Chapter 81: The Strategist's Sunday
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Michael woke up shortly before noon. The California winter light entered gently through the blinds of his room, painting streaks of golden dust in the air.
There was no alarm. No frantic calls from Karl asking for files. No urgent emails from Harris about contracts. The house was in absolute silence.
He stayed in bed a few more minutes, enjoying the rarity of the moment. For the last month, his life had been a blur of stress, adrenaline, and noise. From the release of 'Look At Me!' on Christmas to the global explosion of 'Lucid Dreams' this week, he hadn't had a single day to simply... exist.
He got up, stretching his arms. His muscles didn't hurt as much as before. The gym was working; he felt more solid, less like a wire about to snap.
He went down to the kitchen barefoot. He made himself a slow, real breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and a strong black coffee. No quick protein bars or Chinese food leftovers.
He went out to the back porch with his steaming cup and his pack of cigarettes. He sat on the old wooden chair that had come with the house, looking out toward the oaks that separated his property from the rest of the world.
He lit a cigarette. Click. Fsshh.
The smoke rose lazily toward the blue sky.
He knew what was happening out there. He knew that 'Lucid Dreams' was playing on millions of devices at that very moment. He knew his name was trending. He knew record labels were desperate to find his number.
But here, in the canyon, only the birds and the wind in the leaves could be heard.
It was a moment of rare peace. A truce he had granted himself.
He allowed himself to feel something he rarely allowed: pride. Not the arrogant pride of 'Boss', but a quiet satisfaction. He had survived the first round. He had built a foundation. He was no longer a kid playing musician; he was a contender.
He finished his coffee, feeling the warmth in his chest. He stubbed out the cigarette against the sole of his sneaker.
The break had been nice. But as the smoke dissipated, Michael's mind, that analytical machine that never fully turned off, began to hum again.
Peace was good, but progress was better.
He stood up, brushing the ash off his sweatpants. He went back into the house and closed the porch door.
It was time to stop looking at trees and start looking at numbers.
He headed to his studio. The secret vault awaited him.
Sunday, January 31, 2016 (Noon)
Michael left the empty coffee cup on the wooden desk of his studio. The calm of the back porch was left behind, replaced by the familiar electric hum of his equipment.
He sat in his Herman Miller chair. His MacBook Pro screen came to life.
He didn't open Ableton. He didn't open Twitter.
He opened an incognito window in his browser. His fingers moved with the muscle memory of a habit that had become religious, almost liturgical.
It was time to visit the vault.
For months, this action had caused him nausea. Every time he typed the address of his cryptocurrency exchange, he felt the cold fear of seeing a zero. Of seeing that his bet had evaporated.
But today, it felt different.
He logged in. Two-factor authentication. The long, complex password that only existed in his head.
The page loaded.
His eyes went straight to the chart. A green line, jagged but ascending, crossed the screen.
ETH/USD: $2.32
Michael blinked. He leaned forward.
The last time he had looked, a couple of days ago, it was hovering around two dollars. It had gone up thirty cents.
He looked at his total balance.
Quantity: 437,500 ETH. Estimated Value: $1,015,000.00 USD.
The air stopped in his lungs.
One million. One. Million. Dollars.
He stared at the numbers, bright and crisp on the retina screen. He counted the commas. One, comma, zero, one, five.
He leaned back slowly in the chair, hands behind his head, looking at the black acoustic ceiling.
He was sixteen years old. And he was a millionaire.
Technically, he was a "millionaire on paper". He couldn't spend that money. He couldn't buy a Z3, or a mansion, or even a pizza with that, because if he took out a single cent, Harris would find out and the legal house of cards would collapse.
But it was there. It was real.
His initial investment of $350,000, the money stained with the sadness of his parents' house, had tripled in less than five months.
A laugh bubbled in his chest. A silent, incredulous laugh.
He thought of Jake, worried about his $5,000. Now they were worth almost $15,000. He thought of the "old guard" rappers calling him fake on Twitter, bragging about rented chains and leased cars. He thought of the label executives trying to dazzle him with advances of $500,000 that he would have to pay back.
He already had double that. And it was his. 100% his.
The feeling of security was overwhelming. It was invisible armor.
He didn't need his music to succeed to eat. He didn't need 'Lucid Dreams' to be number one to pay the rent.
He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He had the ultimate power: the power to say "no".
He closed the exchange tab before the euphoria made him do something stupid.
He opened another tab. The online banking for "Gray Matter, LLC".
This was his "white" economy. The one Harris saw. The one that paid the bills.
He logged in.
The balance had taken a massive hit two weeks ago, when he paid the $50,000 to Sting and the $5,000 to Cole. It had dropped dangerously low, leaving his operating liquidity in mental red numbers.
But now...
Available Balance: $28,450.00
Michael nodded. He was recovering.
The YouTube checks for the virality of 'Look At Me!' and the back catalog had started arriving. The first Spotify royalties were trickling in.
It wasn't the million dollars of the other account. But it was almost thirty thousand liquid dollars, generated purely by his art.
It was enough to pay the month's rent. It was enough to pay Harris his quarterly fee of $5,000 and keep the lawyer happy and, most importantly, blind.
As long as Harris received his check and saw that the operating account had funds, he wouldn't ask questions about the "bond investment account".
Michael closed the browser.
He felt invincible. He had a million in the shadow and thirty thousand in the light. He had total control.
He looked at his studio. His Yamaha monitors, his guitar, his microphone.
He no longer worked out of desperation. He no longer worked out of fear of poverty.
Now, he worked for sport. For conquest.
The anxiety of "What if..." had subsided. The market was proving him right. The future was happening exactly as he remembered it.
He turned to his notebook. The money was settled. Now, he had to make sure the legacy was worthy of the fortune.
Sunday, January 31, 2016 (Afternoon)
Michael closed the bank account tab. The dopamine injection of seeing the positive balance settled, replaced by the cold logic of business.
Money was fine. But money was just a tool to protect the real asset: the music.
He opened his email client. He had a specific folder labeled "LEGAL - HARRIS".
For the last few weeks, that folder had been a source of constant anxiety. Every email could be a lawsuit, a rejection, or an exorbitant figure. But today, Michael opened it calmly.
He wanted to see the full picture.
He did a mental and digital inventory of his intellectual property.
First, the monster.
He opened the most recent email with the subject: "FINAL AGREEMENT - STING / EMI MUSIC PUBLISHING".
There was the attached PDF. The signed contract. It had hurt. It had cost $50,000 in cash (which he had already recovered with interest in Impact Points and plays) and 50% of future royalties. It was an extortionate price.
But seeing the digital signature at the bottom of the document, Michael felt no regret. He felt security. 'Lucid Dreams' was untouchable. No one could take it down. No one could sue him. It was an armored asset for life.
He scrolled down.
'Look At Me!'. The deal with Mala. Paid and clean. Five thousand dollars. A bargain for the anthem that had started his "Hype Era".
'Beamer Boy'. The deal with Modest Mouse. It had been a bit more complex because they were an indie rock band with principles, but Harris's money and the respectful nature of the sample had closed the deal. Paid and clean.
And then, he reached the last loose end. The mystery.
He opened an email from two days ago that he hadn't had time to fully process.
Subject: INVESTIGATION REPORT - 'SHILOH DYNASTY'.
Michael read the report from the private investigator Harris had hired.
They had found the representatives of the ghost artist. It wasn't an unreachable superstar like Sting. It was a small, reserved entity.
The agreement was attached.
Since Shiloh was a niche internet artist, and Michael was a viral artist, the deal had been surprisingly reasonable. A one-time payment of $10,000 and 20% royalties for the use of samples in 'Jocelyn Flores' and 'Hope'.
Michael smiled.
That meant he had the green light.
'Jocelyn Flores', the saddest and shortest song in his arsenal, was legally cleared. 'Hope', the anthem of compassion, was legally cleared.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the list of emails.
He already had all the samples bought.
There were no more barriers. There were no more "Problem Lists". His entire catalog, both what he had already released and what he was about to release, was legitimate property of "Gray Matter, LLC".
He realized the magnitude of what he had achieved. Most SoundCloud rappers operated in a gray area, stealing beats and praying not to get sued when they got famous.
Michael had built a legal fortress before even having his first album.
He closed the email folder. The path was clear. There were no lawyers in his way. There were no judges. There were no angry copyright owners.
Only he remained, his microphone, and an empty week ahead.
He opened his physical notebook, the paper one. He turned to a clean page.
It was time to plan the final offensive before the tour.
Sunday, January 31, 2016 (Night)
Michael closed the legal emails folder. The boring part of the business was in order. Now, it was the creative part's turn.
He pushed the MacBook aside and took out his physical notebook, the paper one, which he kept in the drawer. He liked writing plans by hand. It made it feel more real.
He opened the calendar on his phone.
The month of February was starting to fill up with red dots. Karl was doing his job. There were possible dates in San Francisco, a mini-tour of the West Coast, and rumors of a festival in Texas (SXSW) for March.
Michael knew what that meant.
Once he started touring, studio time would disappear. Hotels, van rides, and soundchecks would eat up his days. He wouldn't be able to produce at the level he needed.
If he wanted to maintain the momentum of 'Lucid Dreams', he needed to have reserve ammunition. He needed to have the songs ready, mixed, and mastered, loaded in the cannon, ready to be fired by Karl while he was on the road.
He picked up a black pen. Turned to a clean page.
He wrote: CREATION WEEK.
It was going to be a marathon. Madness. But he had the equipment, he had Amy's discipline, and he had the guides.
He started mapping out the schedule.
Monday and Tuesday: 'XO TOUR Llif3'. It was the biggest song on the list. The anthem. He needed time to perfect the beat, to nail that dark and catchy melody. He couldn't rush it. He would dedicate two days to it.
Wednesday: 'Hope'. After the intensity of 'XO', he would need an emotional cleanser. 'Hope' was short, acoustic, based on the Shiloh sample he had just cleared. He could do it in an afternoon. It would be his gift to the loyal fan base.
Thursday: 'Save That Shit'. The return to the Peep sound. Melancholic trap. It was his comfort zone. He knew he could nail it fast. It would be the perfect bridge to keep 'Ghost Girl' fans happy.
Friday: 'Gucci Gang'. He smiled as he wrote it. The viral bomb. The stupid song. The beat was so simple it was almost an insult. He could make it in two hours while drinking a beer. It would be his fun Friday, his 'Look At Me!' part 2.
Saturday: 'I'm Gonna Be'. The closing of the week. The introspective sequel to 'White Iverson'. He needed to record it when he was tired, at the end of the week, so the voice would sound authentically exhausted by success.
He looked at the list. Five songs in six days.
Any other artist would say it's impossible. They would say the quality would suffer.
But Michael wasn't composing from scratch. He was assembling. He had the blueprints. He had the vision. He just had to execute.
He closed the notebook with a sharp thud.
He got up and walked to the window. Night had fallen over the canyon. The stars shone, indifferent to his plans for world domination.
He lit one last cigarette, knowing it would be the last one for days. Tomorrow, his throat had to be perfect. Tomorrow, his mind had to be sharp.
The Sunday of rest was over. Peace was over.
Starting tomorrow, his studio would stop being a sanctuary and become an assembly line.
He turned off the light.
"To work."
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