He woke instantly.
No confusion.
No grogginess.
Just awareness.
Years sleeping lightly in trap houses, Airbnbs, unfamiliar flats, and drug spots had trained his body never to wake slowly. You either woke alert or you didn't wake at all.
Trey sat up carefully.
No pain.
That was wrong.
No rain.
No blood.
No screaming.
No Stephanie crying over him.
Just…
White.
Infinite white stretching endlessly in every direction.
Not hospital white.
Not room white.
Something stranger.
Like reality itself hadn't loaded properly yet.
Trey stayed still for several seconds assessing automatically.
No visible exits.
No visible walls.
No temperature.
No sound.
Then he noticed the man standing nearby.
Older black man.
Suit.
Calm eyes.
Face of Morgan Freeman.
Trey stared at him for a second.
"…You're not God."
The man smiled slightly.
"No?"
"Nah." Trey stood slowly. "Too cinematic. God wouldn't pick Morgan Freeman. That's bait."
The entity actually looked amused.
"You recognised the scenario quickly."
"I read."
That answer seemed to interest the entity more than expected.
Trey shrugged slightly.
"People assume roadmen are dumb. Prison gives you a lotta free time."
Recognition flashed across the entity's eyes.
"Ah," it said softly. "Fanfiction."
Trey pointed once.
"There we go."
The entity smiled wider.
"Random Omnipotent Being. ROB, as your internet culture calls my kind."
Trey nodded slowly.
"Knew it."
The white void shifted slightly around them.
Not physically.
Reality itself bending subtly around the being's presence.
ROB studied Trey carefully.
"Tremaine Croft. Sosa. Gang leader. Drug trafficker. Shooter. Emerging musician."
The entity tilted its head slightly.
"A fascinating contradiction."
Trey folded his arms.
"You always violate people after they die or am I special?"
ROB ignored the comment.
"You possessed extraordinary talent."
Its voice became colder.
"And wasted most of your life pretending violence made you important."
That hit harder than Trey expected.
His jaw tightened instantly.
ROB continued calmly.
"You buried a generational gift beneath postcode wars and shallow loyalty to boys who would eventually either die, betray you, or forget you."
The entity stepped closer slowly.
"You survived Hackney. Congratulations."
Its tone dripped with mild contempt.
"You survived county lines, police investigations, retaliation attempts, prison cells, paranoia, shootings, knives, betrayal." ROB tilted its head slightly. "Animals survive too."
Trey's fists clenched.
But he said nothing.
Because deep down
A small part of him knew exactly what the entity meant.
ROB continued walking slowly through the endless white void, hands clasped behind its back.
"But very few people are born with genuine greatness inside them."
The white space rippled faintly.
"And you had it."
Its eyes locked onto Trey's.
"A voice capable of moving millions. A natural understanding of performance and artistry." A pause. "And you traded it for respect from boys standing on council estates pretending postcodes were kingdoms."
Trey's expression hardened.
"You done?"
"No," ROB replied pleasantly. "Not remotely."
Silence stretched between them.
Then the entity stopped walking.
"Normally," ROB said calmly, "mortals die, get sorted accordingly, and cease to concern me."
That made Trey look up properly.
"But every now and then…"
ROB smiled faintly.
"…something interesting wastes itself before reaching its proper conclusion."
The white void suddenly felt heavier.
More serious.
"So here is my offer, Trey Croft."
Trey said nothing.
But his full attention sharpened instantly.
"You will not move on."
The words echoed strangely through the endless white.
"You will be reborn."
For the first time since arriving
Trey's expression genuinely shifted.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Focus.
Pure focus.
ROB continued:
"A second life. Same world. Same century. Different circumstances. A clean beginning."
The entity's smile became slightly cruel again.
"But I am not sentimental enough to simply hand you greatness."
The white void distorted violently behind them.
Reality folded inward.
Gold and black light exploded across the endless white.
And then Trey saw it.
A colossal wheel.
Massive beyond comprehension.
Rotating slowly through the void like some cosmic machine built by an insane god.
Thousands upon thousands of glowing rewards moved across its surface endlessly.
Abilities.
Talents.
Blessings.
Curses.
Concepts.
Some beautiful.
Some horrifying.
Some outright ridiculous.
ROB spread one hand toward it casually.
"The Gacha of Resonance."
Trey stared upward silently.
"…The what."
"Young people insist on naming things poorly."
Trey stepped closer cautiously.
The wheel radiated power.
Not magical exactly.
Conceptual.
Like every possibility for human greatness and suffering had been condensed into a single mechanism.
"You will receive five inheritances," ROB explained calmly.
"Randomised."
"No choices."
"No rerolls."
"No negotiations."
Trey narrowed his eyes.
"So this thing can ruin my life too."
"Oh absolutely."
That honesty actually made Trey trust the entity slightly more.
Slightly.
He looked across the wheel reading various glowing rewards as they rotated past.
"The Voice of Freddie Mercury…"
"Creative Instinct of Kanye West…"
"Stage Presence of Prince…"
"Absolute Pitch."
"Rhythmic Omniscience."
"The Curse of One-Hit Wonder."
"Industry Blackball Resistance."
"Self-Destructive Genius."
"Addictive Charisma."
"The Tragedy of Fame."
Trey blinked slowly.
"…Some of these are fucking evil."
"Talent and suffering are historically close companions," ROB replied.
Trey kept reading.
Then stopped suddenly.
"…Wait."
His eyes narrowed.
"Is that actually"
"'The Complete Career Trajectory of a Failed SoundCloud Rapper,'" ROB confirmed proudly.
Trey stared at him.
"What kind of sick bastard makes something like that?"
ROB looked genuinely offended.
"I did."
"…Fair enough."
The wheel continued rotating slowly.
Trey spotted more rewards flashing past:
"The Pen of Bob Dylan…"
"The Work Ethic of Beyoncé…"
"The Addictions of Ozzy Osbourne…"
"Yeah nah keep that moving."
"Cowardice," ROB observed.
"Self-preservation."
More rewards flashed past.
"The Creative Madness of Genius."
"The Loneliness of Icons."
"Grammy Curse."
"The Artistic Lifespan of a Child Prodigy."
Trey frowned.
"What the fuck does that even mean?"
"Burn bright. Die creatively young."
"…This wheel is genuinely evil."
ROB smiled.
"You're beginning to understand."
Trey exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then stepped toward the wheel fully.
"Aight then."
He placed both hands against the massive spinning mechanism.
And spun.
—————
The wheel moved like a collapsing galaxy.
Gold.
Black.
Silver.
Thousands upon thousands of rewards blurred together into streaks of light as the mechanism roared through the white void.
Trey stepped back slightly watching names flash past at impossible speed.
Some made him grin.
Some made him deeply uncomfortable.
Some genuinely looked cursed.
"'The Creative Torment of Amy Winehouse,'" Trey read aloud. "Yeah nah. Respectfully keep that."
"Cowardice," ROB said calmly.
"That's survival."
More names flashed past.
"'Industry Connections of Jay-Z.'"
"'The Pen of Bob Dylan.'"
"'Addiction Susceptibility Amplifier.' Fuck off."
"'The Work Ethic of Beyoncé.'"
Trey paused.
"…Now that one's dangerous."
ROB gave a slight nod.
"Arguably one of the most overpowered things on the wheel."
The spinning slowed.
Lights pulsed violently through the void.
The wheel clicked once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
⸻
PULL ONE
✦ SOUL INHERITANCE: MICHAEL JACKSON ✦
Complete absorption of all talent, instinct, technique, and artistry. Every skill accumulated across a lifetime of performance: the vocal range, the control, the stage presence, the musicality. The footwork. The feeling. Not an imitation — an inheritance. This is not influence. This is ownership.
Not imitation. Not influence. Inheritance.
For a moment Trey genuinely forgot how to speak.
The words hung in the air glowing softly like scripture.
Michael Jackson.
The King of Pop.
The greatest performer to ever live.
Trey felt something slam into him instantly.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Spiritually.
Music exploded through his consciousness.
Vocals.
Breathing control.
Harmony.
Movement.
The instinctive understanding of rhythm beyond normal human comprehension.
He heard layered compositions unfolding inside his mind automatically.
Basslines.
Melodies.
Percussion.
Entire arrangements constructing themselves naturally like breathing.
And dancing
Jesus Christ.
Trey staggered slightly.
Every muscle in his body suddenly understood movement differently.
Balance.
Timing.
Precision.
Performance.
How to command attention before even speaking.
How to weaponise silence itself.
Memories that weren't his flickered across his consciousness.
Sold-out stadiums.
Studio sessions.
Screaming crowds.
Relentless rehearsals.
The crushing loneliness of genius.
Trey grabbed his head slightly.
"…Nah."
ROB watched carefully.
"Painful?"
"Shut up."
Trey exhaled slowly trying to stabilise himself.
Because underneath the overwhelming flood of artistry…
He understood something terrifying.
This wasn't talent.
Talent was what ordinary gifted people had.
This was something else entirely.
This was the blueprint of a man who had fundamentally altered music itself.
Trey looked back up at the reward silently.
Then nodded once.
"Aight."
ROB raised an eyebrow.
"That is your reaction?"
"What you want me to do? Cry?"
"You nearly did."
"Cap."
ROB smiled faintly.
But Trey's thoughts were racing now.
Michael fucking Jackson…
Not a tribute act.
Not inspiration.
Everything.
All of it merged directly into him.
And if that alone wasn't insane enough
There were still four pulls left.
—————
PULL TWO
The wheel spun again violently.
Faster this time.
Trey folded his arms watching carefully.
"Please no dead nonsense reward…"
"Interesting," ROB mused. "You fear mediocrity more than suffering."
"Obviously."
The wheel slowed gradually.
One slot flashed past.
✦ THE CURSE OF CREATIVE PARALYSIS ✦
Trey pointed aggressively.
"Yeah see that? That's bullshit."
"It builds character."
"It builds depression."
The wheel skipped forward again.
Then stopped.
⸻
✦ SOUL INHERITANCE: ELVIS PRESLEY ✦
Complete absorption of all talent, instinct, technique, and artistry. The voice that bridged gospel and rock and blues into something that had never existed before. The stage magnetism. The hip. The capacity to make a room feel like revelation. Not an imitation an inheritance.
Trey blinked slowly.
"…No way."
Even ROB looked mildly impressed now.
"The Gacha appears fond of you."
"Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley?"
"Yes."
"The two biggest solo artists ever."
"Correct."
Trey laughed once in disbelief.
A real laugh this time.
"What kind of broken combo is that?"
ROB clasped his hands behind his back.
"A dangerous one."
And Trey understood immediately why.
Michael Jackson brought impossible technical perfection.
Elvis brought raw emotional force.
Different energies.
Different eras.
Different souls.
But both possessed something almost supernatural:
The ability to make human beings feel.
Trey could feel Elvis now too.
That deep magnetic cadence.
The effortless vocal transitions.
The sheer masculine presence Elvis carried on stage without even trying.
Not just singing.
Commanding.
Owning space.
Owning atmosphere.
Trey rubbed his jaw slowly.
"These man are gonna be fighting inside my head."
ROB smiled.
"They will compete constantly."
"For control?"
"For expression."
The entity stepped closer slightly.
"You are not receiving copies of these men. You are inheriting the totality of what made them extraordinary."
A pause.
"And your own identity must survive that collision."
That line lingered heavily.
Because Trey suddenly understood the danger.
Michael Jackson.
Elvis Presley.
And Trey Croft.
Three completely different identities merging into one artist.
A lesser person might disappear beneath that weight entirely.
Trey smirked slightly.
Good thing I'm not lesser then.
—————
PULL THREE
The wheel began spinning again.
This time Trey watched more carefully.
Thousands of possibilities blurred past.
"'The Stage Fright of a Child Actor.'"
"That one's common," ROB admitted.
"Evil."
"Efficient."
"'Grammy Award Curse.' Nah this wheel is genuinely hating."
Then suddenly
The wheel stopped abruptly.
Golden light flooded the white void.
⸻
✦ THE SOVEREIGN'S EAR ✦
MUSICAL SAVANT INHERITANCE
A complete musical mastery package consisting of seven integrated gifts:
① Perfect Pitch — Absolute tonal identification. Every note named on contact. Every instrument heard in its component parts.
② Harmonic Architecture — The ability to hear, construct, and deconstruct complex musical structures by instinct alone. Chords heard as landscapes.
③ Aural Transcription — Any music heard, once, can be reproduced and notated. Playing by ear becomes playing by memory becomes playing by mastery.
④ Score Sight — Written music read as fluently as language. A glance at a page = full performance in the mind.
⑤ Internal Orchestra — The ability to compose in the mind with complete fidelity. To hear the finished record before a note is played.
⑥ The Polyglot's Tongue — Languages absorbed with exceptional speed, allowing performance in multiple tongues without accent reduction.
⑦ Master of the Performing Arts — Complete command of performance theory, theatrical timing, crowd psychology, and the mechanics of presence.
Trey stared silently.
Then looked at ROB.
Then back at the reward.
"…You're taking the piss."
"No."
"All seven?"
"All of them," the entity said. "Welcome to the Gacha."
Trey rubbed both hands down his face slowly.
Because this reward wasn't flashy like Michael Jackson or Elvis.
This was infrastructure.
Foundation.
The type of gift that turned potential into inevitability.
He imagined hearing music once and instantly understanding every layer inside it.
Every instrument.
Every harmony.
Every flaw.
That was monstrous.
Actually monstrous.
"You realise," Trey said slowly, "if somebody had all this in real life they'd dominate the industry."
ROB tilted his head slightly.
"Historically speaking, exceptionally gifted musicians already tend to do that."
"Yeah but this is cheating."
"Yes," ROB agreed casually. "Very much so."
Trey laughed under his breath.
Then stopped suddenly reading another line rotating past nearby.
✦ THE CREATIVE MADNESS OF GENIUS ✦
"…Yeah nah keep that one moving."
—————
The wheel continued rotating slowly now.
Not with the violent speed from before.
Almost deliberately.
Like it was savouring the moment.
Trey stood there in the endless white space feeling fundamentally altered already.
Michael Jackson.
Elvis Presley.
The Sovereign's Ear.
Any one of those alone would've changed a person's entire existence.
Together?
It was beginning to feel absurd.
And yet the wheel still had two pulls remaining.
ROB watched him quietly.
"You're thinking."
"I'm trying to figure out if this is a blessing or some cosmic setup."
"It can be both."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't intended to be."
The wheel accelerated again.
Gold and black light streaked across the void.
Names flashed by faster and faster.
Trey caught glimpses:
✦ THE VOICE OF Whitney Houston ✦
✦ THE PEN OF Tupac Shakur ✦
✦ THE ADDICTIONS OF Ozzy Osbourne ✦
"Yeah absolutely fucking not."
ROB ignored him.
✦ INDUSTRY IMMORTALITY ✦
✦ THE LONELINESS OF ICONS ✦
✦ THE INSTINCT OF Pharrell Williams ✦
✦ SELF-SABOTAGING PERFECTIONISM ✦
"Why's half this wheel trauma?"
"Because greatness frequently is."
The wheel slowed.
Ticked once.
Twice.
Then almost stopped directly on:
✦ THE COMPLETE CREATIVE BLOCK OF A BURNT-OUT ARTIST ✦
Trey pointed immediately.
"If that lands on me I'm crashing out."
ROB looked genuinely entertained now.
"You continue to treat omnipotent mechanisms like hostile hood politics."
"Because this wheel moves like a snake."
The wheel jerked violently at the last second.
Skipped forward.
And stopped.
⸻
PULL FOUR
✦ THE SALVATORE EFFECT ✦
PRESENCE & MAGNETISM INHERITANCE
Modelled on the supernatural charisma of Damon Salvatore (The Vampire Diaries). Weaponised attraction. Natural magnetism that operates below conscious awareness — people are drawn in, trust forms faster, hostility dissolves. Master-level emotional intelligence deployed as influence. The kind of presence that makes rooms rearrange themselves.
Note: Physical appearance will adapt to optimise this effect. You will not look like the source. You will look like the best version of you.
Silence.
Trey read the description twice.
Then once more.
"…That's broken."
"Very."
Trey narrowed his eyes at the last section.
"Best version of myself."
"Yes."
"What does that actually mean?"
ROB folded his hands calmly.
"It means your appearance in your next life will evolve toward the most effective expression of your genetics, presence, aura, symmetry, voice, posture, and instinctive attractiveness."
Trey blinked once.
"So… I become better-looking."
"Significantly."
"Like model good-looking?"
"Closer to 'people make poor decisions around you' attractive."
Trey absorbed that silently.
Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"…I'm not turning white though, yeah?"
ROB stared at him.
"What?"
"I'm serious."
"You genuinely think a metaphysical charisma inheritance would race-swap you?"
"You're the same entity that put 'The Complete Career Trajectory of a Failed SoundCloud Rapper' on a reward wheel. I don't trust your judgement."
ROB actually laughed.
A proper laugh this time.
"No, Trey. You will remain black."
"Aight good."
"You are remarkably attached to this concern."
Trey folded his arms immediately.
"Brother I say nigga every third sentence. Waking up Scandinavian would completely ruin my flow."
ROB shook his head slowly like a disappointed professor.
"And yet somehow you continue to entertain me."
Trey looked back toward the reward thoughtfully now.
Damon Salvatore's magnetism wasn't just about looks.
It was presence.
The ability to walk into a room and unconsciously alter its atmosphere.
To make people want approval.
Attention.
Affection.
Dangerous.
Especially combined with everything else he already had.
Michael Jackson's artistry.
Elvis Presley's charisma.
And now supernatural magnetism layered over both.
"That combo's actually disgusting," Trey admitted quietly.
"Yes," ROB agreed.
"And potentially catastrophic for everyone around you."
Trey smirked slightly.
"Sounds like a them problem."
—————
PULL FIVE
The final spin began.
And immediately something felt different.
The wheel moved slower.
Heavier.
The entire white space seemed to vibrate slightly as names flashed past.
ROB's expression shifted subtly.
Interest.
"Oh?"
Trey noticed instantly.
"What."
"Nothing."
"Why you looking at the wheel like that?"
ROB didn't answer.
Which meant something.
The spinning continued.
Names blurred past:
✦ THE MEMORY OF EVERY SONG EVER HEARD ✦
✦ THE CURSE OF NEVER BEING UNDERSTOOD ✦
✦ THE INSTINCT OF Julian Jones ✦
✦ THE EGO OF Kanye West ✦
Trey pointed instantly.
"Yeah absolutely not. I'm already confident enough."
"That one has ended several civilisations."
The wheel continued slowing.
Then Trey saw a reward approaching that made his stomach drop.
✦ THE CURSE OF PERFECTIONISM ✦
"...Nah. Absolutely fucking not."
"Every flaw becomes unbearable to you. Every success feels incomplete. The better you become, the harder satisfaction is to reach."
Trey stared at the wheel. "This thing was designed by Satan."
The wheel skipped past it narrowly.
Then finally
Stopped.
The white void went silent.
⸻
✦ THE FOWL MIND ✦
STRATEGIC GENIUS INHERITANCE
Modelled on Artemis Fowl II (Book Canon). Genius-level strategic intellect. Reads people's motivations, fears, and desires as instinctively as other people read expressions. Plans with military precision — primary objective, contingencies, contingencies for contingencies. Comfortable operating in morally ambiguous terrain. Able to navigate criminal, corporate, and creative systems with equal facility.
Warning: Cannot be switched off.
Trey went completely still reading it.
He'd read the Artemis Fowl books. This had surprised people when he mentioned it. He'd read them in a YOI at eighteen and found himself deeply, uncomfortably impressed with the kid. Twelve years old and running circles around supernatural intelligence agencies through sheer ruthless planning.
"…Nah."
ROB smiled slowly.
"You recognise the danger."
"Brother this isn't intelligence. This is villain intelligence."
"Close."
Trey kept staring at the reward.
Because unlike the others
This one scared him slightly.
Michael Jackson and Elvis were gifts.
The Sovereign's Ear was mastery.
The Salvatore Effect was dangerous.
But Artemis Fowl?
That was the kind of mind that changed people.
A mind that naturally manipulated.
Naturally calculated.
Naturally dissected weaknesses.
Trey had already been intelligent before.
Street intelligent.
Socially intelligent.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
The ability to understand systems.
To predict behaviour.
To control outcomes.
To see angles other people missed.
And the worst part?
The warning.
Cannot be deactivated.
Trey exhaled slowly.
"So I'm basically gonna be mentally profiling everyone forever."
"Yes."
"And planning conversations before they happen."
"Yes."
"And noticing weaknesses automatically."
"Yes."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It will be."
Trey shook his head slightly.
"You've basically turned me into some music industry supervillain."
ROB looked genuinely thoughtful.
"…That is not entirely inaccurate."
Trey laughed despite himself.
Then silence settled again as he looked over all five inheritances floating before him.
✦ SOUL INHERITANCE: Michael Jackson
✦ SOUL INHERITANCE: Elvis Presley
✦ THE SOVEREIGN'S EAR ✦
✦ THE SALVATORE EFFECT ✦
✦ THE FOWL MIND ✦
Five rewards.
Five absurdities.
Five things capable of reshaping an entire life.
Trey stood there quietly for a long moment.
Then finally:
"…You know what's mad?"
ROB raised an eyebrow.
"A younger version of me would've cried getting this."
That answer seemed to surprise the entity slightly.
Trey looked away toward the endless white.
"When I was younger… music was the only thing I actually loved properly."
No bravado.
No performance.
Just honesty.
"I think somewhere along the line I stopped believing someone like me was allowed to have dreams like that."
The white space became very quiet.
ROB studied him carefully.
Then finally spoke softer than before.
"You humans do that often."
Trey looked back at him.
"You gonna get emotional now?"
"Don't ruin the moment."
Trey smirked faintly.
Then glanced toward the wheel again.
"…Could've given me one dead reward though. Just for balance."
"Oh, I considered it."
Trey narrowed his eyes.
"You're joking."
"I nearly gave you 'Terminal Industry Contractual Exploitation.'"
"…That sounds racist somehow."
"It was developed in Los Angeles."
"Fair."
ROB stepped back slowly.
The white void around them beginning to fracture softly now.
Reality shifting.
The reincarnation process beginning.
"You will retain your memories," ROB said calmly.
"You will retain these inheritances."
"You will retain your personality."
A pause.
"Which may unfortunately be the most dangerous thing about you."
Trey snorted quietly.
"Love that for me."
"But understand this carefully, Trey Croft."
For the first time since meeting him
ROB's voice carried genuine weight.
"The gifts themselves do not matter."
The entity's eyes locked onto his.
"What matters… is whether you finally become what you were capable of being."
Silence.
Then Trey nodded once.
Slowly.
Seriously.
No jokes this time.
ROB smiled faintly.
"Good."
The white space began collapsing entirely now.
Trey could feel himself fading.
Being pulled somewhere distant.
Somewhere new.
Then ROB called out one final time.
"Oh and Trey?"
"What."
The entity grinned.
"Try solving your problems without shooting people this time."
Trey smirked faintly as the white consumed him.
"No promises."
Then everything disappeared.