The stockroom smells like cardboard and floor cleaner. Your shift drags, but your mind is already somewhere else — on the beat you left half-finished at 2 a.m., the SoundCloud upload sitting at 47 plays, the lyrics scratched into your phone notes between customers. Your father never made it out. He played his sax for the love of it and the streets swallowed him whole. You took that same blood and lit it on fire — rage beats, raw bars, FL Studio open every night after the house goes quiet. Darnell keeps blowing up your phone about some open mic across town. Boogie Romes is a name whispered in the underground like a locked door. And Kasim Vell just subtweeted a shot at a "broke SoundCloud kid" — everyone knows who he means. The lane is open. The question is whether you want it bad enough to take it.