Chapter 104: The Heart of the Country
Wednesday, March 2, 2016 (9:00 AM)
The landscape had changed completely. The mountains of Colorado were now a memory in the rearview mirror, replaced by an endless expanse of golden plains that stretched to the horizon. The Prevost cut through Kansas like a black arrow, following Interstate 70 eastward.
Michael was seated in his portable studio, with his Sennheiser headphones covering his ears and his gaze fixed on the Ableton screen. "Awful Things" was taking shape. The acoustic guitar melody was already recorded, with that melancholic and slightly distorted tone that gave it character. Now he was working on the beat structure, adjusting the tempo until he found the exact point where sadness became something danceable.
The System had provided the guide, but the execution was entirely his. Every production decision, every EQ adjustment, every layer of reverb was the result of hours of manual work. The System gave him the map; he had to walk the territory.
'It needs more space in the highs', he thought as he adjusted the high-pass filter on the guitar track. 'The voice has to float over the instrumentation, not compete with it.'
He saved the project and removed his headphones. The silence of the bus was almost total, broken only by the constant hum of the engine and the hiss of the air conditioning. Karl and T-Roc were sleeping in the bunks, recovering from the Denver show. Big Rob was up front with the driver, maintaining his silent vigil.
Michael got up and walked to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and then another. Four liters a day. He had already drunk one and a half since he woke up.
---
Michael's secondary phone vibrated with a message from Harris. He opened it while drinking his third glass of water for the day.
"Call me when you can. I have news about Dubai. - H"
Michael checked the time. In Los Angeles it would be nine-thirty in the morning—perfect time for a business call. He retreated to his suite and closed the sliding door before dialing the number.
Harris answered on the second ring.
"Michael. How's the tour going?"
"Denver was a success. We're on our way to Kansas City now," Michael replied, sitting down on the leather sofa. "What do you have for me?"
"The law firm in Dubai confirmed they can process the structure in four weeks if we expedite the paperwork," Harris explained in his professional tone. "They need your passport scanned, a signed letter of intent, and an initial deposit of fifty thousand dollars to cover legal fees and registration costs."
"Fifty thousand?"
"It's standard for this type of operation. Trust me, it's cheap compared to what you'll save in taxes long-term."
Michael did the calculations mentally. Fifty thousand dollars was an insignificant fraction of what he had in Ethereum, but he still couldn't touch that money without alerting the IRS. He would have to take it from music revenues.
"How much do we have liquid in Gray Matter LLC right now?" Michael asked.
"After paying the vendors for the 'Gucci Gang' video and the tour advances, you have approximately one hundred twenty thousand available," Harris replied. "The royalties from 'Lucid Dreams' keep coming in, but they take sixty days to process from the platforms."
"Take out the fifty thousand for Dubai. And prepare the documents—I'll sign them digitally tonight."
"Understood. One more thing, Michael."
"What?"
Harris paused before continuing. "The price of Ethereum went up another eight percent last night. You're at almost ten dollars per coin now."
Michael felt a chill run down his spine. Ten dollars. Just six months ago, he had bought at eighty cents.
"What's the total value?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
"Four million five hundred thousand dollars. On paper."
Four and a half million. At sixteen years old. And this was just the beginning.
"Thanks, Harris. Keep me informed about Dubai."
"I will. And Michael... good job in Denver. I saw some clips. It was impressive."
Michael smiled slightly. "I'm just warming up."
He hung up and set the phone on the table. Through the window, the plains of Kansas continued to stretch to infinity, a sea of dry grass beneath a pale blue sky.
'Four and a half million', he thought. 'And in two years it will be five hundred million.'
Patience was his greatest virtue. And his greatest torture.
---
The bus made a stop at a gas station on the outskirts of Topeka to refuel. Michael took the opportunity to stretch his legs and buy some extra water bottles. The Kansas air was dry and cold, with a constant wind blowing from the plains that tousled his hair.
Back in the studio, he resumed work on "Awful Things." The basic structure was complete: intro, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, final chorus. Now he needed to record the vocals.
He put on his headphones and activated the Neumann microphone he had installed in a corner of the portable studio. It wasn't the ideal setup, but it would work for a demo. He would record the final vocals in a professional studio when he had time.
The System's guide resonated in his mind, providing the exact melody and emotional tone he needed. Michael closed his eyes and began to sing.
The first takes were warm-ups, adjusting his voice to the acoustics of the cramped space. On the fourth take, he found the right tone: vulnerable but controlled, sad but not defeated. It was the balance that defined his sound.
He recorded the first verse in its entirety, then listened back. The voice sounded good, but it needed more processing. He opened the autotune plugin and adjusted the parameters until he achieved that characteristic effect that made his voice sound like it was crying through a digital filter.
'Better', he thought as he listened to the result. 'Much better.'
He continued recording for the next two hours, layer by layer, building the vocal harmonies that would give the song depth. When he finished, "Awful Things" was at ninety percent. Only the final mix and master remained.
T-Roc appeared in the doorway of the suite, with a cup of coffee in his hand and his eyes still puffy from sleep.
"Have you been locked up in here all day?" the DJ asked.
"I'm finishing a new song," Michael replied without looking away from the screen. "Listen to this."
He pressed play. The guitar chords filled the small space, followed by Michael's processed voice. T-Roc listened in silence during the first minute, his expression shifting from curiosity to admiration.
"It's beautiful," he said when the first chorus ended. "It sounds different from 'Witchblades.' More... accessible."
"That's the point," Michael explained. "'Witchblades' is for those who want to descend into the abyss. 'Awful Things' is for those who are already there and need something to keep them company."
T-Roc nodded slowly. "When are you going to release it?"
"I don't know yet. First I need to finish 'The Way I See Things.' I want to have a complete arsenal before making release decisions."
"How many songs do you have ready now?"
Michael did a mental count. "Released, nineteen. Produced and ready to release, four. In progress, three."
T-Roc whistled. "You're a machine, Mike."
"I'm someone who knows that time is the most valuable resource," Michael corrected. "Every day that passes without new music is a day someone else can occupy the space I should have."
---
The lights of Kansas City appeared on the horizon as the sun sank behind the plains. The Prevost took the exit toward downtown, navigating streets that mixed industrial architecture with attempts at urban revitalization.
There was no show scheduled for tonight. Kansas City was a rest stop, an opportunity for the team to recharge before the final stretch to Chicago. The hotel was modest but clean, a national chain that offered rooms with king-size beds and decent wifi.
Michael checked in under the name "M. Gray," avoiding using his stage name. He didn't expect anyone to recognize him in Kansas City, but caution was a habit he had developed quickly.
His room was on the fifth floor, with a view of an empty parking lot and a closed shopping mall. It wasn't exactly picturesque, but Michael didn't care. He just needed a quiet place to work.
He set himself up at the hotel desk with his laptop and headphones. He opened the "The Way I See Things" project and studied the structure. It was different from the other songs he had produced recently: slower, more introspective, almost like a spoken poem over a bed of ambient chords.
The System had provided the guide weeks ago, but Michael had been postponing the production because he knew this song required a specific emotional state. He couldn't manufacture it in the middle of tour chaos.
'Tonight', he thought. 'Tonight I have the silence I need.'
He started building the beat from scratch. A soft kick, almost inaudible. Hi-hats that sounded like rain falling on a metal roof. A bass that crawled through the deepest frequencies like a shadow.
The main melody was a synthesizer arpeggio that rose and fell like a slow breath. Michael programmed it note by note, adjusting the sustain of each one until the sound flowed like water.
When he finished the instrumental, it was almost two in the morning. But he wasn't tired. He was in that flow state where time ceased to exist and only the music mattered.
He activated the microphone and began recording the vocals.
---
The hotel room was plunged in darkness, illuminated only by the glow of the laptop screen. Michael had his headphones on, the instrumental track of "The Way I See Things" playing on loop as he prepared the microphone to record.
He closed his eyes. The System's guide was clear in his mind, but this time it didn't feel like a simple transcription. Each word resonated with something deeper, something he had been avoiding confronting since he woke up in this world.
He pressed record and began to sing.
'I got a feelin' that I'm not gonna be here for next year'
'So let's laugh a little before I'm gone'
The first line came out with a weight he didn't expect. Michael felt a knot forming in his throat. It wasn't just a lyric; it was a truth he knew better than anyone. He had died once. Who guaranteed it wouldn't happen again?
'I've been dreamin' of this shit for a while now'
'Got me high now'
'She don't love me, but she's singin' my songs'
He thought about his parents. The ones from this world, the ones he never knew because they died before he arrived. The ones from his original world, who were probably mourning a son who disappeared without explanation. Did any of them sing his songs? Did any of them know he still existed, in some form?
'I don't feel much pain'
'Got a knife in my back and a bullet in my brain'
'I'm clinically insane'
'Walkin' home alone, I see faces in the rain'
The words flowed, but Michael was no longer in the hotel room. He was somewhere between the memories of a life that no longer existed and the reality of a life he hadn't asked for.
'Where did all the time go?'
'Spend it gettin' high while I hide from the five O'
'Where did all the lines go?'
'Now, I'm so high I be fuckin' with my eyes closed'
He wondered if anyone really listened to these lyrics. Not the millions who streamed his songs while exercising or driving to work. But those who truly listened. Those who found something of themselves in each verse.
'She don't fuck with me no more, I'm on her mind though'
'Come and fuck me in the mornin' with the blinds closed'
'I can show you everything I learned'
'While you were away from me'
The pre-chorus arrived with an intensity that surprised him. His voice cracked slightly on the last line, but he didn't stop the recording.
'Runnin' away from me, but I'm not givin' up on you'
'It's just the way I be'
'It's just the way I see things'
'Take her away from me, but I'm not givin' up on you, no'
'It's just the way I be'
'It's just the way I see things'
When the last echo of his voice faded, Michael remained motionless in front of the microphone. Tears he didn't know he had ran silently down his cheeks.
'When was the last time I cried?', he thought. He couldn't remember.
He removed his headphones and looked at the screen. The waveform of the recording glowed in the darkness, a visual record of his vulnerability.
Without thinking too much about it, he grabbed his iPhone and opened Instagram. Something was pushing him to connect with someone, with anyone. The silence of the room had become unbearable.
He started a live.
The first viewers arrived in seconds. Ten, fifty, two hundred. The numbers kept climbing as Michael looked at the camera without saying anything.
"Hey," he finally said, his voice raspier than normal. "I don't know why I'm doing this. It's like three in the morning here."
Comments began flooding the screen. Hearts, fire emojis, questions about where he was and what he was doing.
"I was working on a new song," Michael continued, running a hand through his hair. "And I got... I don't know. Melancholic, I guess."
He paused, reading some comments.
"How are you guys? Seriously, don't tell me you're fine if you're not fine. How are you really?"
The comments changed. Some remained superficial, but others began to open up. "I'm struggling." "My dad is sick." "I feel alone all the time."
Michael nodded slowly.
"I feel alone sometimes too," he admitted. "I know it sounds weird because I'm surrounded by people all day. But it's different, you know? You can be in a room full of people and feel completely empty."
More than three thousand people were watching now. Michael wasn't looking at the numbers.
"If you have your mom nearby right now, give her a hug," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Seriously. Do it. You never know when... when she's not going to be there anymore."
He thought about the mother he never knew in this world. About the mother he left behind in the other one.
"I lost my parents," he continued, looking directly at the camera. "And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about them. About the things I could never tell them. About the hugs I could never give them."
The comments filled with hearts and messages of support. Some shared their own stories of loss.
"I wonder sometimes if my music helps anyone," Michael said, almost as if thinking out loud. "Or if I'm just screaming into the void. Do you guys... feel less alone when you listen to my songs? Because I make them for that. So you know you're not alone. That there's someone else who feels the same way."
Five thousand viewers. The comments were a torrent of affirmations, stories, gratitude.
Michael stayed silent for a long moment, reading the messages. Some made him smile. Others made him feel a weight in his chest he didn't know how to process.
"Sorry," he finally said, forcing a small smile. "I was working on this song and got too deep in my feelings. I didn't mean to bring anyone down."
He straightened up in the chair, visibly composing himself.
"Anyway. Chicago tomorrow. The show is going to be incredible, I promise you. And the song I was working on... it's special. You'll hear it soon."
He raised his hand toward the camera in a wave.
"Take care of yourselves. Hug your moms. And remember that you're not alone, okay? You're never alone."
He ended the live.
The room plunged back into silence. Michael set the phone on the table and looked out the window. The lights of Kansas City flickered in the distance, tiny against the immensity of the night sky.
He felt strange. Exposed. But also, somehow, lighter.
He saved the song project and closed the laptop. Tomorrow he would have to be the professional again, the calculating artist who planned every move. But tonight, for a few minutes, he had been simply Michael.
A sixteen-year-old kid who missed his parents and wondered if anything he did mattered.
He lay down on the bed without undressing, staring at the ceiling as sleep finally claimed him.
---
The Kansas City sun came through the poorly closed curtains, casting strips of light across Michael's face. He woke slowly, feeling the weight of the few hours of sleep on his eyelids. The hotel clock read ten in the morning.
He got up and walked to the bathroom, where the mirror returned the image of a teenager with pronounced dark circles and disheveled hair. It wasn't exactly the image of a pop star, but he didn't care either. Image could be manufactured; talent couldn't.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he went down to the lobby where Karl was already waiting with two cups of coffee.
"You look like shit," Karl commented, handing him one of the cups.
"Thanks for the compliment," Michael replied, taking a long sip. "I finished two songs last night."
"Two?"
"'Awful Things' and 'The Way I See Things.' I'll add them to the arsenal when we get to Chicago."
Karl shook his head with a mix of admiration and concern. "Mike, you need to sleep at some point. You can't keep up this pace indefinitely."
"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Michael said without a hint of irony. It was a cliché, but in his case it had a different meaning. He had already died once, in a sense. What remained now was to take advantage of every second of this second chance.
The Prevost was parked in front of the hotel, engine running and T-Roc already on board checking the equipment. Big Rob held the door open, waiting for Michael to board.
"Chicago is six hours away," Karl informed him as they walked toward the bus. "Cole says he'll meet us at the hotel at five. He wants to have dinner with you before tomorrow's show."
"Perfect. I have some ideas I want to discuss with him."
Michael climbed the Prevost's steps and headed straight for his suite. He had six hours of travel ahead, and a list of songs that still needed attention.
The Midwest would fly by outside the windows while he continued building his empire, one note at a time.
---
The Prevost was crossing the border between Missouri and Illinois when Michael decided to check the System. He closed his eyes and let the interface materialize in his field of vision, the numbers glowing with that characteristic golden light.
[IMPACT POINTS: 678,450 IP]
He had gained more than thirty thousand points since Denver. The live premiere of "Witchblades," combined with the viral clips that continued circulating on Twitter, was feeding the counter steadily.
[ETHEREUM HOLDINGS: 450,000 ETH]
[CURRENT VALUE: $4,545,000 USD]
[24H CHANGE: +3.2%]
Another day, another increase. Ethereum continued its silent ascent while the world was barely beginning to understand what cryptocurrencies meant for the future.
[SONGS UNLOCKED: 47]
[SONGS PRODUCED: 23]
[SONGS RELEASED: 19]
[PENDING PRODUCTION: 24]
Twenty-four songs waiting to be created. Twenty-four opportunities to expand his dominion over the industry. Michael studied the list, looking for which would be the most strategic to produce next.
"Falling Down" was a priority. It was a potential collaboration that could open doors to new audiences. "Lo Que Siento" was also on the list—a bet on the Spanish-speaking market that no one would expect from him.
But there was something else that caught his attention. A song the System had unlocked during the Elite Roulette but that Michael had been consciously avoiding.
[AVAILABLE: "STAR SHOPPING (ACOUSTIC VERSION)"]
[COST: 0 IP - ALREADY ACQUIRED]
[NOTE: ALTERNATE VERSION OF EXISTING SONG]
An acoustic version of "Star Shopping." More intimate, more vulnerable. Without the electronic beats, just the guitar and voice. It was the kind of content that could make the most devoted fans lose their minds.
'I can record it in Chicago', he thought. 'Cole could film a simple video. Just me, a guitar, an empty room.'
He closed the System interface and opened his eyes. The Illinois landscape stretched outside, cornfields alternating with small towns that disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
Chicago was getting closer. And with it, the next phase of his conquest.
---
The Chicago skyline appeared on the horizon like a wall of glass and steel. The Prevost entered the city via the Kennedy Expressway, surrounded by rush hour traffic crawling at a snail's pace. Through the windows, Michael observed the Loop's skyscrapers rising against a sky beginning to tinge orange and pink.
This was Cole city. The city where Lyrical Lemonade was born, where a kid with a camera and a vision had begun to redefine what a music video meant. Michael felt genuine respect for Cole, something he didn't experience with many people in the industry.
The hotel was in the Near North Side, a modern building with a glass facade and a lobby that smelled like money. Check-in was quick; Karl had booked under the company name to avoid unnecessary attention.
Michael's room was on the eighteenth floor, with a panoramic view of Lake Michigan. The water stretched to the horizon, reflecting the last rays of sun like a mirror of liquid mercury. It was the most impressive view he'd had since the tour started.
His phone vibrated with a message from Cole:
"I'm in the lobby. Want to go grab dinner?"
Michael looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The dark circles were still there, but at least his clothes were clean. He put on a fresh black hoodie, his Jordan 4s, and went down to meet him.
Cole was waiting by the reception. He was tall, thin, with a baseball cap covering his blond hair and a smile that transmitted genuinely positive energy. When he saw Michael, he raised his hand in greeting.
"Mike, bro. How was Denver?"
"Dark," Michael replied, shaking his hand. "In the best possible sense."
"I saw the clips of 'Witchblades.' That shit is terrifying. I love it."
They left the hotel and walked through the streets of Chicago toward a restaurant Cole knew. The air was cold but not biting, and the sidewalks were full of people coming home from work. Michael kept his hood up, but no one seemed to recognize him.
"I have ideas for the 'Witchblades' video," Cole said as they walked. "I'm thinking something cinematic. No crazy editing effects. Just you, a dark setting, and a visual narrative that complements the lyrics."
"What kind of narrative?"
"I'm still working on the details. But picture this: an abandoned house, at night. You walking through the hallways with a flashlight. Shadows that move when they shouldn't. And at the climax, when the last chorus hits, everything goes completely black except your eyes, which glow with some post-production effect."
Michael considered it as they walked. It was different from the videos Cole had made for him before—more atmospheric, more focused on creating a mood than showing frenetic energy.
"I like it," he finally said. "When could we film?"
"I have a place in mind on the outskirts of the city. We could do it after your show tomorrow, film all night and have the footage ready to edit next week."
"Done."
They arrived at the restaurant, a small place that served Chicago-style pizza. They sat at a table in the back, away from curious gazes, and continued planning the future of Michael Demiurge's career.
The tour was halfway through. But the real work was just beginning.