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The morning sun filtered through the studio's windows, casting long rays across scattered guitar cables and empty coffee cups. The energy in the room was electric but restrained, like the moment before a storm. Today wasn't just another jam session—this was business.
Samuel Owen stood in front of the band, a man who'd seen two decades of dreams rise and crash. His grey-streaked beard gave him a certain authority, but his voice was grounded, genuine.
"Alright, boys," he said, placing a neat folder on the table between them. "This here is the standard starter contract. Nothing shady. I want you to read everything. Ask questions. If you're not sure about something, say it. This isn't a trap—this is your launchpad."
Rex nodded, exchanging a quick glance with the others. Ash leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, his guitar resting beside him. Kai sat forward, curious eyes scanning Samuel. Silas, the bald drummer with a quiet intensity, was uncharacteristically fidgety, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
Rex opened the folder. Inside were five printed copies of the contract, each labeled with the band's name: Obsidian Saints.
"This still feels surreal," Kai said. "Just a couple of weeks ago, we were nothing."
"We're still nothing," Silas added dryly. "Just louder nobodies."
Ash smirked. "We're nobodies with two killer tracks online and a thousand people screaming our name."
Samuel chuckled. "Make it ten thousand. Your YouTube numbers are growing by the hour. 'The Four Horsemen' is already getting covers from high school kids. And 'Seek and Destroy'? Raw power. This... this is momentum."
Rex cleared his throat, forcing his focus back on the first few pages. Legal jargon. Ownership rights. Royalties. Touring clauses. It was a lot.
"Break it down for us?" Rex asked.
"Of course," Samuel said, slipping on his reading glasses. "So, here's the gist: I'll act as your manager and agent. I help book gigs, promote your brand, merchandise, streaming, the works. I take a 15% commission from band-related revenue. You keep ownership of your music. Full creative control. If you decide I'm not helping anymore, you can walk away—no strings."
Ash looked up sharply. "Wait, we own our music? All of it?"
Samuel nodded. "I'm not a label. I'm not trying to buy your souls. I believe in what you're doing. I just want a seat on the rocket before it blasts off."
Rex was quiet for a moment, looking over his bandmates. This wasn't just about music anymore. This was contracts, money, long nights, and real expectations.
"Anything about merch?" Silas asked.
Samuel flipped to a later section. "Merchandise profits are split 70/30—70% to you. I'll help you find suppliers and distributors. We don't move into that lane too heavy yet. Maybe a few shirt runs, stickers, that kind of thing. Build the fanbase first, then go big."
Kai leaned forward. "And touring?"
"Local first," Samuel replied. "Clubs, college fests, regional scenes. I already have a few places in mind. Nothing crazy, just testing the waters."
Rex tapped the table. "And what about... keeping things quiet?" He spoke carefully, eyes steady on Samuel. "There are... certain things I'd like to keep to myself. How we write. My process. That sort of stuff."
Samuel raised an eyebrow. "You mean your 'gift,' don't you?"
There was a beat of silence. Rex's heart skipped, but he kept his cool. "Let's just say inspiration works differently for me."
Samuel smiled, not unkindly. "Kid, I've worked with dozens of musicians. Some had muses, some had breakdowns, some swore their lyrics came to them in dreams. I don't need to understand your magic. I just need to see it work."
Rex let out a breath. "Fair enough."
Ash took one of the contracts and grabbed a pen. "You guys ready?" he said, glancing around.
Kai nodded. "Let's sign it."
Silas gave a small grin. "Only if we get to demand a bowl of red M&Ms in our future dressing rooms."
Rex laughed. "Deal."
Each of them signed in silence, the scratch of pen on paper the only sound. Rex's hand lingered over his signature, the weight of it all finally settling in.
Rex Kade
Vocalist, Rhythm Guitarist
Obsidian Saints
The band had crossed a line—from hopefuls to professionals. There was no going back.
Samuel collected the contracts carefully and tucked them into his leather folder.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, standing tall. "Welcome to the business."
Silas raised a fist. "Now what?"
Samuel grinned. "Now? We get to work."
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