I stared at the message for a few seconds before typing back: Yeah, I'd be down for a collab.
He replied almost instantly.
Can you talk? Like on call?
Not right now, I wrote. But I can skip the next period.
Give me 20 minutes.
The bell rang right on cue. I slipped out of my seat, made my way up to the rooftop, and pulled out my phone. I opened the DMs with V€xxx and tapped the call button.
It connected immediately. A second later, a video call request popped up. I accepted.
The screen lit up with a guy in a dimly lit room, hoodie up, background blurry. He leaned forward the second he saw me.
As I looked at his face on my phone screen, it suddenly hit me. I'd never actually talked to a Black person before.
"Yo, what's good, my nigga—oh my god, you look so young. Bro, you like… sixteen?"
I let out a small laugh. "Nah, seventeen. I was in class when I saw your DM."
"Eyo, that's crazy, man." He shook his head, grinning wide. "You a whole kid, bro, and you're spitting those bars. Respect."
"Thanks." I leaned against the railing, the wind brushing at my uniform. "How'd you even find me?"
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. "I'm actually deep into anime, right? So I was like, yo, let me do something wild—collab with a Japanese dude in Tokyo. Then I found your stuff and was like… damn. This is it."
I smirked. "Fair enough."
The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below. For the first time in a while, the usual weight on my shoulders felt a little lighter.
"So yeah, I'm flying out to Tokyo this Sunday for the music video shoot," he said, leaning closer to the camera. "We'll finish the track in the meantime—I'll be in the stu', you record your verse from your crib, and we'll link up once it's done."
"Sounds solid," I replied. "You can send me the final beat, and I'll knock out my part Friday after school."
"Bet. We'll keep in touch, bro. See ya' in Tokyo."
"See ya'," I said, and the call ended.
I lowered the phone and stared out at the skyline for a moment.
I'd never left Matsumoto before.
Not once.
And now I was about to go to Tokyo.
To collaborate with an American rapper.
A slow grin spread across my face.
All that grinding, all those late nights, all the doubters—finally paying off.
I'm making moves, bitch.
The next day after work, I got home around 9:30 PM. The apartment still smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard from the boxes I hadn't fully unpacked.
I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and immediately checked my phone.
V€xxx had sent the files.
One audio file labeled "TOKYO_DRIFT_HOOK_VEXXX.mp3"
Another labeled "VEXXX_VERSE_FINAL.mp3"
A third one: "INSTRUMENTAL_CLOUD_BEAT_145.mp3"
No message, just the attachments.
I plugged my headphones in, sat on the edge of the bed, and hit play on the hook first.
The beat rolled in slow — deep 808s sliding like they were underwater, dreamy synth pads washing over everything, hi-hats ticking soft and distant. Then V€xxx's voice, heavy autotune, melodic but cocky as hell.
"Downtown Akihabara, yeah, we up in Tokyo
I'm with my nigga, Forsaken from Matsumoto
Bad lil bitch, she wanna be my imotou
Tell her to speak English por que no habla nihongo"
I let out a short breath through my nose.
A grin popped up at the corner of my mouth.
He shouted me out.
Named the city, named me, named Matsumoto.
It felt… real.
Like proof I wasn't just some kid screaming into the void anymore.
I played it again.
Then a third time.
Each listen made the grin grow a little wider.
Next was his verse.
The beat rolled in hazy and slow, but V€xxx came in aggressive — flow fast, autotune thick, voice dripping with that classic American trap confidence.
"Skrrt off the curb, Tokyo Drift on the road
I came from the dirt and now my wrist too cold
Talk real loud but these posers all broke
3.5 in a blunt and I'm drowning in smoke
Got them racks on the shelf, I don't think, I just spend
You talk real tough, but y'all niggas pretend
But I ain't about that, I don't gotta pretend
I can fly to Japan, bitch, y'know I'm the man
Chain on my neck, make the whole room stare
At the club, cameras on me when I step in there
Got a bitch on my dick and I just don't care
If that was yo bitch 'cause I don't play fair"
I let the verse loop once more before pulling the headphones off.
Eyo… this shit was fire. No cap.
V€xxx had killed it — pure flex, zero apologies, that effortless "I made it and I'm untouchable" energy.
The contrast was already there: his verse screaming success, mine ready to bleed all over it.
I left school early on Friday, right after lunch break. I had overtime stacked up anyway, and my shift didn't start until evening. I'd be out at 1 a.m., but first I needed to lock in my verse.
When I got to the bar, the place was dead quiet—mid-afternoon slump. The manager was behind the counter wiping glasses like always. I slid my phone across to him, the new track already queued.
"Listen to this. I need the booth to record my part."
He raised an eyebrow, tapped play. V€xxx's hook filled the empty room, that heavy autotune bouncing off the walls.
The old man listened for about thirty seconds, then smirked.
"This is the music young people listen to these days?"
"Pretty much." I shrugged. "Gotta record my verse. I'm heading to Tokyo tomorrow for the video shoot with this guy."
He chuckled low, shaking his head like he'd seen every kind of crazy.
"Tokyo, huh? You kids move fast. Booth's yours. Don't break anything."
I nodded and headed to the back.
The booth was small, soundproofed, same old mic and cracked monitor I'd been using for weeks. I plugged in my headphones, loaded the instrumental, and hit record.
"Iwas down in the dirt, where the fuck was you at
Skrrt off in a Tesla, passin' out in the back
I came from nothing, now I'm flexing with V€xxx
They said I ain't gonna make it, now they left in the back
From the floor to the ceiling, now I'm stacking my racks
Shit was never easy, I remember the pain
Used to be a no one, now they speaking my name
Bring the money and the fame, yeah, these bitches go nuts
I'm speeding past these rappers, I ain't giving no fucks
Money raining, good weather, I can't get enough
I'm young, getting faded and I act like I'm dumb"
I exported the demo quick — no fancy EQ, no compression, just the dry vocal over V€xxx's instrumental. It sounded rough, like me.
I opened the DMs.
The chat was still open from earlier. His last message stared back:
V€xxx: Send that verse whenever, bro. I'm in the stu rn.
I attached the file.
Named it: Forsaken_Verse_Demo_Tokyo_Drift.mp3
Typed fast: This is just a demo. Pending mix/master, I'll get that done by tonight.
I'll have Maestro handle that later.
V€xxx replied instantly. Bet. Listening now.
I waited for 3 minutes, then another message.
"Yo… hold up."
V€xxx: "Nahhh bro. This is CRAZY. That crack on the 'pain' line? That's the sauce. Raw as fuck. You didn't hold back — I can feel the hurt in this shit. People gonna lose they mind when they hear this Japanese kid spittin' like this over my beat."
Me: "Thanks."
V€xxx: "Keep it up, bro, can't wait for the final version."
I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed back to the counter.
The manager leaned against the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that's probably seen better days, giving me that half-interested, half-tired look he always wore when the bar was empty.
"Done with the song?" he asked, voice flat, like he was asking about the weather.
"Yeah, pretty much." I shrugged, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. "Imma go home and kill some time before the shift. Maybe take a nap."
He snorted softly. "A nap, huh? Kid, you're 17 and already sound like you're 40. Don't get too comfortable — tonight's gonna be packed. You know how it gets."
I nodded once. Didn't feel like arguing. He wasn't wrong.
I turned toward the door. The bar smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke that never quite left the walls, and the faint metallic tang of the sound booth. It had started to feel like a second home — or maybe a cage I'd chosen for myself.
Outside, the late afternoon sun was still hanging low, cutting long shadows across the street.
I pulled out my phone, opened the Uber app. Fifteen minutes home. Plenty of time to crash, stare at the ceiling, maybe listen to the demo again.
Later that day, I was in the back, washing dishes, when the gang showed up.
"Yo, Forsaken," Tetsu called out as he headed for the counter. "Get me the usual."
I lifted a hand in greeting, my right one already gripping a glass.
In one clean motion, I poured the whiskey, dropped in two ice cubes, and slid it over.
Tetsu took a sip, then looked at me over the rim.
"So," he said, "what's good?"
I smirked.
"You're not gonna believe this," I said. "I've got a new track coming up."
I pulled out my phone and pressed play.
Silence washed over the bar. The chatter died instantly—same way it always did whenever I dropped something new.
Then came the pause.
Then the stunned looks.
"Yo—wait. Hold up," Tetsu said, eyebrows lifting. "You're collabing with an American rapper?"
"Yeah," I replied. "Heading to Tokyo tomorrow. Shooting the video."
The words hung there for a second.
And then it hit me.
"You wanna be in it?" I added, half-grinning. "Unless you've got business to run or some shit."
Tetsu leaned back on the stool, glass halfway to his lips, eyebrows raised as the last notes of the demo faded out.
"Tokyo?" he repeated, like he was testing the word. "Video shoot? With this American dude?"
I nodded, leaning against the counter. "Yeah. Sunday. Shibuya. He wants me in the frame."
Tetsu let out a low whistle, then took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes still on me over the rim.
"Damn, kid. You really movin'."
He set the glass down with a soft clink.
A beat passed.
Then, he grinned.
"Fuck it. Yeah, I'm in. You think I'm missin' a chance to be on camera with some overseas rapper? Nah. I'll clear my schedule. We ride together."
I felt the corner of my mouth tug up. "You sure? Ain't exactly a vacation. Probably gonna be long hours, lots of waiting around."
Tetsu waved it off. "I'm good. Besides—" he leaned in, voice dropping "—someone's gotta make sure you don't fuck this up. You're still a kid, Forsaken."
I snorted. "Says the guy who still owes me for that last bar tab."
He laughed — loud, rough, the sound bouncing off the empty walls.
"Fair. Fair."
The door at the back creaked open.
Maestro stepped out from the tables in the back row, sunglasses up, headphones hanging around his neck like always. He'd clearly been listening the whole time — the man had ears like a bat.
He walked over slow, arms crossed, eyeing me like I was a puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.
"You sent the demo already?" he asked, voice low.
"Yeah. Just now."
Maestro nodded once, then pulled out his own phone, tapped the screen a couple times.
"Not bad, kid. Rough as hell, but that's the point. The accent cuts through clean. Pain's real. People hear that, they feel it."
He pocketed the phone.
"I'll mix master it tonight. Send me the stems when you're done breathing heavy. I'll add some haze on your part, keep the grit, but let it breathe. Make the whole thing sit right."
I nodded. "Thanks."
Maestro shrugged like it was nothing. "Don't thank me yet. If this shit blows up, you're gonna owe me more than a free drink."
Tetsu chuckled. "He already owes me a tab."
Maestro shot him a look. "You owe me a tab, dumbass."
I couldn't help it — a real laugh slipped out.
For a second, the bar didn't feel like a cage.
It felt like… a starting line.
Tetsu raised his glass. "To Tokyo, then. And to whatever dumb shit we get into when we get there."
Maestro lifted an empty hand in mock toast. "To not fucking it up."
I didn't raise anything.
I just nodded.
And for the first time in a long time, the weight on my shoulders didn't feel quite so heavy.
Tomorrow, Tokyo.
The rest of the day passed without much happening. Maestro stayed busy working on the track, Tetsu stepped out to handle some business, and I kept serving customers, occasionally catching bits and pieces of their conversations.
Then, around 11 PM, she walked in.
That red-haired girl from back then.
She made her way to the counter and smirked the moment she spotted me.
"Hey, rapper boy~ Didn't know you worked here," she said, her voice light, almost teasing.
"Well, now you know," I shrugged. "So, what'll it be?"
"A mojito, please~"
Easy enough. Probably the simplest drink on the menu.
I set the glass down and watched her take a sip—and then it hit me.
This girl… I've seen her before.
And if my hunch is right…
"W-why are you looking at me like that?~" she asked, tilting her head.
Well, there goes nothing. I lowered my voice, just enough that it wouldn't carry past the counter.
"You're Ku-chan, right? The girl from STAR SIX."
For half a second, her smile froze.
Then she laughed—soft, amused, the kind that slid over nerves instead of exposing them.
"Call me Kurumi," she said, leaning an elbow against the bar. "I don't go around using that name here~"
So my hunch hadn't been wrong.
I nodded slowly, pretending this was casual, like I hadn't just connected a ghost from another life to a bar at eleven at night.
"Figured as much."
"Oh?" She tilted her head, red hair spilling over one eye. "And what gave me away?"
"Same smirk," I said. "Same way you look at people like you already know how the conversation ends."
She laughed again, sharper this time. "That's a dangerous observation, rapper boy."
I slid the bar rag aside, meeting her eyes. "So what brings a a STAR SIX member slumming it in Matsumoto under a fake name?"
Kurumi lifted her glass, the mint leaves brushing her lips as she took another sip.
"Maybe I wanted to disappear for a while."
She paused, then glanced back at me over the rim.
"…or maybe I wanted to see what you turned into."
"Well, about that..." I said, smirking.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, queued up the demo, and slid it across the counter toward her.
Kurumi raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in her eyes. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her headphones, and tapped play.
Her eyebrow twitched as she listened. A few seconds in, the smirk faded. By the hook, her eyes widened.
She glanced up at me once, then back to the screen, replaying the last few bars. When it ended, she didn't give the phone back right away.
"…You're serious. A collaboration with an American rapper?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Always am."
She leaned in, a grin spreading across her face.
"This is insane. Your part— it's raw. The pain in it… fuck, it's good."
"Thanks. We're shooting a video too. Tokyo. I'm heading there tomorrow."
Her gaze sparkled—impressed, maybe a little jealous.
"Damn… you're really doing it."
I smirked.
"Told you I wasn't playing."
She laughed low.
"Careful, rapper boy. That kind of thing changes lives."
"Yeah, I know. It's not like I was ever gonna do anything else," I shrugged.
"Fair enough," Kurumi laughed—short and bright, cutting through the bar's quiet hum.
She leaned closer, elbows on the counter, red hair spilling over one shoulder.
"So… I gave you my name. What's yours? I can't just keep calling you rapper boy, you know~"
I hesitated for half a second.
Wait… that was your real name?
Damn.
"Takumi," I said, casual, like it didn't matter.
Kurumi's lips curved, slow and knowing.
"Takumi," she repeated, letting it roll off her tongue like she was tasting it. "Cute. Suits you."
She took another sip of her mojito, eyes never leaving mine.
"Takumi it is, then."
For a moment, the air felt thicker—something unspoken hanging between us.