recovery

I turned to Dre, my voice quieter than before. "Dre," I said, my eyes set on the horizon, "When I die, I want the world to know. I want everyone to see. I want the whole damn city of LA to come out, every person that's ever felt my music, that's been touched by my words. I want millions of people showing up to my funeral, standing in the streets, making sure they feel it. I want them to see me, to know what I stood for, and how I made it through the struggle."

Dre looked at me, his eyes soft but full of something I couldn't quite place. "You're not gonna die anytime soon, Pac," he said, almost like a plea.

I smirked. "Nah, Dre. I'm not saying it's gonna be soon, but it's gonna happen one day. And when it does, I want the world to know that I lived. That I made an impact. I want everyone to feel my presence."

Dre was silent for a moment, then he nodded slowly. "I get you, Pac. And you will. You're gonna leave a mark that can't be erased. That's the way it's meant to be."

I slapped him on the back, grinning. "That's the Dre I know. You ain't built to quit. Just remember, we're in this together. We've been through the worst and still came out on top. Ain't nothing gonna take us down."

Dre cracked a small smile, the first one I'd seen in days. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind me that even in the darkest times, we still had each other. And as long as we had that, we could keep fighting.

"Thanks, Pac," he said quietly. "I needed that."

"No problem, Dre," I replied. "We're family. And family takes care of each other."

After that night on the roofop, something changed between Dre and me. It wasn't just the conversation we had—it was the understanding that we shared. We were both carrying heavy burdens, but opening up to each other created a bond stronger than anything we'd had before. Dre wasn't just my mentor or a collaborator anymore; he was family.

Over the weeks that followed, I noticed a shift in him. He wasn't stuck in his grief like before. Sure, the pain of losing Tyree was still there, but he was channeling it into his music. Every beat, every bassline, every melody he created seemed to carry pieces of his brother's memory. And when he played those tracks for me, I could feel the emotion pouring out of the speakers.

We started spending more time together, not just in the studio but outside of it. Late-night drives through L.A., brainstorming ideas, or even just sitting in silence while watching the city lights—it was like we'd found a new rhythm, one that kept us both grounded.

Two Months Later

By April, it was clear that Dre had found a way to move forward emotionally. He still mentioned Tyree from time to time, but it wasn't with the same raw sadness. Instead, he spoke about his brother with pride—about the kind of person Tyree was and how his memory was driving him to be better.

One evening, as we wrapped up a session in the studio, Dre leaned back in his chair, a rare smile on his face. "You know, Pac," he said, "I didn't think I'd get through it. Losing Tyree, it felt like the end of everything. But you—man, you reminded me there's still a reason to keep pushing."

I smirked, leaning against the console. "That's what we do, Dre. We keep pushing, no matter what. We owe it to the people we've lost to make something out of this life."

Dre nodded, his expression serious. "And I'm gonna make sure his name isn't forgotten. Every track I drop from here on out—that's for him."

Hearing that hit me deep. I knew what it was like to turn pain into purpose, and seeing Dre do the same made me respect him even more.

From that point on, our sessions in the studio felt different. There was an energy, a drive, like we both had something to prove—not just to the world, but to ourselves. Dre's loss had transformed him, and in a way, it had transformed me too.

It was just another day in the studio. The beats were loud, the energy was high, and the smell of creativity filled the room. Dre was working on a new track, Eazy was on the phone handling business, and Jerry was shuffling papers in the corner. I was writing, lost in my thoughts, when a knock came at the door.

Jerry looked up, annoyed. "Who's interrupting now?" he muttered, walking over.

When he opened the door, a man in a black suit stood there, holding an envelope. Without saying much, he handed it over, nodded, and left as quickly as he came.

"What the hell was that?" Dre asked, leaning back from the soundboard.

Jerry turned the envelope over, his face going pale as he read the sender's address. "Uh… it's from the White House."

The whole room went silent.

Eazy looked up from his call, frowning. "The White House? What kind of joke is this?"

Jerry's hands trembled slightly as he opened the envelope but then stopped. "I—I think we need to sit down for this," he stammered, his voice shaky.

"Nah, man, don't start with that," I said, standing up. "What is it? FBI warning? Some government shutdown on us?"

Dre shook his head, looking worried. "Pac's right. We've been pushing boundaries, but this? A letter from the White House? What the hell did we do now?"

Eazy snatched the envelope from Jerry's hand, laughing nervously. "Relax, man. It's probably some publicity stunt. Let's see what they got to say."

But even he paused before opening it, the room heavy with tension.

"C'mon, Eazy," I said, trying to sound casual, but my heart was racing. "What's the worst they could do? Lock us up for spitting the truth?"

Eazy looked at me, then at Dre, then back to Jerry. "Alright," he said, his voice quieter now. "Let's see what's inside."

And with that, he tore the envelope open.

To Be Continued.