The morning light filtered weakly through the gap in his curtains, creating a thin strip of gold across Amias's unmade bed. He'd been awake for hours already—since 5 AM, when the System had pulled him from restless sleep for voice training exercises. Now, staring at the ceiling of his cousin's spare room, exhaustion weighed on him like a physical presence.
Two days. It had been only two days since he'd accepted the Legend Maker challenge, and already it felt like his previous life belonged to someone else. The constant drills, the exercises, the unrelenting schedule—all of it left barely any time to process what had happened with Apannii, with Ekane, with Zane lying in a hospital bed.
Amias checked his phone: 3:17 PM. His meeting at WEAREBLK was at 4 PM.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the subtle burn of fatigue. The System had him working until 1 AM last night—transcribing melodies, analyzing artist. By the time he'd finished, he'd barely had the energy to brush his teeth before collapsing into bed.
"System," he murmured, " remainder of today's schedule."
The interface materialized before his eyes, translucent blue against the white ceiling:
02:30-3:30: Financial Strategy Development
3:30-4:45: Transit to WEAREBLK Meeting
5:30-7:30: Studio Session (Mandatory Makeup Time)
8:00-10:30: Music Theory Study
Amias groaned softly. Another day with barely a moment to breathe. "I'm already behind on the Financial Strategy part."
"Efficiency optimization is critical to the Legend Maker program," the System responded. "You can integrate the financial strategy review during your transit time."
"What about sleep?" Amias muttered, only half-joking.
"Current schedule allocates 5.5 hours for sleep. This is within acceptable parameters for short-term intensive training."
Amias sat up, running a hand over his face. The frustration was building—a constant simmer beneath everything else. How was he supposed to do all this? Make millions on his own. Build a brand. Create chart-topping music. All while his mother was practically homeless, staying with Uncle Desmond because their flat was a crime scene.
And studio sessions weren't cheap. Neither were music videos, promotion, touring—all the things the System insisted were necessary to meet the Legend Maker requirements. Where was the money supposed to come from?
His phone buzzed with a message from Zara:
Meeting still on? Want me to come with?
Amias hesitated, then typed back:
I got this. Will fill you in after. Did you ask your mom to check on my friend Zane later?
Her response came quickly: Yeah around 4. He's doing better btw. She said he's stabilized.
Relief flooded through him. At least something was going right. He sent a quick That's great before putting the phone down and heading to the bathroom.
As he showered, he couldn't stop his mind from drifting back to yesterday's conversation with Zara. The way her expression had changed when he'd admitted what happened to Apannii. The mixture of shock, fear, and something else—something that looked uncomfortably like disappointment—in her eyes.
"I killed him," he'd said, the words hanging between them like something physical.
Her jaw had tightened, eyes widening slightly. "You... killed him?" she'd repeated, as if testing whether the words made sense together.
He'd nodded, unable to take it back or soften it.
"I don't know how to feel about that," she'd finally said, voice quiet.
Then she'd hugged him—a brief, tight embrace—before leaving to meet her parents. That hug had felt like absolution and condemnation all at once, and Amias still didn't know what to make of it.
Soon after Amias was in a Uber, heading toward WEAREBLK's offices in Shoreditch. He wore black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a dark blue overshirt—casual but put-together. Nothing flashy, nothing trying too hard. His hair was freshly twisted, the scar along his cheekbone still visible but already beginning to fade.
"Financial strategy review," he murmured to the System, ignoring the curious glance from the driver.
As the interface displayed various revenue models and projections, Amias couldn't shake the feeling of being overwhelmed. The System wanted him to establish multiple revenue streams immediately: merchandise sales, streaming, touring, features, producing—a complex ecosystem of income sources that made his head spin.
How was he supposed to build all this from scratch? With no capital, no team except Zara, and school still technically requiring his attendance?
Before he knew it, the car was pulling up outside a converted warehouse building with sleek black-framed windows and a minimalist sign: WEAREBLK RECORDS.
"Here you are, mate," the driver said cheerfully.
Amias paid and stepped out, looking up at the building. This label was a subsidiary of Sony—not one of the biggest imprints, but respectable enough that signing with them would instantly legitimize his career.
The System buzzed, a warning notification appearing in his peripheral vision:
CAUTION: Remember primary objective. Do not sacrifice long-term independence for short-term gains.
Amias dismissed the notification with an irritated flick of his mental focus.
He knew what he was doing. Or at least, he hoped he did.
The reception area was all polished concrete and exposed brick, music industry magazines arranged carefully on low tables, platinum records displayed on walls. A young woman with immaculate box braids looked up from behind a curved desk.
"Can I help you?"
"Amias Mars. I have a meeting at eleven."
She checked something on her computer, then smiled. "Of course. They're expecting you. Take a seat, and someone will be out shortly."
Amias settled onto one of the low-slung leather couches, resisting the urge to check his phone. Instead, he focused on his surroundings, taking in details. The space was designed to impress—to make artists feel like they were entering somewhere exclusive and important.
After about ten minutes, a door opened, and a man around thirty emerged, dressed in black jeans and a graphic tee under a blazer—the standard music industry uniform of casual but expensive clothes.
"Amias? I'm Dean. Great to meet you." His handshake was firm, confident. "Follow me."
As they walked, Dean kept up a stream of easy conversation. "Been looking forward to this. That track you put out is getting serious buzz. How's it feel having Adin Ross react to your stuff?"
"Pretty mad," Amias said honestly. "Wasn't expecting that kind of reach."
"That's how it happens these days. One big streamer cosigns, and suddenly you're everywhere." They stopped outside a glass-walled meeting room. "Ready?"
Inside, two people were already seated: a woman in her early forties with natural hair and statement earrings, and a younger man with a closely cropped beard and designer glasses.
"Amias, this is Melissa, our A&R director, and Tayo, who heads up our marketing team."
Melissa stood, extending her hand with a warm smile. "Great to finally meet you. My kids have been playing 'I'm Tryna' non-stop. You've got a fan in my household."
"Appreciate that," Amias said, oddly touched by the thought of children somewhere listening to his music.
Tayo shook his hand next. "That Adin Ross reaction was golden. When he pulled up the video and actually got hyped—that's authentic response you can't buy."
They settled around the table, and Dean pushed a sleek folder toward him. "Before we dive in, just want to say congratulations on hitting a hundred thousand views already. Pretty impressive for a debut."
"Thanks," Amias said, trying to project confidence despite the nervous energy buzzing through him. "Adin's reaction definitely helped."
"No doubt," Melissa nodded. "But the record has to be good for people to react that way. You're looking at a million views by the end of the month, easily."
Amias nodded, keeping his expression neutral despite the thrill that ran through him at the number. A million views would mean actual money from YouTube revenue alone.
"So," Dean continued, leaning forward slightly, "let me tell you a bit about WEAREBLK. We started five years ago with just two artists, and now we've got fifteen on the roster, three with gold records."
Amias noticed how Dean's eyes never quite settled—constantly scanning, assessing. A negotiator's eyes.
"We don't offer these kinds of meetings to just anyone," Melissa added, her tone warm but professional. "But there's something about you—your sound, your look, your whole vibe—that feels like it could be really special."
Tayo nodded in agreement. "We've been building a serious presence in the UK scene, but we're also making inroads into the US market. Having Central Cee as your cousin doesn't hurt, obviously, but we're interested in you as your own artist."
"I appreciate that," Amias said, meaning it. "I'm looking to build my own lane."
"Exactly what we want to hear," Dean smiled. "We think we could really help you develop. Full marketing team behind you, studio time, production resources, connections for features—the works."
Amias noticed the subtle technique—painting a picture of success with the label, making it seem inevitable and desirable, all before discussing any actual terms.
"One thing we're curious about," Melissa said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "You're here alone today?"
The question hung in the air, its subtext clear: no lawyer, no manager, no family—just a seventeen-year-old kid they could potentially take advantage of.
"Yeah," Amias said simply. "My mum's tied up with work." He deliberately didn't mention anything about legal representation, not wanting to show his hand.
Dean nodded understandingly. "Of course, of course. Well, we're happy to walk you through everything today, and then when you're ready to move forward, we can arrange a follow-up with your parent or guardian since you're under eighteen."
He slid a document across the table. "This is just an overview of what we're thinking. Take your time with it."
Amias pulled the contract toward him, keeping his face neutral as he began to read. His training immediately kicked in, his eyes zeroing in on key clauses and figures:
Advance: £300,000 (£100,000 upfront, remaining £200,000 upon delivery of first album)
Term: 2 albums minimum
Singles: 5 minimum before first album release
Royalty rate: 16% (after recoupment of all advances and costs)
Marketing budget: £150,000 (recoupable)
Publishing: 50/50 split
As he read, Dean continued talking, highlighting the positives while glossing over the concerning clauses. "The advance is very competitive, especially for a new artist. That's how much we believe in you."
Amias nodded absently, still reading. It seemed all this preperation from the System had been more useful than he imagined. While £300,000 sounded impressive, after recoupment and with a 16% royalty rate, he'd need to generate nearly £2 million in revenue before seeing a penny beyond the advance.
And that didn't even account for the publishing split, which was daylight robbery considering he could handle his own publishing registration for a mere 15% fee with the publisher he was currently signed up with.
"Take your time," Melissa said, noticing his focus. "It's a lot to digest."
After several minutes of scanning the document, Amias looked up, tapping a finger thoughtfully against one clause. "So, this section about collecting my publishing rights—you'd take 50% of all publishing revenue?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Dean's face—clearly, he hadn't expected Amias to zero in on that particular clause so quickly. "That's standard industry practice," he recovered smoothly. "Our publishing division has connections worldwide, ensuring you collect everywhere your music is played."
"Right," Amias said, nodding as if considering this. He flipped to another page. "And these budget allocations—for studio time, production costs, promotional expenses—they're all recoupable from my royalties?"
"Yes," Tayo confirmed. "The label fronts all those costs to develop you as an artist, and then recoups once revenue starts coming in."
Amias set the contract down, his voice calm and methodical as he spoke.
"So let's work through this. Average studio time in London runs about £60 to £100 per hour for a decent studio. Lets say I was a regular artist that didn't have that much experience making music or even writing my own music. For me to create awell-produced track, that's likley a minimum 20 hours of work, including recording, editing, mixing, mastering. So each song costs roughly £1,200 to £2,200 just in studio time."
All three label representatives were watching him now, their expressions shifting from confidence to curiosity.
"Then you've got producer fees—anywhere from £500 for an unknown to £5,000 or more for an established name. For five singles and an album with, say, twelve tracks total? That's looking at around £30,000 minimum just in production and studio costs. And we're not even talking about top of the line fees."
Dean started to speak, but Amias continued, his voice gathering momentum.
"Marketing budget is £150,000, which sounds generous until you break it down. PR campaigns run £2,000 to £5,000 monthly. Social media ads, playlist promotion, music video production—a good video from a producton company starts at £10,000 and goes up from there. Five singles means five videos, so that's £50,000 gone already."
He flipped through the contract again, finding another clause. "Then there's image development—clothes, styling, photography—all recoupable, of course. Plus tour support, equipment, band members if needed. That can all add up to around £200,000."
Amias looked up, meeting Dean's eyes directly. "By my calculations, the £300,000 advance gets eaten up entirely before we even start talking about me having any money to live on. And with a 16% royalty rate after recoupment? I'd need to generate millions before I see any real income."
The room fell silent. Melissa exchanged a glance with Tayo, clearly reassessing the young man sitting across from them.
"You've done your homework," Dean finally said, a new respect in his voice.
"I'm passionate about the business side," Amias said simply. "Had to educate myself."
Melissa leaned forward. "These terms are fairly standard for a new artist, Amias. The industry works on investment and recoupment—we take the financial risk upfront."
"I understand that," Amias nodded. "And I appreciate the offer. But I have a counter-proposal."
All three leaned forward slightly, interest piqued.
"I'll sell you the masters for I'm Tryna outright. You get 100% ownership of the recording. For £50,000, paid upfront."
Their reactions were immediate and revealing. Dean's eyebrows shot up, Tayo sat back in his chair, and Melissa's lips pressed into a thoughtful line.
"That's... not typically how we structure deals," Dean said carefully. "We're interested in signing you as an artist, developing your career long-term."
"I understand," Amias said. "But I'm offering you a proven track with momentum. It's already hit 100K views and 700k streams organically, reached #99 on the UK charts with no push, and has American audiences engaged through Adin Ross."
Tayo shook his head slightly. "It's not quite a radio record though, is it? Limited commercial appeal beyond streaming. We could maybe do £15,000."
Amias smiled slightly, recognizing the negotiation tactic. "With respect, that's not close to its value." He stood up, gathering his things slowly. "I appreciate your time today. Maybe we can revisit when my next track drops."
The deliberate move toward the door had its intended effect. "Wait," Dean said quickly. "Let's not be hasty. We could go to £20,000."
Amias paused, turning back. "Let me explain why that doesn't work for me. At current streaming rates, the song will earn at least £50,000 in royalties over the next year alone. I own 100% of it right now. In two years, that's £100,000. Three years, £150,000. Four years, £200,000."
He set his bag down, warming to his explanation. "And that's conservative. Given that Adin Ross's reaction exposed it to an American audience, and it's already charting in the UK with no marketing push, the ceiling is much higher than typical debut singles."
"£25,000," Melissa offered, her voice firm. "That's our final offer."
Amias continued as if she hadn't spoken. "By the end of this week, at its current growth rate, it should hit the top 70. And once it breaks properly in the UK market? The numbers only go up."
He watched their faces, noting the shift in dynamics. They were engaged now, seeing him not as some kid they could lowball, but as a genuine business negotiator.
"£40,000," Dean said, a new respect in his voice. "That's very generous for a debut single."
Amias considered for a moment, then said, "£70,000."
"You're going up?" Tayo asked incredulously.
"Yeah," Amias nodded, his confidence growing. "I just decided it's worth more."
Dean exchanged looks with his colleagues, then leaned forward. "£51,000. That's our absolute ceiling."
The silence stretched as Amias pretended to deliberate, doing calculations in his head. He had already determined that anything over £40,000 would be a win, given the projected revenue of the track.
"Deal," he finally said, extending his hand across the table. "You have yourself a deal."
—
Business Sense: 86/100 [+1]
Negotiating: 84/100 [+1]
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Chapter 41 on disc, as I've said before the link is on my profile