distinguish individual voices or words—just pure energy, pure anticipation.
Dre rewound the beat, pausing it to give Amias a moment with the crowd. In that brief silence, he felt the weight of forty thousand gazes on him, the collective breath held, waiting.
Amias didn't stand still. He moved across the stage with deliberate confidence, his steps precise yet fluid, like each footfall had been choreographed months in advance.
"Man, it is a privilege to be here tonight," he continued, his voice finding its natural cadence, growing stronger with each word. "To be given the opportunity to perform for y'all. Let me ask you something—"
He approached the very edge of the stage, coming as close to the audience as possible.
"How many of y'all are 50 Cent fans?"
The eruption of sound was physical—a pressure wave that pushed against his chest, a roar that seemed to compress the very air in the arena.
Amias moved to the opposite side of the stage in three long strides, his presence filling the space, commanding attention from all corners.
"How many of you are Dr. Dre fans?"
Another explosion, even louder—if such a thing were possible.
He returned to center stage, raising both arms slowly, building the moment.
"How many of you are Eminem fans?"
The response threatened to shake the foundations of the building itself—a primal sound formed from forty thousand voices united in adoration.
Amias grinned, nodding. "So am I, so am I!" He pointed to Dre in the booth. "Let's GO!"
The beat dropped with seismic impact—drums hitting like controlled explosions, the bass so deep it resonated in the chest cavities of everyone present. The lighting shifted instantly—warm amber giving way to cool blues and purples that swept across the stage in rhythmic patterns. The breath samples beneath the hi-hats created an unsettling, compelling texture that seemed to dance between the percussion hits.
Amias let the beat ride for several bars, allowing the crowd to feel it, to surrender to it. He moved across the stage with a swagger that bordered on predatory, claiming the space, establishing dominance. When he approached the front edge again, forty thousand faces looked up at him, waiting.
He raised the mic and began to flow—starting with a lighter, almost playful delivery that contrasted with the heaviness of the beat:
"Hey now, say now, I'm all about them bands
Shit I'm on, bitch, you wouldn't understand
Hey now, say now, I'm all about my guap
AP, Richie, hmm, not on my watch"
The words flowed with effortless precision, each syllable landing exactly where it needed to. The contrast between his melodic delivery and the aggressive beat created a tension that captivated the audience immediately. Confusion gave way to interest, interest to engagement.
As he transitioned into the verses, his flow intensified, his movement becoming more pronounced. He stalked the stage like it belonged to him, gestures punctuating key phrases:
"'Cause brodie said 'Don't even press the issue'
If I put yellow boogers in my earlobe, I'ma need a tissue
Oh my God,
I'm really that guy, huh
Yeah, bitch, I'm outside"
When he hit "Oh my God, I'm really that guy," he paused for a heartbeat, allowing the phrase to hang in the air. To his surprise, hundreds of voices echoed it back to him. The spotlights swept across the crowd, revealing sections where people were already moving to the rhythm, heads nodding in unison, hands raised.
"Hey now, say now, I'm all about them bands
Shit I'm on, bitch, you wouldn't understand"
The confidence that flooded through him wasn't from the System—it was pure Amias, the natural high of connecting with an audience on this scale. He leaned into it, his following verses even more dynamic:
"Yeah, uh, I'm the suspect, baby,
I don't play victim
I'll buy that nigga building just to evict him
What that Coachella pay like? It better be eight figures
Why don't I fuck with them guys? 'Cause I hate niggas"
With each line, his presence expanded, filling not just the stage but the entire arena. His movement became more elaborate—controlled aggression that matched the intensity of his delivery. He wasn't just performing the track; he was embodying it.
"Oh My God I'm Really That Guy, Huh"
He stretched out each word, emphasizing them individually, creating a moment that thousands of people experienced simultaneously. The lighting responded, spotlights freezing on him for each word, creating staccato flashes that burned his silhouette into forty thousand retinas.
"I got my Chuck Taylors on, but they look like loafers
I ain't sitting with you niggas, Do I look like, Oprah?
Rather put 'em in the ground, you niggas look like gophers
Open doors for my niggas, bitch, I look like chauffeur, huh
Stack the gouda, mind ya business, eat the cooter
Oh my God, I'm really that—Man, turn this shit up"
As the track built toward its conclusion, the West Coast influence became more pronounced, Amias's flow intensifying to match. The crowd's energy had transformed completely—what began as skeptical curiosity was now enthusiastic engagement.
"Green face Grinch, Amias on his Dr. Seuss shit
True shit, I can put a number where your roof is
Paranoid 'cause niggas beef curtains, they got loose lips
Oh my God, I'm really that guy
Hand claps? Congrats? Never said to me, Put them shoes on
Stop with that fake shit, stop with that fake shit
Heavy on the Parmesan, every day tax season
What the fuck you wearin'? Bro, it's tacky
Niggas layin' on they deathbed tryna match me Oh my God, I'm 'bout to do the fool"
For the final hook, he split the arena in half with a sweeping gesture, pointing to each section in turn:
"Get it off your chest"
(Left side)
"Get it off your chest"
(Right side)
"I am not a tough guy, nigga, get it off your chest"
(Center)
"You don't love me, you love the optics that come with it"
The track ended with a final crash of drums, leaving a moment of silence before the arena erupted. This wasn't polite applause for an opening act; this was genuine appreciation. People who'd never heard of him minutes ago were now fully invested, shouting their approval, the energy rippling through the crowd like a living thing.
Sweat already beaded on Amias's forehead as he took a moment to absorb the response. The connection he felt with the audience was visceral, electric—a high no drug could touch.
"Y'all feeling that?" he called out, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
The roar that answered him was confirmation enough.
Amias didn't remain static—he worked the stage constantly, moving from side to side, making eye contact with different sections, acknowledging the front rows with subtle nods. His control of the space was total, his confidence absolute.
"Alright, now here's something different." He turned toward the DJ booth. "Dre, play Poland."
The lighting shifted dramatically—saturated reds and purples washing over the stage as Dre shook his head with a mix of amusement and skepticism. He'd heard the track during rehearsal and made his opinions clear.
Amias turned back to the crowd with a mischievous grin that was amplified on the massive screens flanking the stage.
"I know Eminem is here tonight, and he hates mumble rap." A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. "50 hates mumble rap. Dre probably hates mumble rap too." He shrugged dramatically. "Well, guess what—I'm finna mumble rap for y'all real quick."
[Reference Track: Lil Yachty - Poland]
The beat dropped—a complete departure from the previous track. A hypnotic, droning synth melody with minimal, spaced-out percussion filled the arena. The distinctive sound immediately caught the crowd's attention, their collective energy shifting from aggressive enthusiasm to curious anticipation.
Amias approached the very front of the stage, the runway extending into the audience. As the instrumental introduction played, the arena's massive speakers pushing that distinctive synth pattern into every corner of the space, Amias' mind drifted back to the track's unlikely creation.
The lights dimmed around him, the blues and purples washing over the stage as his thoughts traveled back to London, to a late-night studio session:
"I need a break," Zel announced, pushing back from the console and stretching his arms overhead. They'd been working on music for six straight hours.
Jordan sprawled across the worn leather couch against the back wall, scrolling through his phone. Zane sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open on his lap, occasionally scribbling ideas. Tyler was in the corner, fiddling with a vocal processor, testing different autotune settings.
"What's going on in Poland, man?" Jordan asked suddenly, looking up from his phone. "Says here they just made their drug laws even stricter."
"Poland's always been strict," Zane replied without looking up from his notebook. "My cousin tried to bring some weed through the airport there last year. Almost got locked up."
"For real?" Tyler asked, momentarily abandoning the autotune setup. "What happened?"
"Nothing good," Zane chuckled. "Security's no joke there. Can't take no substances across those borders."
"Can't take no wok to Poland," Jordan said with a laugh.
Tyler, still at the vocal station, spontaneously sang the phrase into the mic: "Can't take no wok to Poland." The heavily processed autotune stretched his voice into something barely recognizable, the words sustaining unnaturally.
The random moment would have passed unnoticed, just another studio joke forgotten by morning, but something about it caught Amias's attention. The melody, the cadence, the way the autotune warped the words—it struck some hidden chord in his musical intuition.
He set down his water bottle and crossed the room, gently moving Tyler aside.
"Let me try something," he said, adjusting the autotune settings slightly, pushing them even further.
He leaned into the mic and sang: "I took the wok to Poland."
The effect was immediate and striking. The autotune transformed his voice into something ethereal, each syllable sustained and melodic, creating an almost hypnotic quality. The room fell silent, everyone frozen in place.
"Wait," Zel said slowly, his producer instincts kicking in. "Play that again."
Amias repeated the line, this time with more intention, leaning into the effect.
"I took the wok to Poland."
"That's actually hard," Zel said, already reaching for the console. "Let me put a beat under that."
"Are you serious?" Zane asked, looking up from his notebook, eyebrows raised.
"Dead serious," Zel replied, fingers dancing across the keyboard as he pulled up a beat from Beatstar's. "There's something there."
A droning synth pattern with minimal, spaced-out percussion that left plenty of room for the vocal to breathe began playing. The simplicity emphasized rather than distracted from the hook.
Amias stepped back into the booth, headphones on, feeling the rhythm settle into his bones. He recorded the hook three times, then stepped back out to listen to the playback.
"I took the wok… to Poland...
I took the wok… to Poland…
I took the wok… to Poland…"
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Tyler broke into a grin. "That's actually fire."
"It's stupid," Jordan said with a laugh. "But like, stupid good."
"Let's build it out," Amias decided.
He spend two minutes freestyling to craft a short verse with the same autotuned approach, keeping everything intentionally simple:
"Uh, I been fiendin' like I'm Kenan
Ride around with a Kel-Tec
If you mean it, baby girl, do you mean it?
I been leanin', baby girl, I been leanin'..."
By the time they finished, what had started as a joke had transformed into a fully realized track—brief but undeniably catchy, the kind of song that lodged itself in your brain after a single listen.
"This is either brilliant or terrible," Zane said as they listened to the final mix. "I honestly can't tell."
"It's simple," Amias replied with a laugh. "That's what makes it perfect."
…
The memory dissolved as the present rushed back in—forty thousand faces staring up at him, waiting. The instrumental introduction was ending, his cue approaching. Amias moved differently now—more fluid, almost floating, his body language matching the dreamy quality of the production. The lighting pulsed around him—ethereal blues and purples creating an atmosphere that felt more like an electronic music festival than a hip-hop concert.
When he began to sing, the heavy autotune created a melodic, almost otherworldly effect:
"I took the Wock'.... to Poland....
I took the Wock'.... to Poland....
I took the Wock'.... to Poland...."
The simplicity was its strength. The sustained notes hung in the air, filling the massive space, the autotune creating an almost hypnotic effect that was even more powerful live than in the studio.
The crowd's reaction was immediate and visible—confusion giving way to fascination. The screens captured their expressions: furrowed brows, tilted heads, people turning to their neighbors with "what is this?" expressions that gradually transformed into nodding appreciation.
As he moved into the verse, his delivery loosened, embracing the melodic mumble approach while riding the beat with a different kind of precision:
"Uh (Phew, phew)
I been fiendin' like I'm Kenan
Ride around with a Kel-Tec (Wock')
If you mean it, baby girl, do you mean it?
I been leanin', baby girl, I been leanin' (Wock')"
His movement matched the shift in style—less aggressive, more fluid, almost dance-like as he glided across the stage. The lighting pulsed with the beat, creating an immersive experience that transformed the entire arena into something dreamlike.
"Phew, phew, phew (Wock')
Phone still ringin', battlin' all my demons
I been fiendin', baby girl, I been fiendin' (Wock')
Hope you love me, baby, I hope you mean it (Wock')"
By the second chorus, something remarkable happened. The track's brevity and simplicity worked in its favor—hundreds, then thousands of voices began to join in:
"I took the Wock'.... to Poland....
I took the Wock'.... to Poland....
I took the Wock'.... to Poland...."
The moment was surreal—a track most had never heard before, in a style many claimed to hate, yet the crowd was connecting with it, embracing it. The energy wasn't as aggressive as with the first track, but no less powerful—a different kind of engagement, a different kind of appreciation.
As Poland concluded, the audience's reaction was more divided than with the first song, but arguably more significant. Some sections erupted in enthusiastic approval, others seemed bewildered—but importantly, no one was indifferent. Conversations broke out across the arena, people discussing what they'd just heard, trying to process it.
"One more for y'all," he called out, checking his watch with a subtle gesture that conveyed respect for his hosts' time. The crowd responded immediately, eager for whatever came next. In the span of two songs, he'd transformed from unknown opening act to the focus of forty thousand people's undivided attention.
"This one's called 'Redemption'."
The opening drums hit like thunder—massive, authoritative, designed to fill spaces exactly like this arena. The beat dropped with seismic impact, heavy bass that vibrated through the floorboards and into the bodies of everyone present. The lighting transformed again—stark whites and reds creating harsh contrasts, illuminating Amias in sharp relief against the darkness.
What shocked him was how many people recognized the track instantly. Hands shot up across the arena, heads nodding in anticipation. Redemption had broken through more than he realized.
Amias approached center stage, his posture shifting again—more grounded, more intense.
His delivery reflected the change—more measured, allowing each word to land with full impact:
"In this life, I gotta get rich, I can't be broke
I was asking favours and everyone telling me no
Wait 'til the tables turn, we'll see who stays or goes
I don't wanna be outside, I need someone that can keep me home"
His movement became more restrained but no less powerful—deliberate steps, precise gestures that emphasized key phrases. The vulnerability in the lyrics contrasted with the confident delivery, creating a complexity that captured the audience completely.
When he approached the hook, Amias extended the mic toward the crowd, an invitation:
"This part of my life's redemption I see it, I want it, we get it
I still walk with God, but battlin' demons in, I can't let them
They said that they love me
But I still don't know their intention
I'm tryna live my dream, they offerin' P's, I don't wanna sell it"
The response was overwhelming—thousands of voices joined his, creating a wall of sound that washed over him like a physical force. The lighting intensified, spotlights sweeping across the crowd, revealing the extent of the connection—faces mouthing every word, hands raised in unison, the entire arena pulsing like a single organism.
For the second verse, Amias moved to the extended runway, bringing himself closer to the audience:
"Yo Firm that loss and said I'm okay but deep down, really, you know I was vex
I give more than I ever get back, I got my brothers, I don't need friends
This sweet one don't know nothin' about me, still tryna give man head, aye
She want a brand new body, the IG hoes done got to her head"
As he performed, the screens captured not just Amias but the crowd's reaction—genuine emotion reflected on countless faces. By the final chorus, the arena felt unified in a way Amias had never experienced before—forty thousand strangers brought together through his music, his story, his voice.
"In this life, I gotta get rich, I can't be broke
I was asking favours and everyone telling me no
Wait 'til the tables turn, we'll see who stays or goes
I don't wanna be outside, I need someone that can keep me home"
As the track built toward its conclusion, the lighting reached its zenith—pure white spotlights focusing on Amias as he delivered the final lines with everything he had. The crescendo of the beat matched his intensity, building to a climax that left the arena in momentary darkness as the final note cut off.
For three heartbeats, there was silence.
Then the place exploded.
The roar that followed was unlike anything Amias had experienced before—not just approval but passion. Hands reached toward him from the front rows, voices called his name from all directions, the energy in the room concentrated on him with almost physical pressure.
"Thank you, New York!" he called out, genuinely breathless. "I appreciate y'all!"
The lights came up as he jogged off stage, the applause and cheers following him like a tangible thing. In the darkness of the backstage corridor, he finally allowed himself to feel the full impact of what had just happened—his legs almost buckling with the release of tension, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"AMIAS!" Zara appeared before him, practically vibrating with excitement. "That was—they were—you were—" Words failed her. Instead, she threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace before planting several rapid kisses on his cheek. "They loved you!"
"That was..." Amias struggled to find words, his mind still processing what had just occurred. "Forty thousand people. Responding to my music. In New York City."
He collapsed into the first available chair, sweat soaking through his shirt beneath the jacket. His breath came in deep gasps, his body processing the adrenaline that had carried him through the performance.
From the stage, he could hear the beat drop for one of 50 and Eminem's collaborations, the crowd erupting as Eminem made his entrance. On any other night, that would have been the moment Amias was waiting for. Tonight, it felt like background noise to his own experience.
Over the next two hours, a steady stream of industry figures, other performers, and crew members found reasons to pass by, offering congratulations or simply introducing themselves. Each interaction reinforced what Amias already sensed—something fundamental had shifted tonight. A door had not just opened; it had been blown off its hinges.
When the concert finally ended, the backstage area transformed into a hub of controlled chaos—equipment being broken down, performers changing, security coordinating exits. Amias had changed into a fresh t-shirt but kept the same jeans and shoes, the jacket now draped over a nearby chair.
"Come on." Curtis appeared suddenly, materializing from the crowd of production staff. He gestured for Amias to follow. "Some people want to meet you."
They navigated through the backstage labyrinth, Curtis nodding to security personnel who immediately stepped aside. Even in the controlled chaos of post-show activities, Curtis moved with an authority that parted crowds without a word.
They arrived at a large room that hummed with exclusive energy—the kind of gathering most fans would never know existed. Industry executives in expensive casual wear, artists whose faces appeared on billboards, producers whose names appeared in tiny print on multi-platinum albums—all mingling in a space where the normal rules of access and status were temporarily suspended.
As they entered, conversations paused, heads turned. Curtis's presence guaranteed attention; the young artist at his side guaranteed curiosity.
"Good performance," a producer Amias recognized from album credits said as they passed. "That second track was different. Interesting choice."
"Risky move with that Poland track," another industry veteran commented, "but it worked. People are already talking about it."
Across the room, Dr. Dre was engaged in conversation with a figure whose identity was unmistakable even from behind—slim build, close-cropped blonde hair, a posture that somehow managed to be both relaxed and alert simultaneously. Eminem. The rap legend whose influence had shaped an entire generation.
As they approached, Dre looked up and smiled. "There he is—the kid who decided to bring mumble rap to a Dre and 50 concert."
Eminem turned, and Amias felt the full force of his assessment—those intense eyes taking his measure with clinical precision. Unlike many other celebrities he'd met who projected warmth in person to compensate for their public persona, Em's gaze was exactly as it appeared in interviews and music videos—penetrating, analytical, revealing nothing of his own thoughts while attempting to read everything of yours.
"So you're the one 50's been talking about," Eminem said, his voice exactly as it sounded on tracks—slightly nasal, deliberately paced, each word precisely articulated. He extended his hand. "Good set. Interesting choices."
"Pleasure to meet you," Amias replied simply, shaking his hand firmly but not aggressively.
Eminem's eyebrow raised slightly at Amias' composure. Most new artists meeting him for the first time either froze completely or overcompensated with excessive enthusiasm. Amias did neither.
"So why the mumble track?" Em asked directly, no preamble, no social buffer. "You can actually rap—you showed that on the first and third songs."
The bluntness was exactly what Amias had expected from everything he'd read about Marshall Mathers. The man didn't believe in sugarcoating his opinions.
"I appreciate different styles," Amias replied honestly, meeting Eminem's gaze directly. "I don't see it as an either/or situation. There's value in both approaches."
"Value?" Em repeated, his tone suggesting skepticism. "I don't mess with that style. Never have."
"Everyone's preferences differ," Amias said with a slight shrug, not backing down but not confrontational either. "Some people connect with technical lyrical ability, others with melody and feeling. I find inspiration in a wide range of artists."
Something shifted in Eminem's gaze—not quite approval, but perhaps a grudging respect for Amias's willingness to stand his ground instead of immediately agreeing with whatever opinion the more established artist expressed.
"You performing the same set tomorrow night?" Em asked, changing the subject slightly.
"Planning to," Amias confirmed. "Might make some adjustments based on tonight's reaction."
Em nodded slowly. "Dre says you're coming to the studio session after tomorrow's show."
"That's the plan."
"I'll be there too," Em said, studying Amias carefully. "If Dre and 50 see something in you, you must have something worth hearing." His expression hardened slightly. "Make sure you bring your A-game—and I mean your actual rap skills, not that autotuned shit."
The dismissive tone might have intimidated a less confident artist, but Amias had never been one to back down from his convictions.
"You really should give some of those artists a chance," Amias suggested, his tone respectful but firm. "Their approach is different, not inferior."
"Different?" Em repeated, unable to mask his skepticism. "You think singing 'I took the wok to Poland' over and over is in the same league as actually creating something with substance?"
"It will never be a demonstration of as much skill. But for all you know, that style could end up defining the next era of hip-hop," Amias replied with quiet confidence. "The industry evolves. What seems frivolous today might be revolutionary tomorrow."
Em let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Sure it will."
"I bet by tomorrow night that 'Poland' track will be trending all over social media," Amias said, not as a challenge but as a simple statement of fact.
"We'll see," Em replied, though his tone suggested he found the idea unlikely.
A moment of silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken. Then, surprisingly, Eminem extended his hand again.
"Marshall, by the way."
The gesture wasn't lost on Amias. Offering his first name was Eminem's way of acknowledging him as a peer, not just a fan or an opening act.
"Amias," he replied, though Em obviously already knew his name.
"See you tomorrow night, Amias," Em said with a nod. "Bring something worth my time to that studio session."
With that, Eminem turned and moved away, disappearing into another group of industry figures across the room. Amias watched him go, still processing the surreal nature of the interaction.
Dre clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That went better than most first meetings with Em," he observed with a slight smile.
"Did it?" Amias asked, genuinely curious.
"He gave you his first name and didn't completely dismiss you," Dre explained. "For Marshall, that's practically rolling out the welcome mat."
"He also didn't punch you for defending mumble rap to his face," Curtis added, appearing at Amias's other side. "I'd call that a win."
The three of them shared a laugh, the tension of the moment dissipating.
"Told you the kid's got something special, didn't I?" Curtis said to Dre.
Dre nodded thoughtfully. "You did. And after tonight, I think a lot more people are going to start paying attention." He fixed Amias with a serious look. "Tomorrow's show will be even bigger. Sixty thousand people. You ready for that?"
Amias felt a strange calm settle over him—the certainty that came from knowing exactly where he was supposed to be. The System had guided him here, but what happened next was all him.
"Born ready," he replied, and he meant it.