The studio felt different this time.
Not quiet.
Not uncertain.
Alive.
Dre stood behind the mic first, headphones on, nodding to the beat as it played through the speakers. Malik leaned against the wall, notebook in hand, watching closely.
The beat was heavier than the last one.
More energy.
More presence.
"This the one," Dre said, pointing toward the speakers. "We going in on this."
Malik nodded.
"Let's do it."
Dre stepped in, delivering his verse with confidence. His voice carried experience—years of trying, failing, learning.
Then he stepped out.
"Your turn."
Malik walked up to the mic.
For a second, everything went quiet in his head.
Then he remembered—
The alley.
His mom.
His son.
The streets.
And he started.
"Came from the block where the nights don't sleep,
Pain in my chest but it's mine to keep…
They said my voice don't fit no beat,
Now I'm the one they repeat…"
Dre smiled behind the glass.
"Yeah… that's it."
Malik didn't stop.
This wasn't just a verse.
It was everything he had been holding in.
When the beat finally stopped, the room stayed silent for a second.
Then Dre spoke.
"That's the one."
Malik took off the headphones slowly.
"That's going on the project."
Dre nodded.
"Not just the project."
He pointed at Malik.
"That's your sound."
A few days later…
Malik sat in his room, staring at his phone.
The album was done.
Not perfect.
Not polished like industry-level music.
But real.
Every track told a story.
Every line came from somewhere true.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then—
He released it.
At first, nothing happened.
Then slowly…
It started.
A message.
A share.
A repost.
By the next evening, Dre pulled up to the house with a grin.
"It's moving."
Malik stepped outside.
"How much?"
Dre showed him his phone.
Clips of their song playing in small spots.
A car passing by blasting it.
A small club with people nodding their heads.
"Not big yet," Dre said.
"But it's spreading."
Malik watched the video.
People he didn't know…
Listening to his story.
"Damn…" he muttered.
That night, Malik and Dre walked into a small club.
Nothing fancy.
Dim lights.
Crowded floor.
Music loud enough to shake the walls.
And then—
Their song came on.
The DJ didn't even announce it.
Just played it.
But people reacted.
Heads nodding.
Some mouthing the lyrics already.
Dre leaned toward Malik.
"You see that?"
Malik nodded slowly.
"Yeah…"
For the first time…
He felt it.
This could actually work.
Two days later, Dre called him.
"I got something."
"What?" Malik asked.
"A performance."
Malik sat up.
"Where?"
"Small get-together party," Dre said. "Nothing big."
Malik paused.
"How much?"
Dre hesitated slightly.
"It's not a lot."
Malik already understood.
"How much?"
Dre told him.
Malik leaned back.
It was small.
Very small.
But still—
It was money.
Legit.
From music.
Malik nodded to himself.
"I'll do it."
The party was packed.
Not organized.
Not professional.
Just people, music, energy.
Malik stood near the DJ booth, watching the crowd.
His heart was beating fast.
Not fear.
Something else.
Dre tapped his shoulder.
"You ready?"
Malik nodded.
"Yeah."
The DJ handed him the mic.
"Let's see what you got."
The beat dropped.
The same one.
The crowd reacted instantly.
Malik stepped forward.
And started.
This time, there was no hesitation.
No second guessing.
Just energy.
Real.
Raw.
The crowd got louder.
People raising their hands.
Shouting lines back at him.
Dre joined in on his part, and the whole place lit up.
For a moment—
Malik forgot everything else.
The stress.
The pressure.
The past.
This felt different.
Better.
After the performance, the money was handed to him.
Folded bills.
Not much.
But enough.
Malik looked at it quietly.
Dre smiled.
"First one."
Malik nodded.
"Yeah…"
Later that night, Malik sat at the kitchen table.
The money placed in front of him.
His mother walked in.
She looked at the cash.
Then at him.
"Where did this come from?" she asked.
Malik looked up.
"Music."
She studied him carefully.
Then slowly nodded.
"Good."
But her expression didn't fully relax.
Because even though things were starting to change…
The pressure wasn't gone.
The bills were still there.
The responsibility still heavy.
Malik looked at the money again.
Then at his notebook.
Then toward his son's room.
And he made a quiet promise to himself.
This was just the beginning.