Chapter 1: Shattered Dreams
The relentless hum of Los Angeles traffic blurred into a distant roar as Sam Rivers pushed through the revolving doors of the Eclipse Records tower. The glass facade, gleaming under the relentless California sun, reflected a distorted version of himself—disheveled hair, rumpled shirt, eyes hollow from betrayal. He clutched his backpack like a lifeline, the weight of his laptop inside feeling heavier than ever. Three years of his life, poured into melodies and lyrics, now reduced to nothing but echoes in someone else's empire.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in mid-summer, the kind where the heat waves danced off the pavement, making the city feel like a pressure cooker. Sam had arrived that morning full of cautious optimism, summoned to a "strategy meeting" by Jake Harlan, the slick executive who'd promised him the world. But promises in Hollywood were as fleeting as viral TikToks. Jake's office, perched on the 30th floor with panoramic views of the Hollywood Hills, had been the stage for his downfall.
"Sam, buddy," Jake had said, leaning back in his ergonomic chair, fingers steepled like a villain in a bad thriller. His suit was tailored to perfection, probably costing more than Sam's monthly rent. "You've got talent, no doubt. But the industry's evolving. Lily's brand needs a fresh direction—one that aligns with our global strategy."
Sam had sat there, confusion knotting his brow. "What about the contracts? I produced those tracks. 'Echoes of Us'—that was my arrangement, my lyrics tweaks. You can't just—"
Jake cut him off with a wave, his smile all teeth and no warmth. "Ah, the fine print, my friend. When Lily signed with us, those rights transferred. It's standard. And honestly, with her tour kicking off, we need hits that pop, not… whatever indie vibe you're pushing."
The words hit like a gut punch. Sam had discovered Lily Voss three years ago in a dimly lit coffee shop off Melrose Avenue. She was 22 then, strumming an acoustic guitar, her voice cutting through the chatter like a knife—raw, emotive, with a timbre that could make hearts ache. Sam, 25 and fresh off a Greyhound from Chicago, had been scraping by as a freelance producer, mixing demos in a cramped apartment shared with three other dreamers. He'd approached her after her set, heart pounding.
"You're incredible," he'd said, sliding a business card across the table. It was cheap, printed at Kinko's, but it had his name: Sam Rivers, Producer.
Lily had laughed, her green eyes sparkling. "Flattery from a stranger? Bold move. What's your angle?"
"No angle. Just… I hear potential. Let me produce a track for you. Free of charge."
That night turned into a collaboration that sparked everything. They worked in Sam's makeshift studio—a converted garage in Echo Park—hunched over his MacBook, layering vocals over beats. "Echoes of Us" was born from a late-night jam session, inspired by their growing chemistry. It was a ballad about fleeting connections, with lyrics like:
In the shadows of the city lights, We danced like ghosts in the night. But echoes fade, and so do we, Left with memories, wild and free.
The song went viral on SoundCloud first, then Spotify playlists. Labels came knocking, but Eclipse was the shark that bit hardest. Jake Harlan personally courted them, wining and dining at rooftop bars, promising stardom. "You'll be the next Taylor Swift," he'd told Lily. To Sam: "And you'll be her Max Martin."
They signed. Sam, naive and in love, agreed to co-production credits, thinking it was a team effort. But as Lily's star rose—sold-out shows, magazine covers, endorsement deals—the label sidelined him. Meetings without invites, sessions with "big-name" collaborators. And Lily? She changed. The girl who once shared cheap ramen with him now jetted to Paris for photoshoots, her texts growing sporadic.
The final blow came last week: an email from Lily, CC'd to Jake. "Sam, this isn't working. The pressure's too much. I need to focus on my career. We should take a break."
A break? It felt like a shatter. And now, in Jake's office, the truth unveiled: Eclipse had reassigned all his contributions. No royalties, no credits. "Nondisclosure agreement," Jake had reminded him, sliding a thick envelope across the desk. "Sign this, and we'll cut you a check for your… troubles. Five grand. Generous, right?"
Sam had stared at the paper, fury boiling. "This is theft."
Jake shrugged. "Business, kid. Welcome to LA."
Now, outside the tower, Sam wandered aimlessly down Wilshire Boulevard. The city pulsed around him—tourists snapping selfies, executives barking into phones, street performers hustling for tips. He felt invisible, a ghost in the machine he'd helped build. His phone buzzed: a notification from Spotify. Lily's new single, "Starlight Chase," was trending. Produced by… some hotshot from New York. But Sam recognized the bridge—it was his melody, twisted just enough to evade lawsuits.
He slumped onto a bench in a small park, the kind wedged between skyscrapers, with fake grass and overpriced food trucks. Rain threatened, unusual for LA, but fitting his mood. Dark clouds gathered, mirroring the storm inside him. What now? Back to Chicago? His mom would welcome him, but the thought of admitting failure stung. She'd sacrificed everything—two jobs, skipped meals—to send him to community college for music tech.
Memories flooded: High school in the Windy City, sneaking into blues clubs on Clark Street, learning guitar from his late dad's old Fender. Dad had been a session musician, never made it big, but his passion ignited Sam's. "Music's in the blood, kid," he'd say. "Don't let the suits kill it."
Sam pulled out his phone, scrolling through old photos. Him and Lily at Coachella, arms around each other, faces lit by stage lights. Another: their first studio kiss, mid-take. Gone.
As despair peaked, his screen glitched. Pixels danced erratically, then reformed into an unfamiliar icon: a stylized treble clef pulsing with light. "Hitmaker System," it read. Sam frowned. Malware? He hadn't downloaded anything. Tapping it, the app launched seamlessly.
A sleek interface appeared: holographic text floating over his home screen. "Welcome, Sam Rivers. Potential detected. System awakening initiated. Mission: Craft a song that resonates with the masses. Reward: Level 1 Production Boost."
What the—? Sam blinked, rubbing his eyes. Augmented reality? But his phone was a budget Android, nothing fancy. He swiped to close, but it persisted. "Scan complete. Access granted to alternate timelines' forgotten hits. Use wisely."
Ideas surged unbidden: melodies he'd never heard, lyrics forming in his mind. A soft ballad, "Faded Whispers," with chords that tugged at heartstrings. He could hear it—piano intro, building to a crescendo.
"This can't be real," he muttered, glancing around. No one noticed; the park was emptying as rain began to patter.
But curiosity won. He opened his voice memo app, humming the tune. It flowed effortlessly, like it'd always been there. Lyrics spilled out:
Whispers in the wind, carried away, Promises we made, now in decay. Faded like the stars at dawn's first light, Left me here alone, in endless night.
Sam stopped, chills running down his spine. It was good—damn good. Better than anything he'd written in months. The system dinged: "Composition analyzed. Emotional impact: High. Potential virality: 85%."
His heart raced. Was this a hallucination? Grief-induced madness? Or… a second chance?
Emboldened, he stood, rain soaking his shirt. The Eclipse tower loomed in the distance, a monolith of glass and greed. "Screw them," he whispered. He'd rebuild. Alone if needed.
But first, coffee. He ducked into a nearby Starbucks, the familiar scent grounding him. Ordering a black Americano, he found a corner table, pulling out his laptop. The system synced automatically, overlaying his DAW software with new tools: AI-assisted mixing, instant chord suggestions.
As he tinkered, a barista—a young guy with tattoos—overheard the playback. "Dude, that's fire. You a producer?"
Sam nodded warily. "Trying to be."
"Post it on TikTok. Stuff like that blows up."
The idea sparked. Why not? No label strings. Just him and the music.
By evening, as the rain cleared to a sunset blaze, Sam uploaded a teaser clip: 15 seconds of "Faded Whispers," captioned: "From the ashes. #NewBeginnings #IndieMusic."
Views trickled in—10, 50, then 1,000. Comments: "This hits different 😢" "Who is this guy?" "Reminds me of my ex…"
The system notified: "Mission progress: 10%. Keep pushing."
Sam smiled for the first time that day. The fall hurt, but the rise? It was just beginning.
He packed up, heading to his Echo Park apartment. The walk was long, but his steps lighter. Roommates were out—probably at gigs—so he had the place to himself. Crashing on the worn couch, he dove deeper into the system. Tutorials popped up: "Unlock modules by completing challenges. Next: Garner 10,000 streams."
Challenges? Like a game? It felt surreal, but empowering. Flashbacks to childhood games—Zelda, where heroes rose from nothing—mingled with reality.
Sleep came fitfully, dreams of stages and spotlights. Morning brought notifications: the clip had 50,000 views overnight. Influencers shared it. A small buzz.
But Eclipse noticed too. A text from an unknown number: "Cease and desist on similar sounds. Or else."
Sam laughed bitterly. "Bring it."
The war was on.
As the chapter closed on his first day of rebirth, Sam sketched more songs. The system hummed approval. Lily's betrayal? Fuel. Jake's greed? Motivation.
LA's dreams were shattered daily, but Sam's? They were reforming, note by note.