Jamal Carter woke up to the harsh sound of voices clashing through the thin walls of his aunt's place, a morning ritual that started low but always turned sharp. He scrubbed his eyes with his hands, fighting the weight that dragged at him like a wet coat.
The ceiling hung gray and dull above him, the air biting with cold from a cracked window
patched with a stubborn strip of duct tape.
The apartment stank of cheap soap and burnt bread, a clear sign his auntie had clocked out for work and DeShawn had messed up breakfast again. That dude could torch water if he tried hard enough.
Jamal grabbed his phone from the sagging mattress, its battery hovering at twenty percent.
A text from Marcus glowed on the screen, but his dad's silence was the real message.
Nothing new there.
He kicked the blanket off and sat up, the weak morning light slicing through the bent blinds and hitting his bare chest.
At eighteen, Jamal carried a roughness that aged him beyond his years, his shoulders broad and tense, his back stiff, his eyes shadowed with a tiredness no kid should know or experience . Dreams were a luxury he couldn't afford, and the rent loomed large.
He opened Marcus's text, squinting.
"Yo, open mic at StudioVerse tonight. You in or what?"
Jamal blew out a rough breath. StudioVerse? That hole was a graveyard for ambition, a stage that crushed more than it lifted. But it was close, and free to enter, so it was his only play.
He typed back,
"Yeah, I'm in. Probably gonna flop hard in living color, though."
A minute later, Marcus shot back,
"Flop? Nah, you're gonna burn it down tonight, fam. You got that fire. Real talk."
Jamal's lips twitched, almost a grin, but it slipped away quick.
He stood, stretching his aching arms, and moved to the mirror. His hair was a wild tangle, his beard patchy, his lips dry and cracked. He looked like a shadow of the kid teachers once called promising.
Back in school, Jamal was known for two things: dropping rhymes and stirring chaos.
He could shut down any lunchroom rap battle, leaving kids stumbling, then land in detention for skipping class. The other students ate it up, crowning him the next big name, tossing out comparisons to Kendrick or Cole. Teachers just shook their heads, muttering about wasted talent.
But life had other plans. Senior year, his mom got sick, bills piled up like a wall, and school faded to a memory. When she died, everything broke. His dad split a week after the funeral, leaving a scrawled note and fifty bucks in the fridge like it settled anything.
Now it was Jamal and Auntie B, who juggled three jobs and her own kids. She didn't get his music, figured rap was for hoodlums or fools chasing smoke. She wasn't cruel, just worn thin, too tired to back dreams that didn't pay.
Jamal walked into the kitchen, where DeShawn danced with a spatula, wearing holey socks and boxers that bragged "Boss Energy" in big letters.
"Man," Jamal said, snagging a piece of charred toast,
"you're one step from losing all pride."
DeShawn grinned wide, unfazed.
"Don't knock my flow, bruh. This is how I wake up right. Toast? Extra crispy style."
Jamal bit into it and coughed hard. "You trying to take me out or what?"
DeShawn laughed loud.
"Builds toughness, fam. Adds bite."
Jamal shook his head, pouring water into a chipped mug. "You ever think about not messing up breakfast?"
"Every damn day," DeShawn said,
"still losing that war." They laughed, the sound filling the cramped space.
It wasn't much, but it felt like home, sort of.
"You hitting that open mic tonight?"
DeShawn asked, flipping a pancake already turning black.
"Yeah," Jamal said,
"StudioVerse." DeShawn lifted an eyebrow.
"You set for it?" Jamal paused, doubt creeping in.
"Not sure. Maybe not. But I gotta keep going."
DeShawn's face grew serious, a rare shift.
"You know they'll hate out there. Don't let them break you."
"I'm good," Jamal said, but the words felt shaky, like he was talking to himself more than his cousin.
That afternoon, Jamal sat outside the corner store, his notebook resting on his knee, headphones looped around his neck like a shield. He scribbled lyrics with a dull pencil, his handwriting a mess of crossed-out lines and half-formed ideas. People passed by, some nodding quick, others acting like he was air. A girl with a red braid slowed down, and Jamal's heart jumped.
"Tasha?"
he called, standing too fast, nearly dropping his book.
She turned, her lips tight, eyes heavy with judgment.
"What you still out here for, Jay?" she said.
"Thought you were gonna do something with yourself." Jamal's chest tightened, but he held steady.
"I'm working on it." She tilted her head, skeptical.
"Still chasing that rap thing?"
"It's not just a thing," he said, voice rough.
"It's me. It's what I've got."
Tasha's face didn't soften. "Sounds like a bunch of talk to me."
The words stung, and Jamal flinched.
"Damn, Tash. That's how you see me now?" She didn't flinch back.
"I see what's here," she said, then walked off, her braid swinging like a countdown.
Jamal watched her go, jaw tight, heart sinking. They used to be tight, back when she'd pass him snacks in detention and laugh at his rhymes. He wrote his first real verse for her, and once, she looked at him like he mattered. But life split them apart. She moved on with some basketball guy who had a future, while Jamal clung to his words and a notebook of maybes.
That night, StudioVerse Lounge buzzed with dim red lights and packed bodies, the air thick with sweat, cheap booze, and shattered hopes. Graffiti coated the walls, giving it a raw edge.
The host, a stocky guy in a fitted cap, grabbed the mic.
"Next up, Jamal Carter, repping East Glenwood. Let's hear it."
Jamal stepped up, palms sweaty, the mic cold in his grip.
The crowd's eyes pinned him, some curious, most bored. He opened his mouth as the beat dropped, heavy and pulsing, but his throat locked up tight.
A girl up front giggled.
A guy in back muttered, "Another fake MC with no game."
Jamal pushed the words out, voice shaky.
"Born in the grind, raised in the hurt, every line I spit like I'm breaking the dirt…"
A few heads nodded, but most just stared, uninterested, their quiet louder than the track. He finished, chest tight, and stepped back as the next rapper took over, ripping the mic with a confidence that lit the room up. Jamal slipped into the crowd, heart bruised, dreams feeling smaller.
The walk home dragged, streets wet with rain, his phone dead in his pocket. Each step felt heavier, like the night's flop was pulling him down. Then, as he flicked his phone on with its last charge, a pop-up flared bright.
"DOWNLOAD RAPGOD.APP: UNLEASH YOUR TRUE VOICE."
He stared, half-thinking it was junk, but tapped it.
The screen flickered, then blazed with text.
"SYSTEM LOADING… VOCAL PROFILE DETECTED. JAMAL CARTER. LEVEL 0. ASPIRING MC. WELCOME TO THE RAP GOD EVOLUTION SYSTEM."
His breath hitched, the air humming with a strange energy. The phone buzzed, a calm digital voice hitting his ears.
"SKILL UNLOCKED: FREESTYLE BASICS LV1. SKILL UNLOCKED: RHYTHM SENSE LV1. QUEST AVAILABLE: IMPRESS THREE STRANGERS IN A STREET CYPHER. REWARD: FLOW MASTERY LV1."
Jamal stood still, rain running down his face, wondering if he was cracking. But the voice was real, solid.
"RAP GOD EVOLUTION INITIATED."
For the first time in months, a smile broke through, small but real, as a flicker of hope sparked in the dark.