The Collective
The message had been sitting in his DMs for two days.
Victor reread it for the fifth time.
> Yo, Victor Rex . We run a collective of international artists on campus. Your stuff's dope. Wanna collab?
The account was called Global Rhythms, with a logo that looked like a spinning globe wearing headphones. They had over 5,000 followers, mostly students. Their feed was a collage of photoshoots, concert clips, and jam sessions. It looked… alive.
"Why haven't you replied?" Benny asked over FaceTime.
"I don't know. They look legit, but… I've barely found my own sound."
Benny shrugged. "So find it with them. It's not like you have to marry the group."
Victor laughed. "You sound like the System now."
---
On Wednesday evening, he finally replied:
> Yeah, I'm down. When can we meet?
The reply came in minutes.
> Pull up Friday at 8. The Loft. Bring bars.
---
The Loft wasn't a club. It was an old warehouse space near the art district, converted into a hangout for creatives. The moment Victor stepped inside, the bass from a portable speaker thumped against the walls. The air smelled like incense and fresh paint.
A tall guy in a beanie spotted him. "Yo, you're Victor Rex ?"
"That's me."
"Name's Jiro. I run things here." Jiro's handshake was firm. His accent was a mix of Tokyo and New York. "We've got poets, singers, rappers, producers — all from different countries. No egos, no rules. Just music."
Victor scanned the room.
A girl with teal braids was sketching on a giant canvas while a DJ spun lo-fi beats. Two guys were arguing about whether Kendrick or Nas had the better debut album. Someone in the corner was singing in Portuguese.
It felt like home.
And yet… foreign.
---
Jiro led him to the center of the room. "Mic's open. Show us what you got."
Victor froze. "Right now?"
"Right now."
The beat started — mellow but heavy, with a kick drum that hit like a heartbeat.
Victor stepped forward.
He didn't rap the song with Benny. He didn't pull a verse from his notebook.
He went with something raw, something that had been building since that day on the grass.
> "They smile when you pass, then they twist in the dark /
Wanna cut out your flame 'cause they ain't got the spark /
But I came from a place where the nights had no light /
So I am my own torch, I don't beg for your sight."
When he finished, the room was quiet for half a second — then erupted in cheers.
"Okay, Rex," Jiro grinned. "You're one of us now."
---
For the next hour, Victor cycled between freestyling, vibing to other artists' tracks, and talking shop with producers. One of them, a tall Ghanaian guy named Kwame, offered to send him a folder of beats.
"This could be your next step," the System whispered in his mind. "Networking: high-value opportunity."
Victor was feeling the energy — until Jiro pulled him aside.
"We've got a showcase next month," Jiro said. "Campus-wide, big crowd. We want you on the lineup."
Victor's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"Yup. But we've got a theme this year — Shock Value. Every act has to push boundaries. Get people talking. You willing to go there?"
Victor hesitated. "What kind of boundaries?"
Jiro smirked. "Controversy sells, man. Whether it's political, raw, or just… unexpected."
Victor didn't answer right away.
---
Walking back to his dorm that night, the System broke the silence.
"This choice will shape public perception. Recommend: Align with long-term identity."
Victor exhaled into the cold air. "So if I chase attention, I might lose myself."
"Correct."
"But if I play it safe, I might stay invisible."
"Also correct."
---
The next day, Benny cornered him after class.
"So? How was it?"
He told her everything. The freestyle. The invite. The showcase.
"Shock Value, huh?" Benny tapped her chin. "That could mean anything. But remember — attention is like sugar. Sweet now, sick later."
Victor smirked. "You sound like the System now."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
---
That weekend, Victor spent hours in his dorm, notebook open, beats looping in his headphones. He tried to write something outrageous. Something that would make jaws drop. But every time he forced it, the lyrics felt fake.
Finally, he pushed his chair back.
"I'm not built for gimmicks," he muttered.
The System responded: "Authenticity is sustainable currency."
He smiled. "Yeah. Let's build with that."
---
On Monday, he texted Jiro.
> I'm in for the showcase. But I'm doing it my way.
> Good. Just make sure it hits.
---
Two days later, Kwame sent him a beat.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't flashy. But it had weight — like the sound of boots on a dusty road.
Victor pressed record.
> "I ain't here to shock, I'm here to stay /
My voice is the protest, my truth is the play…"
He didn't know if it would "sell" — but it felt like him.
And for now, that was enough.
---