Out of all the places I thought I'd end up… this shit wasn't on the list. This is the kind of joint where everyone walks in knowing exactly what's coming. Same few people circling, leaving drunk or high. The bar smells like alcohol and weed all the time.
Not that I'd mind trying out either. Especially weed. But… I'm a minor. I can't just ask some gangster for a puff without looking like an idiot.
Yeah… somehow I ended up working at a sleazy Yakuza bar. Fuck. My. Life.
I should've just taken the label's offer. Easy money, connections, the works. But the thought of Suzuki saying I climbed the industry on her back… it made my skin crawl.
I didn't diss her for the fame. I dissed her because I was pissed—pissed at her arrogance, at the way she looked at me like I was some second-hand artist.
So I declined the label and decided to make my own way. Money for proper equipment. Or at least enough to book some studio sessions.
And that decision to carve my own path… is the reason why I'm stuck here.
Yeah. Whatever. Nice job, champ. Always choosing the thorny path, making life harder than it has to be.
I sighed.
If you ignored the constant threats to my life, the job was… manageable. I stayed at the counter, serving whoever stumbled in.
Mixing drinks was easy enough—I picked up the recipes fast, faster than I thought I would.
Some customers tried to talk, small talk, boring stuff. Sometimes the boss dragged me to the back to help out with whatever sketchy thing was going on.
All in all… yeah. I could handle this.
The sound of a beat snapped me out of my thoughts.
145 BPM.
Dark. Haunting.
The snare sharp and pointy, dragging just enough to feel heavy.
Dark trap.
"This is my new beat, yo. Dropping today," said a guy with slicked-back hair and sunglasses. Probably the producer.
A couple of his lackeys nodded, murmured impressed reactions. Fair enough. The longer I listened, the more the beat pulled me in—like it was digging under my skin.
I didn't even try to write.
The words formed on their own, sliding into place as a hook-like melody before I could stop them.
"Get the fuck outta my face before you stumble backwards
You can't be running any fade, so now you back on your words
I used to be the kid they hate, bloody face in the dirt
And now I fold them all like rags, but life got so much worse"
Then the verse came.
I didn't have to force a single rhyme. It just… flowed.
"Dreams flow like blood, is life a razor blade?
I should bring firearms and point them at the game
Give no fucks about your fame
Or your name, make no mistake
Once the blood runs out, you're destined for the grave
Like Dante, you stepped in hell
Was it worth the deal?
I can only wish you well, it doesn't matter how you feel
At the end of the day, we're stuck inside a maze
Bring the money and the drugs to color our days"
When I stopped, the beat kept playing.
And for a second, the room felt quiet in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
Like something had already been said—and couldn't be taken back.
"…Damn."
The guy with the sunglasses slowly turned his head toward me. He didn't smile. Didn't nod right away either. Just stared, like he was replaying the bars in his head, measuring them against something only he could see.
One of the others—a bulky dude leaning against the wall—snorted.
"Yo, that wasn't written, was it?"
I shrugged. "Nah."
That got a reaction.
"Bullshit," another one said, half-laughing. "You don't just pull that outta thin air."
The bulky dude drifted over, a joint burning lazily between his fingers.
"Yo, kid," he said, exhaling smoke to the side. "You rap about drugs, but you ever actually tried 'em?"
I shrugged. "Nah. I would, though."
He looked at me for a second, then smirked and held the joint out.
"Keep it in for five seconds."
I hesitated—just a fraction—then took it. The smoke hit my throat like sandpaper. I barely managed to inhale before my lungs revolted.
I held it.
One.
Two—
Three—
The taste was vile. Burnt, bitter, wrong.
I exhaled and immediately doubled over, coughing hard, sharp, violent. My eyes watered as laughter erupted around me, loud and merciless.
"Damn," someone laughed. "Bro almost died."
The room spun just a little as the smoke lingered in my mouth, the nausea clinging even after the coughing stopped.
Yeah.
So much for looking cool.
Things started to feel… different.
A low buzz settled into my body, vibrating under my skin—steady, constant. Weirdly calming. Like all the background noise in my head had been turned down a notch.
My shoulders relaxed before I even noticed they had been tense.
My vision felt sharper, like someone had adjusted the focus. Colors popped a little more than they should've—the neon signs, the bottles behind the counter, even the smoke curling lazily through the air.
Everything felt closer. Slower.
Yeah.
…That's kinda cool.
"You rap like that often?" the producer's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Whenever something pisses me off," I replied.
A couple of them exchanged looks.
The bulky guy shook his head slowly. "That hook's dirty. Like… radio-dead, but street-alive."
"Yeah," someone else added. "That's the kinda shit that sticks. You hear it once and it crawls back later."
The producer leaned back, arms crossed, listening to the beat loop again, this time with my words hanging over it like a ghost.
"You got a name?" he asked.
"Forsaken."
He nodded once. Just once.
"You got a mic?"
I hesitated. "Not really."
A short laugh escaped him. Not mocking—almost impressed.
"Figures," he said. "That flow? That tone? You sound like someone who learned to survive before they learned to record."
One of the guys grinned. "Bro sounds like he's been through hell and came back with receipts."
The producer glanced at me again.
"You ever record here?" he asked.
I raised an eyebrow. "Here?"
He tilted his head toward the back rooms.
"Got a booth. Not pretty. But it works."
The beat finally stopped.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the bass ever did.
"Think about it," he said, sliding his sunglasses back on. "Not everyone gets pulled in by a beat like that."
Yeah, I felt it too.
The bulky guy turned toward me, holding out the half-burnt joint between his fingers.
"You can finish this, by the way," he said. "Try not to cough."
I hesitated for half a second—then took it, watching them drift toward the exit, their laughter fading into the noise of the bar.
I inhaled again, slower this time.
As the smoke curled up toward the ceiling, a strange thought crossed my mind.
Maybe this job…
…wasn't such a bad idea after all.