[Message from me]
Please take note that Soon, I'll be moving to Patron.
Anyway
The short walk to Amala's apartment building was filled with an awkward but not unpleasant silence. She stole glances at him, still clearly in shock, and Landon, for his part, was simply grateful for the quiet company. The city noise was a distant hum, and for the first time since the awards, he felt a small measure of peace. When they reached her building, a humble, unassuming place with a buzzer and a keypad, Landon stopped. The moment had come for him to leave.
"Are you... are you sure you're okay with me leaving you here?" he asked, his voice low.
Amala fumbled with her keys for a moment, avoiding his gaze.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said, before looking up at him with a nervous smile. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I hardly ever invite strangers into my home, but... you look like you could really use a cup of coffee. You want to come up?"
He paused. Part of him wanted to bolt, to retreat back into the safe, familiar loneliness of his hotel room. But another part, the part that had just been shattered, was desperate for something real. He sighed, the puff of air turning to steam in the cold. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do," he said.
They went up to the fourth floor, the elevator's slow ascent filled with a comfortable quiet. She fumbled with her key at the door to room 32 for a few moments before it finally clicked open. She flicked on the light, revealing a small, cozy apartment that was meticulously neat. Piles of books were stacked in a corner, a guitar rested against a wall, and a small, well-loved rug covered the wooden floor. Amala gestured for him to come in. "Welcome to my not-so-humble home," she said with a dry laugh.
Landon stepped inside, his eyes scanning the apartment. He was used to sprawling mansions and penthouse suites; this was a completely different world. Without thinking, he commented, "It's rather... small."
Amala's laugh was sharp and immediate, and she playfully punched him softly on the arm. "Well, not all of us are successful, award-winning artists who can afford big homes or fancy apartments," she retorted, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, wincing. "I'm sorry, that was rude. I just... it's different."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "I know, I'm just messing with you. It's alright." She gestured toward a simple, comfortable-looking sofa. "Take a seat. I'll get the coffee started."
Landon nodded, watching as she padded barefoot into the small kitchen area. He sat down on the sofa, sinking into its plush cushions. He took in the details of the room: the small television set, the overflowing bookshelves, the faint scent of incense. It was modest, but it had a lived-in warmth that was completely foreign to his life of sterile, high-end hotel rooms. For the first time all night, he felt his shoulders drop, the tension slowly draining from his body. A few moments later, Amala returned from the kitchen. She carried a small tray with two ceramic mugs, a pot of steaming coffee, a sugar holder, and two teaspoons. She placed it gently on the coffee table in front of him.
Landon looked at the arrangement, a slight frown of confusion on his face. "Why did you bring it out like that?" he asked, gesturing to the separate items. "Most people just bring you a mug of coffee already made."
Amala smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached her eyes. She sat down across from him on a beanbag chair. "My father is a Zulu man from South Africa," she explained. "When he was still staying with us, he taught me that this is how you show respect to your guests. You bring all the material to them, and they pour for themselves. It's about giving them control and making them feel at home."
Landon's frown disappeared, replaced by a quiet sense of awe. It was a simple gesture, yet it held more meaning than any grand, public display he had witnessed in his entire career. He looked at the pot of coffee, the small mugs, and felt a profound sense of peace. He reached out and carefully poured a cup for himself, the steam rising in a warm cloud around his face. He poured his coffee and held the mug in his hands, the warmth a comforting presence. "Thank you for the hospitality, Amala," he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude. "This means a lot."
She waved a hand dismissively. "It's a small price to pay for helping out someone who just saved my life." They both smiled, the unspoken weight of the night hanging in the air between them. The moment stretched on, their eyes meeting before they both looked away, the quiet turning slightly awkward. In a flash of quick thinking, Amala changed the subject. "You said you heard my stuff on SoundCloud," she began, her tone now more business-like, though her eyes held a hint of vulnerability. "You're a successful artist and a big deal. So... I want your honest opinion. Do you think I have what it takes to make it in the music scene?"
""Yes," Landon said instantly, his voice so firm and confident it caught Amala off guard.
He wasn't guessing. His memory, his strange knowledge of a future that had yet to happen, was a clear and infallible map. He knew with absolute certainty that this woman sitting across from him, in her small was destined to become a global phenomenon. The thought was staggering, he was staring at a living legend in her chrysalis stage. He couldn't tell her that he knew her future, that he'd streamed her music and followed her career in another life. The words would sound crazy. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee and looked her in the eyes. "Your music… it's different. It's authentic," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Most people try to fit into a box, a genre. You don't. You have a sound that is uniquely your own, and you're not afraid to be weird with it. That's a superpower."
He leaned forward, his voice earnest. "You have what it takes. More than. Your songs aren't just tracks; they're an experience. They stick with you. The world just hasn't caught on yet, but they will." Amala stared at him, her usual nervous energy replaced by a quiet shock. She had expected him to be polite, maybe offer some empty encouragement, but not this. Not this level of sincerity from the biggest new artist in the world. His conviction was contagious, and for the first time, she truly believed him.
"You're probably just saying that to be nice," she said, though a flicker of hope was beginning to grow in her eyes.
"I'm not," he said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "I've been in this industry for a while now. I know a one-hit wonder from a real deal. Trust me on this. If you don't have faith in yourself, then you must just have faith in me."
He paused, taking a deep breath before asking the question that would change everything. "Are you willing to sign with Echo Waves Records?"
Amala stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. "Why do you make it sound like you can just put in a word for me and I'm instantly signed?"
Landon let out a genuine, exhausted laugh, the first one that had reached his eyes all night. "Well," he said, the ghost of a smile on his face, "when im not busy working as a artits, I am the unofficial scout of talent. Every artist signed to the label was found by me." He saw the disbelief on her face and knew he had to be more direct. "And besides," he continued, a hint of pride in his voice, "the CEO gave me 10% of the company for my birthday. So, in a way, I am one of the bosses."
Amala's mouth fell open, but no words came out. She stared at him, her mind racing. The man who had just saved her life from three men in a dark alley was the same person who had just swept the American Music Awards. And now, he was telling her he had the power to change her life forever. The weight of his words settled on her. Her small, well-managed apartment, her dreams, her struggles,it all felt incredibly small in the presence of this revelation. She had spent years pouring her soul into her music, and now, validation was staring her in the face. Tears welled up in her eyes, a mix of disbelief, gratitude, and overwhelming relief.
Landon, seeing her reaction, sat up and leaned forward. "Hey, I'm serious," he said, his voice soft and earnest. "Don't let this be a wasted night. You're a talent. The world needs to hear your music."
Amala found her voice, though it was little more than a whisper. "What do I... what do I have to do?"
A genuine, tired smile touched Landon's lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Give me your number," he said, handing it to her. "I'll text you. Then, you can send me all your music, and we'll get you started."
Amala took his phone, her hand trembling slightly as she typed in her number. She handed it back to him, her mind still reeling from the whirlwind of events. As he tucked the phone away, a new question formed in her mind, one she had been dying to ask.
"Is it true?" she asked, her voice quiet. "That you write and produce all of your own songs?"
Landon simply nodded, a small, tired smile on his face.
Amala shook her head, a look of genuine disbelief spreading across her face. "That's impossible. Nobody does that. The songs I've heard... they're so complex, so layered. You must have a team of people."
Landon let out a soft laugh. He stood up and walked over to her small desk where her laptop sat. "You have FL Studio on here?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, her confusion growing as she opened the laptop. "Why?"
"I'm going to show you," he said, taking the laptop from her. He sat down on the floor, getting comfortable. "I'll need about two hours to make a decent beat, given the limited sound packs you have. But I'll show you how it works."
Amala watched him, her respect and admiration growing with every second. He was a different person now. Gone was the guarded superstar and the heartbroken man from the alley. In his place was a focused, meticulous artist, his fingers flying across the trackpad with an impossible speed. He moved through the software with an innate fluency, crafting a beat from thin air. She watched him, utterly captivated, as the hours melted away. He wasn't just a singer; he was a true master of his craft.
While Landon worked on her laptop, a different kind of creative process was taking place in Amala's small kitchen. Her stomach grumbled, a loud and undeniable reminder of the time, and she quietly got up to cook. She moved with a practiced ease, pulling out a few ingredients and starting a simple meal on the stove, the sizzling and chopping a soft background noise to the rhythmic clicking of Landon's work.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, a delicious aroma filled the apartment. The beat on the laptop had finally gone silent. Landon leaned back, stretching his arms above his head with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "It's done," he said, the exhaustion and triumph clear in his voice.
Amala walked out of the kitchen, placing two bowls of food on the coffee table. "Just in time," she said with a tired but warm smile. "I got hungry. Help yourself."