The studio was a tomb of high-end equipment and thick, indigo smoke. It was 4:00 AM, the hour when the rest of the world was dreaming, but for Aubrey, the day was just starting to bleed into something legendary. The adrenaline from the parking garage ambush was still buzzing in his veins, a sharp, electric current that made his skin feel too tight for his body.
He sat at the console, staring through the glass at the empty vocal booth. Jas Prince was slumped in a leather chair behind him, nursing a drink, while the engineer, a quiet guy with bloodshot eyes, waited for a command.
"You want to go back to the hotel?" Jas asked, his voice low. "You've been through enough for one morning, kid."
Aubrey didn't look back. He was staring at his notebook. The page for Jasmine was filled with messy, jagged scribbles. The "setup" line was circled so many times the ink had bled through to the next three pages.
"No," Aubrey said, his voice a cold rasp. "If I go back to that hotel, I'll just think about the look on her face when she was lying to me. I need to get this out. Now."
He stood up and walked into the booth. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing him into a world of absolute silence. It was just him, the microphone, and the ghost of the girl who had almost led him to his death. He put on the headphones, the familiar weight a comfort.
"Drop the 40 beat," Aubrey commanded over the talkback. "The one with the soul sample. The one that sounds like a cold night in Toronto."
The beat kicked in. It was sparse—a haunting, filtered piano loop and a drum pattern that felt like a slow, steady heartbeat. It was the sound of isolation.
Aubrey closed his eyes. He didn't think about being a star. He thought about the basement on Weston Road. He thought about the red light in the studio lounge where Jasmine had kissed him while V-Strap waited in the dark. He thought about his mother's voice on the phone, a tether to a life that was disappearing in the rearview mirror.
He began to rap. It wasn't the aggressive, hungry flow from the night before. This was something else—vulnerable, melodic, and devastatingly honest.
"I'm just a kid from the city where the winters are long and the secrets are longer... I tasted the honey but I didn't see the sting in the shadow... Jasmine was a muse until she was a weapon... every toast I make is just another bridge I'm burning..."
His voice was a low, melodic rumble, catching on the edges of the beat. In the control room, Jas Prince sat up straight, his drink forgotten. The engineer stopped scrolling and leaned into the speakers. They knew they were watching something shift. This wasn't just a "song"; it was the birth of a sound. It was the moment Aubrey became the "Certified Lover Boy" who was too smart to trust anyone and too lonely to stop trying.
He spent four hours in that booth, recording take after take until his throat was raw. He was exorcising the demons of Houston, turning the betrayal into a masterpiece. By the time he stepped out, the sun was fully up, and the room was silent.
"That's the one," Jas whispered, shaking his head. "That's the song that makes you a god, Aubrey."
Aubrey just nodded, feeling a strange, hollow sense of peace. He walked over to his phone, which had been sitting on the console. It was buzzing.
It wasn't a text from Jasmine. It wasn't a call from his mother. It was an California area code he didn't recognize.
He stepped outside into the humid Houston morning to take it. The air was thick, but he felt lighter than he had in weeks.
"Hello?"
"Is this the kid from Toronto everyone is losing their minds over?"
The voice on the other end was unmistakable. It was melodic, with a slight Bajan lilt—low, confident, and dripping with a star power that Aubrey could feel through the speakers. It was Robyn(Rihanna)
"Depends on who's asking," Aubrey said, his heart skipping a beat. He leaned against the brick wall of the studio, the heat of the Texas sun hitting his face.
"I played your demo while I was getting ready for a shoot in LA," she said, and he could hear the smirk in her voice. "It's soulful. It's different. I'm starting work on my new project, Rated R. I think you have a perspective I need in the room."
Aubrey felt the world tilt. Houston had been a trial by fire. This—this was the invitation to the throne.
"I can be in LA by tonight," Aubrey said, his voice steady, his mind already calculating the next move.
"Good," she replied. "Don't be late, Aubrey. I don't like to wait.
She hung up.
Aubrey stared at the phone. He looked back at the studio, where his life-changing track was being mixed. He felt a surge of triumph, but beneath it, the coldness remained. He was leaving Houston with a hit, and a scar.