The morning light filtered through the blinds as Amias scrolled through the comments on his freshly uploaded YouTube Short. He'd posted it at exactly 8:00 AM—prime time for reaching the early-scrolling audience before they headed off to school or work.
"BIG G GOT THE FEDS ON SPEED DIAL FAM 💀"
"mans snitching on the whole postcode ðŸ˜"
"this is actually how these drill youtes be in interviews tho"
"The two in the back walking out sent me 🤣🤣"
The video—a satirical take on how drill artists inadvertently incriminate themselves—had already racked up 34,000 views in just hours. Not insanely viral by any means, but very much respectable growth for his small channel.
The setting had been perfect: a stark white room with a TV in the background displaying jail cell beds, the three of them playing their parts with surprising comedic timing. Tyler and Jordan had initially been hesitant about appearing on camera, even with masks, but Zara—who had initially proposed the idea, and to his surprise—the System who agreed with her, had insisted on the value of diverse content types.
The System: "Content diversification increases algorithm visibility by 43%," it had explained. "Humor-based shorts have 3.2x higher share rates than standard music promotion."
Zara: "Just do what I say."
The video played again on his screen:
The shot opens with Amias seated center frame, flanked by Tyler and Jordan—both wearing balaclavas pulled down to their noses. They throw up exaggerated gang signs as Amias adjusts an imaginary prison phone to his ear.
"Yeah, it's ya boy Big G—cell block 3, hittin' you on the 3-way fam! Bow bow bow, dusty with the shank innit!" Amias barks into the pretend phone, his voice dropping into an over-the-top 'roadman' accent.
Tyler and Jordan nod aggressively beside him, throwing more signs.
"Ayy, Big G, real killer, no I'm not innocent!" Amias continues, then shifts to a gleeful, confessional tone. "Ayy, Feds, listen close—I'll tell you how it went..."
As Amias launches into the detailed "confession," naming precise coordinates, specific stores, and full names, Tyler and Jordan exchange increasingly alarmed glances. Their body language shifts from bravado to discomfort.
"Stabbed man at 51.5074° N, 0.1278° W—Big Ben's bench, 3AM, CCTV's my friend!"
Tyler subtly nudges Jordan, both looking at each other with widening eyes.
"Used a machete from B&Q, receipt's in my left sock, bloody hoodie's at my nan's—she thinks it's a paint job!"
By now, Jordan is slowly backing away from Amias, pulling his balaclava higher up his face.
As Amias continues rattling off increasingly specific details—"Shoutout my guy Lil' Spoon—he drove the stolen Vauxhall, but I call him by his real name, that's David Jackson. Trevor Tailor who works at Tesco cloned cards, Karendid the money laundry—whites on whites. Left the knife in the Uber, driver's name is Mitch!"—both friends shake their heads in disbelief and begin walking out of frame, hands up in surrender.
"Feds, I'm innocent—but here's my co-defendants, Shoutout George, Mitch, Spoon, and Karen—let's all do a decade…"
The camera stays on Amias, who remains oblivious to his friends' departure, still enthusiastically snitching to the imaginary authorities.
"Ayy, Feds! Bring the gang in here—let's Netflix and confess! George can teach yoga, Spoon's on laundry, he's OCD with starch innit, Karen's drafting our appeal—she's got a 2-for-1 coupon! And Trevor? He's the snitch MVP—dude ratted on his goldfish…"
"FREE BIG G! …Wait, my ankle monitor's a vibe—fits my Crocs! Shoutout my cellmate Terry—he's in for stealing ASDA trolleys…
PS: The Glock's in the Thames— the fish are strapped now! I repeat, the fishes are strapped now!
PPS: Tell my mum I need my Xbox—Minecraft waits for no Roadman!"
The video ends with Amias turning to find himself alone, confusion etched on his face as he calls out: "Ay mandem, where have you man gone bro?"
Amias closed the app with a satisfied smile. Both Zara and the System had been right—again. The diversification was working. The analytics showed that 63% of viewers had immediately gone to check out his channel after watching the short. Not bad for a few minutes of filming.
His phone buzzed with a message from Zara herself:
DON'T FORGET - Soundcheck @ 6. Performance @ 9:30. I'll meet you backstage at 7. Don't be late!!!
Amias checked the time: 2:13 PM. Hours yet before he needed to leave, but already a flutter of nerves danced in his stomach. His first real performance. Not just recording in a studio or filming a video—an actual live audience watching him, judging him, potentially becoming fans... or potentially walking out.
"System, run performance preparation protocol," he murmured, setting his phone down.
"Voice warm-up recommended. Consuming honey and lemon tea advised. Review of lyrics essential. Mental visualization exercises beneficial."
Amias nodded, moving to Oakley's kitchen to prepare the tea. As the kettle boiled, he began the vocal exercises the System had taught him—scales and tongue twisters designed to loosen his vocal cords and sharpen his diction.
"Performance anxiety detected," the System noted. "Recommendation: Controlled breathing exercises and positive outcome visualization."
"I'm fine," Amias replied automatically, though his racing heart suggested otherwise.
"Physiological indicators suggest elevated stress levels. Performance quality correlates inversely with pre-show anxiety."
Amias sighed. "Fine. Let's do the breathing thing."
For the next fifteen minutes, he followed the System's guided breathing exercises, each exhale carrying away a fraction of his tension. By the end, his shoulders had dropped from their hunched position near his ears, and the tight knot in his chest had loosened.
"Better," the System acknowledged. "Now review performance contingencies."
Amias ran through the mental checklist: What if he forgot the lyrics? Focus on the beat, freestyle if necessary. What if the crowd was cold? Engage them directly, ask questions, build energy. What if the sound system failed? Use the moment to connect with the audience directly.
By 5:30 PM, he was as ready as he could be. The System had run him through every scenario, tested his recall of lyrics, and reinforced the basics of stage presence. Now it was just about getting there.
—
The venue—a mid-sized venue in East London called The Underpass—hummed with anticipation. Not for Amias specifically; he was just one of seven acts on tonight's showcase, and nowhere near the headliner. But the energy was palpable nonetheless, a collective buzz of expectation from an audience primed for discovery.
Backstage was a cramped corridor of makeshift dressing rooms—really just sectioned-off areas divided by portable partitions. Amias found his designated space, little more than a folding chair, a small table with a mirror, and a hook for his jacket. His name was taped to the wall on a piece of printer paper: "AMIAS MARS - 9:30 PM."
Seeing his stage name printed out, even on something so mundane, sent a thrill through him. This was real. This was happening.
The soundcheck went smoothly enough—the sound engineer, a grizzled man with arms covered in faded tattoos, had him run through sixteen bars of both tracks, adjusted levels, and pronounced it "good enough" before moving on to the next act.
By 7:00 PM, Amias was back in his tiny dressing area, scrolling mindlessly through his phone when a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
"You're pacing," Zara observed, leaning against the partition with an amused smile.
Amias stopped, suddenly aware that he had indeed been walking back and forth in the small space. "Just... warming up."
Zara stepped inside, closing the flimsy door behind her. She wore high-waisted jeans and a cropped black top, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Simple but striking—as always.
"Nervous?" she asked, setting her bag down.
"Nah," Amias lied, then caught himself. "Maybe a little."
"Good," she said, surprising him. "Nerves mean you care. It's when you stop feeling them that you should worry."
She moved behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and applying gentle pressure. Her fingers found the knots of tension at the base of his neck, working them with confident precision.
"Jesus," Amias murmured as her thumbs dug into a particularly tight spot. "Where'd you learn this?"
"My mum is a doctor but an even better massage therapist," Zara said straightforwardly, continuing her ministrations. "Taught me a few tricks."
Amias closed his eyes, letting her work the tension from his muscles. Her touch was professional but intimate—a strange contradiction that seemed to define their entire relationship.
"I've got news," she said after a moment, her voice close to his ear.
"Yeah?"
"The UK charts updated today. 'I'm Tryna' jumped from 99 to 74."
Amias' hummed. "Insane isn't it?"
"For real," Zara said, smile in her voice. "Streams nearly doubled in the past week."
Amias let out a low whistle. "And I don't own the masters anymore."
"But you kept the publishing right," Zara said, remembering all the technical jargon he had explained to her, moving her hands to his upper back whilst. "You'll still see royalties from that. And more importantly, it proves you've got what it takes. First single, and you're already charting."
Amias nodded slowly, processing the information. Part of him wished he'd didn't have to sell the masters now. But £51,000 in the bank was £51,000 in the bank—before taxes at least. Plus he'd needed that capital to fund everything else.
"Hey," Zara said softly, sensing his mixed feelings. "You made the right call. That money is funding your independence. And now you know what you're capable of."
"Yeah," Amias agreed, reaching up to squeeze her hand in thanks. "You're right."
She stepped back, her professional demeanor returning. "I'll give you some space to get centered. You're on in about an hour."
As she turned to leave, Amias caught her wrist. "Hey. Thanks for believing in me. For real."
Something flashed in her eyes—a moment of vulnerability quickly masked. "It's my job," she said lightly, but they both knew it was more than that.
After she left, Amias sat quietly, focusing on his breathing as the System had taught him. Outside, he could hear the muffled sounds of the current performer—a female vocalist with an ethereal voice that floated above the bass-heavy beat.
"You chose wisely," the System commented, breaking the silence. "This venue builds genuine audience connection. Club performances would yield higher immediate payment but less dedicated fanbase development."
"That's what I'm after," Amias agreed. "Real fans who'll stick with me, not just people who hear me in the background while they're getting wasted."
The door opened again, but this time it wasn't Zara. A tall, athletic figure with a distinctive haircut stepped into the small space.
Amias blinked in surprise. "AJ Tracey?"
The established rapper nodded, extending his hand. "Amias, right? Heard your tune, bro. That thing's hard."
Amias stood, shaking his hand firmly. He kept his expression neutral, respectful but not starstruck. "Appreciate that, man. For real."
"Seen the streaming thing," AJ continued, leaning against the doorframe. "Smart move, getting on there. American audience is gold if you can tap it."
"Well I didn't try but I do appreciate what he did for me," Amias said with a modest shrug.
AJ nodded approvingly. "That's the mentality. Industry's changed—gotta be creative with promotion these days." He glanced at his watch. "Anyway, just wanted to show love. Keep doing your thing, yeah?"
With that, he offered a fist bump and moved on, presumably to greet other performers. The entire interaction had lasted less than a minute, but Amias felt a surge of validation. AJ Tracey—whose success story was something of a blueprint for independent UK artists—had gone out of his way to acknowledge him.
Before Amias could fully process the moment, he noticed a small group of young women hovering near his doorway, whispering and glancing his way. They'd clearly been following AJ, but their attention had shifted.
"Are you Amias?" one of them asked, her voice carrying a hint of flirtation. "We love I'm Tryna. That beat is sick."
Amias gave them a friendly but measured smile. "Appreciate that."
"You performing tonight?" another asked, taking a tentative step into his space.
Before he could answer, Zara appeared as if materialized from thin air, smoothly inserting herself between Amias and the women.
"They're calling for you," she said to Amias, her tone professional but with an unmistakable undercurrent. "Twenty minutes and you're up."
The women retreated, throwing curious glances at Zara, who waited until they were out of earshot before admitting, "No one called. But you need to focus, not entertain groupies."
Amias raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. "Is that your professional opinion?"
"Absolutely," Zara replied without hesitation, though a faint blush colored her cheeks. "Purely business."
"Right," Amias nodded, deliberately keeping his face straight. "Well, in that case, I better warm up my voice some more."
Zara checked her watch. "Actually, it is about time. The act before you just started their last song."
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of last-minute preparations and Amias took a deep breath as he headed toward the stage. The crowd's applause was polite but not enthusiastic—he was still an unknown to most of them.
That was about to change.
The stage lights blinded him momentarily as he stepped out, the heat of them immediately causing a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. The DJ booth was to his right, the performer area small but adequate. He could make out the silhouettes of perhaps two hundred people, some pressed against the stage, others hanging back, drinks in hand.
"What's good, London?" he called into the microphone, his voice resonating through the club's sound system. "I'm Amias Mars. You might know this first one..."
The familiar beat of "I'm Tryna" began to pulse through the speakers, and Amias felt the nervousness evaporate, replaced by the pure energy of performance. This was what he was made for.
As the intro built, he saw recognition dawn on some faces in the crowd. A few people near the front perked up, nodding along. Someone shouted, "That's the tune from TikTok!"
Amias gripped the microphone, and when the beat dropped, he launched into the first verse with controlled aggression:
"Trap phone's buzzing like a wasp nest, paranoia's my new perfume,
Seen hoes switch sides quicker than a R.A.T.S. jaw clicks..."
His delivery was crisp, each word landing with precision despite the rapid-fire flow. By the time he hit the chorus, he had the front row jumping, their hands in the air.
"Tryna see how much bread I can bake,
Why'd you think I'm bruckin' this weight?"
He gestured for the crowd to join in, and to his surprise, several voices echoed the next lines back to him:
"Cut the cake into different shapes—
Supply and demand, I got plates for days."
The energy built through the second verse, Amias moving across the small stage with natural confidence, making eye contact with different sections of the audience. The System's training on stage presence was paying off—he somewhat knew when to raise the energy, when to pull back, how to use silence as effectively as sound. He wasn't the best at it—he could tell, but soon enough he would be.
As the song ended, the applause was genuine—significantly warmer than when he'd walked on. Amias wiped sweat from his brow, feeling the rush of performance coursing through his veins.
"Y'all feeling good tonight?" he called out, met with affirmative cheers. "Mind if we try something new?"
He glanced toward the DJ booth. "DJ, you mind if I play a second track?"
The DJ, in on the plan, nodded with exaggerated surprise, as if this were a spontaneous request rather than the pre-arranged setlist.
The beat for Redemption began to throb through the speakers—the hard hitting drums coming in with undeniable power. The crowd didn't know this one yet, but heads were already bobbing to the rhythm.
Amias closed his eyes for a moment, letting the beat wash over him before launching into the opening lines:
"In this life, I gotta get rich, I can't be broke
I was asking favours and everyone telling me no..."
The raw honesty in the lyrics seemed to connect immediately. Even though the audience couldn't sing along to this unreleased track, their attention was locked on him, the energy in the room shifting from party atmosphere to something more contemplative.
By the time he reached the chorus, Amias had the entire club in his palm:
"This part of my life's redemption
I see it, I want it, we get it
I still walk with God, but battlin' demons in, I can't let them..."
He spotted Zara at the side of the stage, her expression one of undisguised pride. Beyond her, he noticed other performers who had come to watch—including, surprisingly, AJ Tracey, nodding along appreciatively.
As the second chorus hit, Amias extended the microphone toward the crowd during the refrain:
"In this life, I gotta get rich, I can't be broke..."
To his amazement, several voices attempted to sing along, already picking up the hook despite hearing it for the first time. The connection was electric—that rare, magical moment when an unknown song immediately resonates.
When the final beat dropped, the applause erupted immediately—not the polite acknowledgment of before, but genuine enthusiasm. Whistles and calls for "one more!" echoed through the venue.
Amias grinned, his chest heaving from exertion. "That's all I got for tonight, but I promise there's more coming soon. I'm Amias Mars—remember the name!"
As he exited the stage, riding the high of performance, he caught sight of his stats flickering in his peripheral vision:
Stage Presence: 59/100 → 61 [+2]