My G

"Wagwan lil bro?"

Amias froze, one hand on his doorknob, surrounded by towers of boxes the delivery guy had helped him stack. The voice came from the shadows of the walkway, followed by the distinctive rustle of tech fleece against skin.

Zain emerged from the darkness, ski mask pulled down to his chin, Nike tech jacket zipped tight against the evening chill. His eyes flickered over the pile of equipment—the MIDI keyboard, monitor speakers, audio interface, microphone setup, even the acoustic panels Maya had convinced him to buy.

"My man's moving different still," Zain said, a grin spreading across his face. "All this music gear? Tryna be like your big cousin innit?"

Amias shifted his weight, keys jingling in his hand. "Come on fam, that's long."

"Nah, but seriously though." Zain leaned against the railing, streetlight catching the fresh crease in his trackies. "Mans really trying to follow Oakley's path yeah? His latest ting's been ringing off, you know. That loading, day in the life? Millions of views bruv."

"Trust me, I know." Amias gestured at the ski mask hanging loose around Zain's neck. "You moving mad with that?"

Zain's laugh echoed across the estate. "You know how it is out here fam. Your cuz got cameras round him these days, can't be too careful." He paused, eyes glinting with mischief. "Speaking of careful though... when you gonna start bringing gyal round your yard? Your mumzy can't keep you locked down forever my guy."

"Allow it," Amias groaned, but he was fighting back a smile. "Some man actually respect their mother's house, you know?"

"Respect?" Zain clutched his chest in mock offense. "My brother, the way I see it, you're disrespecting yourself. How many times I seen that peng ting you showed me from your school? Temi, innit?"

Heat crept up Amias's neck. "Nah, it's not like that—"

"Course it's not," Zain smirked. "Because man's too busy being a professional yute. But now..." He gestured at the equipment. "Maybe music man's gonna show a different side, yeah?"

A cool breeze swept across the walkway, carrying the distant sound of sirens and the ever-present hum of London traffic. The system's interface flickered in Amias's peripheral vision, still showing the completed task notification, but no new directives had appeared.

"Mad thing is," Zain continued, adjusting his mask, "I actually rated some of them beats you used to make on your phone. Majority were ass, but that SpongeBob one you did was creative."

Amias remembered. He'd spent hours crafting that beat on his phone, using a cheap app, trying to capture the sound he heard in his head. Now, looking at the professional equipment around him, those early attempts felt like a lifetime ago.

"Might have to let me jump on a track when you're setup," Zain said, pushing off from the railing. "I'll tell your big cuz you're following in his footsteps." He winked. "Maybe he'll even let you feature on Wild West."

An obvious joke.

That would never happen. No chance.

"Yeah, whatever." Amias rolled his eyes, but the thought sent a small thrill through him. "Don't you have ends to terrorize or something?"

"Terrorize?" Zain pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of wounded innocence. "I'm a law-abiding citizen, my guy. Just looking out for my neighbor, aren't I? Making sure he's not up to foolishness."

"Trust me, this ain't foolishness."

Something in Amias's tone made Zain's playful expression soften. "Nah, you're right still. This could be good for you fam..." He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to.

"Safe for checking though," Amias said, finally turning his key in the lock.

Inside, the apartment felt different somehow—more alive with possibility. Their modest two-bedroom wasn't exactly spacious, but it was home. The kitchen light was off, dishes from earlier still drying by the sink. His mother's absence meant she was probably at her evening shift.

Amias dragged everything to his room, closing the door behind him with his foot. The space wasn't large, but it was his—posters of American rappers covered one wall, while the other displayed a collection of photographs, memories frozen in time. The balcony door let in strips of orange streetlight, casting long shadows across the carpet.

The next two hours dissolved into a blur of instruction manuals, YouTube tutorials, and careful placement. His fingers ached from threading cables through holes, mounting acoustic panels, and assembling the desk that would house his new setup. The system hovered silently, offering no guidance but seeming to approve of his methodical approach.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he connected the final cable, his room transformed into something between a professional studio and a war zone of cardboard boxes and plastic wrapping. Wires snaked across the floor like urban pythons, all leading to the command center he'd created.

The door creaked open.

"What's all this then?" His mother stood in the doorway, still in her work clothes, eyes wide as she took in the transformation.

"Music equipment," Amias said, suddenly feeling like he needed to justify the controlled chaos.

She stepped inside, running a finger along the edge of one of the monitors. "I didn't expect you to take me seriously." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "You really meant it."

"Yeah." He met her gaze. "I did."

She nodded slowly, a small smile playing at her lips. "Alright then." She stepped back, pulling the door closed. "Just keep it down after nine, yeah?"

Alone again, Amias surveyed his handiwork. The setup looked proper—professional even. His reflection in the monitors stared back at him, surrounded by potential waiting to be unleashed.

"Well," he muttered, flexing his sore fingers, "I deserve a decent reward for all this."

The system responded instantly to his thoughts, the reward wheel materializing in his vision. His heart quickened—this would be his first spin using his own CP.

"Let's see what you got for me."

The wheel spun, colors blurring into a cosmic streak before settling:

[SONG STRUCTURE (Rare): "The real ones always got something in the stash."]

Effect: Unlocks two unreleased songs from a random artist's future creations, chosen at random.

"Oh wait..." Amias straightened, mind racing. "This could be good." Then doubt crept in. "Unless it's garbage. How do I even—"

{"Focus your intent to activate the reward."}

Amias closed his eyes, concentrating with the intensity of someone trying to move mountains with their mind. The system pulsed, a flash of blue light dancing behind his eyelids.

The first song materialized:

[REDEMPTION - KidWild ft. Nemzzz]

"Hold up." Amias leaned forward. "Nemzzz? Like the flow style I got earlier?" A grin spread across his face. Plus he got sick bonuses from that reward. This was mad.

The second song appeared, and Amias's heart stopped:

[HYB - J. Cole ft. Bas & Central Cee]

"Jermaine?" The word came out as a whisper, then exploded into a shout. "YOOO! Jermaine? Jermaine Cole? The man that said:

Could put an M' right on your head,

You Luigi brother now?"

"What the hell are you shouting for?" His mother's voice carried through the walls.

"My bad!" But he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. J. Cole was one thing, but coincidentally—Oakley, on the same track?

But how could he even use them? Could he just... play them?

His question hung in the air, and the system responded with a faint hum, words flickering across his vision:

{"These songs are yours to recreate. Detailed steps for beat production, lyrical flow, and vocal delivery are provided. They will not exist in this world unless you make them."}

Amias blinked. "Wait... so the original artists are never gonna drop these?"

{"Correct. Once acquired, the potential for these creations is transferred to you. They now belong to your timeline, your destiny."}

His chest tightened with a mix of excitement and disbelief. He was given the keys to songs that should both be good, maybe even hits. The beats, the bars, the hooks... all his for the taking.

A grin split his face. "That's mad..."

He glanced around his room, newly transformed into a mini studio, wires crisscrossing the carpet, monitors glowing with anticipation. His fingers itched to dive in, to start producing, to bring those tracks to life. But he was exhausted. His eyes were heavy, and the buzz of excitement was starting to dull around the edges.

"Yeah... this can wait till tomorrow."

For now, he needed to get comfortable with his setup. He spent the rest of the night getting to know each piece of equipment—fiddling with knobs, adjusting the audio interface, experimenting with the microphone's distance from his mouth. He watched YouTube tutorials, pausing every few seconds to replicate the steps, frustration bubbling when his results didn't match the video.

He adjusted the MIDI keyboard, fingers tapping out melodies that were more noise than music. But slowly, patterns emerged. He began to understand the language of chords and scales. His hands moved more confidently, producing loops that actually sounded decent. The thrill of creation electrified him, pulling him deeper into the process.

His mother poked her head in hours later, frowning at the volume. "Amias, lower that down. Some of us have work in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry Mum," he muttered, hastily twisting the volume knob.

She sighed but softened, placing a plate of sliced mango on his desk. "You've been at this for a while. Eat something."

He barely remembered to thank her before the door clicked shut, his focus swallowed by the blinking lights and pulsing beats. Minutes dissolved into hours. His fingers danced across the keyboard, his head nodding in time with the rhythm.

At some point, his mum returned, this time with a sandwich. "Last one," she warned. "And keep the noise down, Amias."

"I will, I will. Promise."

But he didn't. Not until the door burst open and she barked, "Amias! It's nearly three in the morning! Turn it off."

He jumped, spinning around in his chair. "Three?" His eyes flicked to his phone, the numbers glaring in white: 2:47 AM.

His mum stood in her dressing gown, hair wrapped up, eyes dark with fatigue. She looked ready to scold him, but the sight of his determined expression softened her. She shook her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "You have school in the morning son."

He didn't know how to respond, so he just mumbled, "Sorry, Mum."

She turned to leave, then paused. "Get some sleep. Even geniuses need rest."

The door closed behind her, and Amias leaned back, fatigue finally crashing over him. He shut down his equipment, the room falling into a sudden, heavy silence.

He collapsed onto his bed, phone in hand, mind still buzzing from the hours spent immersed in sound. Scrolling through Instagram, he tapped through stories—girls posing at parties, boys flexing designer gear, fake smiles and filtered lives.

Then he hesitated, thumb hovering over a story from someone he considered an enemy of his.

His heart pounded, memories flashing—blood on concrete, Mason's face pale and twisted, life snatched away in a blink. And the man who took him... laughing like it was nothing. Amias knew who he was. The whole estate knew. The guy was from their side of London, but not the same territory, where he was, it's a place where walking through the wrong postcode could get you killed.

Amias's jaw clenched, thumb pressing down. The story played—Yerell, dripped out in fresh Nike tech, surrounded by his boys, smoke curling from his lips, eyes cold.

Amias's fingers twitched. He could go there. He could get his get-back. But he'd be stepping into a war zone. And right now... he couldn't afford that.

Not yet.

He scrolled on, his mood soured. A couple girls popped up, smiling and posing. He watched, not really seeing them. He tapped through stories from his boys—mostly dumb memes, a few shots of them outside, talking crud for clout.

He wasn't all to famous. His follower count sat at 114. He was following 121. Small numbers really.

His eyes grew heavier with every scroll. The adrenaline faded, and exhaustion took over. His phone slipped from his hand, thudding against the carpet.

His eyes fluttered shut, mind spinning with beats, with lyrics that needed writing.

This could be the start.