Amias stared out the window as Anthony navigated through the Manhattan traffic, the skyscrapers casting long shadows across the streets. Five hours before the show, and already his mind was racing like always.
The car's interior was quiet, save for the occasional notification buzz from his phone. He'd muted most apps, but some still broke through—usually LinkUp alerts that couldn't be ignored.
Numbers. His life had become defined by numbers lately. Figures that scrolled past on his various dashboards.
LinkUp had generated £510,000 in revenue so far. That included the subscriptions as long as fees within the app. Five hundred and ten thousand pounds or $677,000 US dollars.
Musicians were paying him over forty pounds monthly to access features that connected them with other professionals. But even regular people—not musicians, engineers, graphic artist, event organizers, had began joining.
All just to make use of the System-built AI.
The business email was frequented by pleas for the AI to be in it own app, and he was wise enough to begin doing so.
Not at the current moment as things were far to hectic for any additional workload to be planted on his developers, but they had been notified of his future plans, and after they were seated in the office he planned to purchase, which he'd been saving the app revenue for along with the legalities for certain app features, new plans would commence.
Then there were the auxiliary revenue streams.
Seven thousand from Snapchat monetization.
Five thousand from TikTok royalties and content.
Three thousand from Twitch.
Three thousand from YouTube content, separate from his music channel.
Patreon had been the real surprise. The early preview of "8AM" alone had brought in £35,000—and beyond that his regular content, that being exclusive studio sessions, generated three thousand.
And the music itself? That was the foundation of everything. Amias owned everything—every master, every publishing right, every aspect of his creative output—except for I'm Tryna.
Between streams, radio play, sync licenses, and performance royalties, his music had generated approximately £105,000 in under a month.
Redemption had broken 1.5 million views on YouTube in less than a week. His GRM Daily freestyle was sitting at a million. I'm Tryna at 800,000. 8AM climbing steadily at 400,000.
On Spotify, "Redemption" had surpassed 6.8 million streams and was getting picked up by radio stations across the UK and, increasingly, in the US. Advertisers had blown up his phone about licensing the instrumental—the beat's distinctive punch making it a natural fit for everything from sports highlights to luxury car commercials.
Just yesterday, he'd received a call from someone at the UK charts.
"Mr. Mars? This is Rachel from the Official Charts Company."
"Just Amias is fine. How can I help you?"
"I wanted to give you a heads-up about next week's chart position for 'Redemption.' The numbers we're seeing are... well, they're extraordinary for an independent release."
"How extraordinary?"
"It's projected to jump from number eighteen to somewhere in the top seven or five. Possibly even top three if the momentum increases through the weekend."
"Top three?" He'd repeated, letting the words sink in.
"The numbers don't lie. Whatever you're doing, it's working."
Top three. Without a label. Without traditional marketing. Just pure, organic System boosts and his and Zara's hardwork.
His merch—simple designs that had been released so far—had generated £5,000 despite being available for less than two weeks. Not bad for something Zara had put together before they'd even brought Alessandra onboard to elevate the clothing line.
And then there was the business deal with 50 Cent. Nine percent of LinkUp valued at £35 million, putting £3.15 million into Amias's account.
Three million pounds. In his account.
He'd made his first million.
And then his second.
And his third.
All before his eighteenth birthday.
Anthony's voice broke through his thoughts. "Almost there, Mr. Mars. Venue's just up ahead."
Amias nodded, pulling himself back to the present. In the front passenger seat, Zara was checking something on her tablet, probably running through some designs.
He glanced at his phone again, hesitating before opening his banking app. The figure still seemed surreal: £3,207,522.16 after the transfer to his mother. He'd sent her £100,000 this morning, though he hadn't told her the amount. Just asked her to check her account. He smiled, imagining her reaction.
His phone buzzed again—another batch of notifications from labels desperate to meet now that he was in New York. Sony UK, who'd rejected him weeks ago, the US side was very interested. Atlantic, Columbia, Def Jam. Even Roc Nation had reached out.
Roc Nation. Headed by Jay-Z and Beyoncé. Amias snorted quietly.
No way he was getting involved with those two S-rank demons.
He wasn't about to sit down with Charles zi Britannia and Empress Marianne. He'd heard enough to know better.
The car slowed as they approached the venue, a massive structure where fans were gathered near the barriers, braving the Feburary cold for better positions when doors opened.
"Here we are," Anthony announced, pulling up to the VIP entrance. "I'll be back to pick you up after the show."
Amias thanked him, stepping out into the biting cold of New York winter—so different from London's damp chill.
A production assistant in a headset appeared, ushering them through security and into the labyrinthine backstage area.
"Your greenroom is this way," she explained, leading them through corridors filled with crew members and equipment. "Sound check is in forty minutes."
The greenroom was spacious but utilitarian—couches, a small table of refreshments, a mirror, and not much else. Once alone, Amias sank into one of the couches, finally letting the reality of where he was wash over him.
His phone buzzed yet again. This time it was his mother calling.
"Hey, Mum," he answered, unable to keep the smile from his voice.
"Amias! Are you at the venue? How's New York?"
"Cold," he laughed. "Really cold. But amazing. Just got to the venue now."
He could picture her in Dresmond's home, probably curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea, the television murmuring in the background. The image brought a sudden pang of homesickness that caught him off guard.
"You still wearing that necklace?" she asked, a smile in her voice.
His fingers instinctively went to the silver chain around his neck, touching the locket that held fragments of their shared history. "Haven't taken it off once," he confirmed. "Never will."
A comfortable silence fell between them, the kind that only exists between people who don't need to fill every moment with words.
"Mum," he said finally, "check your bank account."
"What? Why would I—"
"Just check it. Please?"
He heard rustling as she presumably reached for her laptop. Then silence.
"Mum? You there?"
More silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Then a scream that forced him to hold the phone away from his ear.
"AMIAS!" Her voice was a mixture of shock and disbelief. "AMIAS MARS, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
He couldn't help but laugh at her reaction. "Surprise?"
"Amias, this is—this is—" She seemed unable to find the words. "Where did this money come from? How is this possible?"
"Everything just clicked," he explained, a smile spreading across his face. "The music, the app, all of it. Happened faster than anyone expected."
He heard muffled sobbing, and his smile faltered. "Mum? You okay?"
"You see?" she managed through tears. "You see what I told you? I prayed about this, Amias. I told you to stop selling that weed and channel your attention elsewhere, and look what's happened."
Amias didn't correct her assumption about the source of the blessing. "Yeah, I know."
"Look how much you've made," she continued, wonder in her voice. "Look what God has done."
Her tone shifted then, becoming more serious. "Now listen to me, Amias. You be wise with this. And above all things, be truthful. Always be truthful, especially to yourself. Disorder and chaos come from lies, and that's where problems will come into your life."
The familiar advice washed over him, comforting in its consistency. She'd been telling him the same thing since he was small, and he'd recently found it echoed in Jordan Peterson's book 12 rules for life: "Tell the truth, or at least don't lie."
"I will, Mum. I promise."
"Good boy." The pride in her voice was almost tangible. "Now tell me about New York."
They chatted for a few more minutes about simpler things—the weather, the flight over, the team, his plans, meetings, his cousin coming over soon. As they were about to hang up, his mother's voice became soft, almost reverent.
"I'm proud of you, Amias. So, so proud."
The words warmed him more than any financial figure could. "Love you, Mum."
"Love you too. Now go show those Americans what London's made of."
After ending the call, Amias sat for a moment in contemplative silence, his mind drifting to everything that had led to this point. The System rewards changing his trajectory, the relentless schedule he'd maintained, the team he'd assembled.
Speaking of the team—his thoughts turned to security concerns. With his growing profile and the upcoming streaming sessions with other artists in New York, proper protection had become a priority. He'd been proactive about this, as with everything else.
Three days ago, he'd set up interviews with potential security personnel. Two ex-military guys had caught his attention—not the tall, imposing figures most celebrities gravitated toward, but men with actual tactical training and a no-nonsense approach that aligned with Amias's values.
"I need security that can handle various situations without escalating them," he'd explained during the interview. "Preferably people with actual training, not just size."
The shorter of the two men had raised an eyebrow. "Most clients want the intimidation factor. Big guys who look scary in photos."
"I'm more concerned with competence than appearance," Amias had replied. "What was your specialization in the military?"
They'd outlined their backgrounds—tactical training, conflict de-escalation, threat assessment. Skills that actually mattered in genuine security situations rather than just looking tough for paparazzi shots.
"The role would be hourly, depending on our schedule," Amias had continued. "Standard rate is—"
"One hundred and twenty per hour," he'd decided on the spot, watching their expressions shift from professional interest to genuine commitment.
He'd also hired three off-duty NYPD officers as additional security for the New York trip at eighty pounds per hour. New York cops were a different breed—tough, experienced with crowd management, and intimately familiar with the city's layout.
A knock at the greenroom door pulled Amias from his memories. A production assistant poked her head in.
"Mr. Mars? They're ready for your sound check."
"Thanks," he nodded, rising from the couch. "Lead the way."
Following the PA through the backstage corridors, Amias felt the scale of the venue start to sink in. Forty thousand seats. Tomorrow would be sixty thousand. Numbers that should have intimidated him but somehow didn't.
The stage was massive, spanning what seemed like half a football field. Banks of speakers and lighting rigs hung from the ceiling like industrial chandeliers. Technicians scurried about, adjusting equipment, testing microphones, programming light sequences.
"There he is," a familiar voice called out. Curtis Jackson—50 Cent—emerged from a cluster of people near the sound booth, Dr. Dre alongside him.
They crossed the stage to meet Amias, Curtis extending his hand for a firm handshake that turned into a brief embrace.
"Made it to New York in one piece," Curtis observed, stepping back to look Amias over. "How you feeling about tonight?"
"Ready," Amias replied simply.
Curtis nodded approvingly, then gestured toward the gym bag slung over his shoulder. "Came straight from working out. You gonna come to the gym with me while you're here?"
"Whenever you want," Amias agreed, though he felt a flicker of uncertainty. He was fit—swimming regularly kept him toned, abs defined—but he wasn't built like Curtis, whose physique was legendary.
Curtis seemed to read his thoughts, a grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry. You're not small, just lean. We'll get my trainer to put some meat on those bones while you're in town." He clapped Amias on the shoulder. "Can't have you blowing away in the New York wind."
Dre, who had been watching this exchange with quiet amusement, finally spoke up. "So what are you planning to perform tonight? You changed your mind about the three tracks, right?"
"Yeah," Amias confirmed. "Redemption for sure. Then the freestyle we made yesterday, and Poland."
Curtis and Dre exchanged glances.
"Poland?" Dre said. "Haven't heard that one."
"Just made it recently, messing around with the guys in the studio," Amias explained. "It's short, but people will vibe with it."
"And you took my recommendation properly, putting in the freestyle." Dre interjected. "That Guy? The track was fire."
"That's the second one I mentioned," Amias confirmed.
"And you're not doing 8AM?" Curtis asked, clearly remembering their discussion of his catalog.
Amias shook his head. "Decided to switch it out for the freestyle."
Dre looked skeptical. "You sure about that? You haven't even let us hear this Poland track you have in."
"Trust me," Amias said, confidence unwavering. "It'll work."
There was something in his tone that gave the two veterans pause. They studied him for a moment before Curtis shrugged.
"Your show," he conceded. "But if it bombs, don't say we didn't warn you."
"It won't bomb," Amias assured him.
As the technicians set up for his sound check, Amias took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The vast empty arena before him would soon be filled with thousands of people—all potential fans. With the System's reward active, each person exposed to his music had a dramatically increased chance of becoming a dedicated follower.
+150% increased probability of listeners becoming dedicated fans after first exposure
Combined with the parasocial magnetism effect, tonight wouldn't just be a performance. It would be a catalyst, multiplying his already meteoric rise.
The subathon he'd announced was part of this strategy. He'd been streaming for six hours before leaving for the venue, and planned to continue throughout his New York stay—bringing on other artists, exploring the city, creating music, all broadcast to an ever-growing audience.
Kenzo B was confirmed for tomorrow at three. (Lets pretend she started rapping earlier)
The group 41—Kyle Rich, Jenn, and TaTa—coming at different times throughout the day. Lil Mabu the day after, though Amias suspected he was more interested in leveraging the exposure than genuine collaboration. He specifically asked if any music you they together on stream would be posted immediately. Smart kid, recognizing the opportunity to ride the wave.
The backing track for That Guy began to pump through the massive speakers, Dr. Dre's production filling the empty arena with crisp percussion and a distinctly West Coast groove. Amias closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm sync with his heartbeat.
When he opened them again, he was facing the empty seats that would soon hold his future. He raised the microphone to his lips and began to flow.