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MidReal Story
My Aunt Ayan Is My Crush
Scenario:this story is about music and family and fame and relationships and drama and concerts and nepotism and sex and drama and multi racial and nudity and groupies and fights and news and interviews and tours and my name is mohamed abdi and i have mulat skin and i have tattoos on my arms and hands and abdomen and i am 18 years old and i am multi racial because my mother anna abdi is danish and she has light skin and blue eyes and she is 40 years old and she is a retired very rich world famous pop and rnb singer and my father abdinur abdi is somali and british he is born in london england and he is 41 years old and he is a famous record producer and singer and i am born in paris france and i am raised in london england and my mother taught me the danish language and i can speak french and danish and english like a british man fluently and my uncle ahmad abdi is a rock famous rich singer and he is 39 years old and he has dark skin and my aunt ayan abdi is 35 years old and she is a rnb famous rich singer and i want to be in my familys footsteps to become a famous singer and i have 3 citizenships in france and england and denmark
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Mohamed Abdi
He is the son of a Danish mother and SomaliBritish father, born in Paris. He is curious, ambitious, and rebellious. Mohamed admires his famous uncle Ahmad and cousin Ayan, who are rock stars. He struggles with his identity, especially after a fight with his cousin, and feels overshadowed by his family's fame. He enjoys music and groupies, trying to emulate his idols while navigating the complexities of his multiracial background.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's father and a successful record producer. He is hardworking, pragmatic, and devoted. Abdinur rose from humble origins in London to achieve great success in the music industry. He appreciates the family business tradition but also emphasizes the importance of education. His relationship with Mohamed is filled with mutual respect and aspiration for greatness.
Ahmad Abdi
He is Mohamed's uncle and a famous rock singer. He is charismatic, flamboyant, and influential. Ahmad shares a deep bond with Mohamed, treating him like a younger brother. His wealthy lifestyle includes beautiful women, which he introduces to Mohamed, further complicating his sense of identity. Despite his carefree demeanor, Ahmad provides Mohamed with a sense of belonging within his vibrant and chaotic family.
My name is Mohamed Abdi.
I am 18 years old.
I have mulat skin, tattoos on my arms, hands, and abdomen.
I am multi-racial because my mother is Danish and my father is Somali and British.
My mother Anna Abdi is 40 years old.
She has light skin, blue eyes, and is a retired very rich world-famous pop and RNB singer.
She was born in Copenhagen, Denmark.
She lived in Paris, France, for a while before she moved to London, England, where I was raised.
My father Abdinur Abdi is 41 years old.
He is a famous record producer and singer.
He was born in London, England, but he is originally from Somalia.
My uncle Ahmad Abdi is a famous rich rock singer.
He has dark skin and is also originally from Somalia, but he was born in the Middle East.
He lives there now.
My aunt Ayan Abdi is a famous rich RNB singer.
She has light skin and blue eyes like my mother.
She was born in the United States of America but is originally from Somalia just like my father and uncle.
She lives in Los Angeles now.
I have three citizenships: French, Danish, and British.
My mother taught me the Danish language when I was little.
I sit on my bed, strumming my guitar and singing.
"Who I Am" is the name of the song.
It's my first pop song.
It's about how much I love music.
My mother and father come into my room.
They stand in the doorway and listen to me sing.
I look at them, but I don't stop singing.
When I finish, they applaud me and say, "Don't stop singing. You have a strong, beautiful voice."
"What's the name of the song?" asks my father.
"Who I Am," I answer.
"Let's take you to our music studio," says my mother.
I nod, feeling the weight of their belief in me.
My hands tremble as I place my guitar in its case, the worn leather familiar against my fingers.
Mother adjusts her silk scarf, a habit she has when she's excited or nervous.
Father checks his phone, probably sending a quick message to the studio technician.
I take extra time packing, trying to calm my racing heart.
This isn't just another casual jam session in our home studio; this feels different.
The hallway stretches longer than usual as we walk past the family photos.
Generations of musicians stare down at us, their eyes filled with stories of triumph and struggle.
Father's hand rests on my shoulder, steady and warm.
We turn into the dimly lit hallway leading to their professional studio.
My guitar case bumps against my leg with each step.
The red "Recording in Progress" light is off, but I still hesitate at the heavy soundproof door.
Father swipes his keycard, and the lock clicks open.
Inside, the room buzzes with the soft glow of synthesizers and mixing boards.
James, the tech, nods from behind the glass partition as he adjusts knobs and sliders.
"Hey, Mohamed," he says, his voice muffled by the glass.
I step into the recording booth, the scent of fresh air and wood lingering from the last session.
The headphones feel heavy on my ears as I adjust them.
My hands still shake slightly as I open my notebook to "Who I Am."
I take a deep breath, focusing on the lyrics scrawled in my familiar handwriting.
I strum the first chord, and my voice fills the room.
James gives me a thumbs-up from behind the glass, making adjustments to the sound levels as I sing.
The music flows through me, each word echoing against the walls of the studio.
My parents watch intently from the other side of the glass, their expressions a mix of pride and concentration.
When I finish, James nods and gives me a smile.
"That was good," he says through the intercom.
"Let's get it mixed."
Mother sets up Spotify and Apple Music accounts for me.
We upload "Who I Am."
I watch as James mixes it, seeing the waveform on the screen.
The track is ready, and my journey begins.
I refresh Spotify obsessively, watching the stream count climb hour by hour.
My mother brings me tea as I sit cross-legged on the living room floor, my laptop open in front of me.
My family huddles around, each checking their phones periodically for updates.
The first million streams come within hours, and the room erupts in cheers.
Father paces the room, making calls to industry contacts and friends.
Uncle Ahmad orders champagne to celebrate, his voice booming with excitement.
The UK charts update, and "Who I Am" debuts at number 24.
Aunt Ayan screams and hugs me tightly, tears of joy in her eyes.
Two days later, the platinum certification arrives—a sleek black plaque with my name etched in gold.
"Can you believe it?" my mother says, her voice trembling with pride.
Father grins, shaking his head in disbelief. "I knew you had talent, but this... this is something else."
Uncle Ahmad raises his glass, his eyes twinkling. "This is just the beginning, Mohamed. The world is finally hearing your voice."
I sit at the kitchen table with Uncle Ahmad, laptops open in front of us.
We're looking for a venue for my first live show.
"Electric Room," he says, tapping on his laptop screen.
"It's small and intimate. I played there when I first started."
He scrolls through pictures of the venue on his phone.
The stage is dimly lit, and the dance floor is packed with people dancing.
"Perfect," I say, nodding.
The night before my performance at Electric Room, I sit in my room, guitar in hand.
I strum the chords to "Who I Am," letting the familiar melody calm my nerves.
My parents knock softly on the door and enter.
"You'll do great," my father says, sitting beside me on the bed.
"Just remember to breathe and connect with the audience."
My mother adjusts the collar of my shirt, her touch reassuring.
"We're all coming to support you."
I nod, taking a deep breath.
We walk together to the venue, the evening air crisp against our skin.
The streets are quiet under the fading light of day.
At Electric Room, Uncle Ahmad greets us backstage.
He introduces me to the sound crew, and we do a quick sound check.
As I watch from the wings, the crowd trickles in—excited whispers and laughter filling the room.
Uncle Ahmad squeezes my shoulder, his voice a whisper of encouragement.
"Go out there and own it, Mohamed."
The venue manager gives me a nod.
"It's time."
I step onto the stage, the spotlight blinding for a moment.
The crowd quiets as I adjust my guitar strap and approach the microphone.
My heart pounds in my chest, but I take a deep breath and strum the first chord of "Who I Am."
My voice rings out clear and strong, the upbeat pop melody filling the room.
People start clapping along, dancing to the rhythm.
As I sing, I meet the eyes of the audience, feeling their energy and excitement.
The song builds to its climax, and when the final note fades, the room erupts in cheers, applause, and whistles.
Riding high from my Electric Room debut, I climb into the back of our black Range Rover with my parents.
The driver navigates through the nighttime streets of London, the city lights flickering past us.
My mother squeezes my hand, tears shining in her blue eyes.
We pull up to our gated estate in Hampstead, and Marcus, our head of security, opens the door for us.
Inside, the marble foyer echoes with our footsteps as we make our way to the living room.
Maria, our housekeeper who has been with us since I was born, greets us with a warm smile and a tray of champagne.
"Congratulations, Mohamed," she says, her voice filled with genuine pride.
We take our glasses and follow Father to the indoor studio where it all began.
He raises his glass under the platinum records lining the walls—my mother's Danish hits on one side, his soul classics on the other.
I sink into the plush leather couch, still buzzing from the performance.
Father pours more champagne while Mother scrolls through her phone, reading social media reactions to my show.
The studio's warm lighting casts a golden glow over everything, and I feel the weight of legacy in the room.
I pull out my phone and open my notes app, already humming a melody that captures the energy of tonight.
I sit at the piano, my fingers gliding over the keys as I compose.
The notes flow effortlessly, and in 11 minutes, I have a new pop song: "I Wish."
The chorus and verses come together quickly, inspired by the soul hits and Danish pop tunes hanging on the walls.
I sing softly to myself, testing the melody.
The lyrics speak of my desire to match my family's legacy, to be like my uncle Ahmad, a rock legend, and my aunt Ayan, an R&B legend.
Mother looks up from her phone, her eyes meeting mine.
"That song... it's like you're speaking directly to us," she says softly.
Father nods, his voice filled with emotion. "You've captured something special, Mohamed. It's as if you're weaving our stories into your own."
I move to the recording booth, still wearing my performance clothes from Electric Room.
Father adjusts the mixing board, while Mother sets up the microphone.
Both of them are pros at this, having spent years in studios themselves.
The studio's warm lighting casts long shadows as I position myself behind the mic.
My hands tremble slightly with excitement.
I put on the headphones and hear the subtle static of the open channel.
Father counts me in through the talkback speaker, and I begin singing "I Wish."
Mother nods along, her eyes closed.
I pull off the headphones and step out of the booth, joining my parents at the mixing console.
Dad plays it back through the studio's pristine speakers.
The sound is crisp and clear, filling the room with every note.
We sit in silence, listening to the song unfold.
My voice flows smoothly over the piano melody, hitting the emotional peaks just right.
When the final chord fades, Mother wipes away a tear.
Dad adjusts some levels, enhancing the vocals slightly, then plays it again.
This time, I notice how my voice carries the same soulful tone as his.
"Do you hear it, Mohamed?" Father asks, his voice a mix of pride and wonder.
I nod, feeling the weight of their expectations.
Mother leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, "It's time we tell you about the contract with the label."
I sit between my parents on the studio's leather couch, and Mother pulls out a thick stack of papers from her Hermès bag.
The Universal Music logo glimmers on the first page.
"We've been in talks with them since your first song hit the streaming platforms," Father explains, his eyes shining with excitement.
"The contract is for a three-album deal. You'll get £2 million upfront, plus touring and merchandise rights."
My hands tremble as I take the contract from Mother.
I flip through the pages, scanning the terms and conditions.
There are clauses about creative control, release schedules, and royalty percentages.
Mother points to specific terms, explaining them in detail while Father highlights the key points.
I sit at the dining table, the Universal Music contract in front of me.
My parents and Uncle Ahmad watch with eager anticipation as I pick up the pen.
I hesitate for a moment, glancing at their signatures on similar contracts.
Mother nods encouragingly, her eyes filled with pride.
Uncle Ahmad grins, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of my decision.
Slowly, I sign my name on the dotted line.
I slide the thick contract across the polished mahogany table to Mother, my signature still glistening on the final page.
The dining room falls silent except for the rustling of papers as she checks each signed section.
Uncle Ahmad leans forward in his chair, his gold chains catching the light from the chandelier above.
I enter the music studio, the scent of fresh coffee and the soft hum of equipment greeting me.
I sit down at the piano, my fingers resting on the keys.
Today, I'm here to record my second single, "Legacy."
The opening chords flow easily under my touch, a blend of melancholy and longing.
As I begin to sing, I look up at the platinum records adorning the walls.
My parents' names are etched into each one, a testament to their legendary status in the music world.
I've always dreamed of joining them there, of leaving my own mark on the industry.
The lyrics pour out of me, a reflection of my aspirations and fears.
I sing about chasing dreams, about the allure of fame and fortune.
The words come naturally, inspired by the stories I've heard about my parents' journey to stardom. As I finish the first verse, I pause and adjust the microphone stand slightly, ensuring it captures every nuance of my voice.
I lean into the microphone, letting my voice swell with the piano accompaniment as I reach the emotional peak of "Legacy."
The studio lights cast a warm glow across the platinum records above, and I grip the mic stand tighter.
My eyes drift closed as the chorus builds, each note carrying memories of watching my parents perform on stage.
The sound waves on the mixing board's screen dance with my voice.
Dad adjusts levels at the console while Mom stands in the corner, her hand pressed to her heart.
I hold the final note steady, my voice resonating through the studio monitors.
The vibration in my chest fades as I watch Dad through the glass, his fingers moving across the mixing board's faders.
His eyes stay locked on mine, head bobbing slightly as the piano's echo dissipates.
The corners of his mouth curl up, and he presses the intercom button.
"Perfect take," he says, his producer instincts showing through his fatherly pride.
I release my grip on the microphone stand, my palm damp with nervous sweat.
The journey has truly begun.
I sit in the studio, my laptop open on the table.
The streaming numbers for "Legacy" climb rapidly on the screen.
My parents stand behind me, their eyes glued to the numbers.
"10 million streams already," Dad says, tapping the screen.
"And look, we're at number 15 on the Top 50 Pop Charts."
Mom leans closer, her voice filled with excitement.
"Keep going, Mohamed. You're almost there."
Suddenly, an email notification pops up on my screen.
I click it open, and a smile spreads across my face.
"It's official," I say, turning to my parents.
"We've gone double platinum!"
Mom claps her hands together, beaming with pride.
Dad places a hand on my shoulder, his eyes shining with joy.
"You did it, son. You're a true star."
I stand up and walk over to the wall where my parents' platinum records hang.
I run my fingers over their names etched into the plaques, feeling a sense of accomplishment and gratitude.
Then, I take out my phone and dial Uncle Ahmad's number.
He answers on the first ring, his voice booming through the speaker.
"Ahmad speaking! What can I do for you?"
I grin mischievously.
"I just wanted to share some good news with you. 'Legacy' has hit 10 million streams and we've gone double platinum!"
Uncle Ahmad's voice erupts in congratulations, echoing through the studio.
"Double platinum? That's incredible! You're a true rockstar now!" I laugh at his enthusiasm, feeling elated by his praise.
"Thanks, Uncle Ahmad. Your support means everything to me."
We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up.
I walk back to the table and pick up the plaque that arrived earlier that day - my very own double platinum certification for "Legacy."
I walk across the studio's hardwood floor, cradling the double platinum plaque for "Legacy" in both hands.
The glass frame catches the overhead lights as I approach the wall of family achievements.
My mother's Danish pop records line the top row, their silver frames gleaming.
Below them, Dad's soul albums create a timeline of his career.
I find an empty space between Mom's "Summer Nights in Copenhagen" and Dad's "Midnight Soul."
My hands tremble slightly as I mount the plaque, adjusting it until it sits perfectly level.
I step back, taking in the sight of my name now etched among theirs.
I step away from the wall, my heart swelling.
The plaque is perfectly aligned with the others, a testament to the family legacy.
The studio's warm lighting catches the metallic sheen of all our awards.
Mom wipes a tear from her blue eyes, a smile on her lips.
Dad checks his Rolex, still dressed in his studio attire from the recording session - a crisp white shirt and black jeans.
My stomach growls, craving the familiar taste of Nobu's black cod and the comfort of our private corner booth.
Standing between them, I suggest dinner at our usual spot.
I lean against the studio's leather couch, watching my plaque catch the light between my parents' records.
Dad orders sushi delivery while Mom takes photos for social media.
The familiar scent of incense and soundproofing foam fills my lungs as I trace our family timeline on the wall - Mom's Danish hits from the 90s, Dad's soul albums from the 2000s, and now my own achievement in 2023.
My phone buzzes with congratulatory texts from Uncle Ahmad and Aunt Ayan.
Standing up, I walk to the piano and start playing the melody that earned me this moment, my fingers finding the keys to "Legacy" as naturally as breathing.
As the melody fills the room, Dad looks up from his phone with a curious expression.
"Son, there's something we need to discuss," he says, his tone suddenly serious.
Mom nods, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of pride and concern.
I lift my hands from the keys and swivel on the bench to face them.
Dad leans against the mixing console, his gold chain catching the studio lights.
Mom perches on the edge of the leather couch, fidgeting with her diamond bracelet.
The incense smoke curls between us as Dad clears his throat.
"Your uncle Ahmad called earlier," he begins, exchanging a look with Mom.
"He wants you to open for him at Wembley Stadium next month."
I grip the piano bench tightly, my heart racing.
Dad continues, "It's a massive 90,000-person venue. The biggest in London."
Mom bites her lip, her eyes filled with worry.
"It's a huge opportunity, but it's also a lot of pressure so early in your career," she says softly.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
"Do you think I'm ready for something like this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dad smiles reassuringly, "If anyone can handle it, it's you, kid."
I grip the piano bench tighter, feeling the smooth wood under my fingers.
The studio's familiar scent of sandalwood incense fills my lungs.
I watch Dad's expression shift from concern to pride.
Mom rises from the leather couch, her Louboutins clicking against the hardwood floor as she approaches.
Standing up from the piano, I straighten my designer t-shirt and face them both.
The platinum records on the wall catch the studio lights, a reminder of our family's legacy.
With my heart pounding against my chest, I nod, determination surging through me.
I pace around the studio's leather couch as Dad calls Uncle Ahmad to confirm.
Mom pulls up the Wembley stage layout on her iPad, showing me the massive runway and screens.
My hands tremble slightly as I study the setup, imagining myself there.
Dad hangs up and announces rehearsals start tomorrow at 8 AM sharp.
I walk to the piano, playing the opening notes of "Who I Am" and "Legacy" while visualizing the stadium crowd.
Mom suggests we need to plan my wardrobe, but Dad interrupts, saying we should focus on the setlist first.
"Let's make sure your best songs shine," Dad insists, his voice firm yet encouraging.
Mom nods, adding, "And remember, it's not just about the music—it's about connecting with every single person out there."
I glance at them both, feeling the weight of their expectations and support.
I sit in my dressing room at Wembley Stadium, watching stagehands rush past through the open door.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, sweat already forming on my forehead.
I adjust the designer outfit Mom picked out, smoothing down the fabric.
Uncle Ahmad pokes his head in, grinning.
"The crowd is massive," he says before disappearing into the hallway.
Mother fusses with my hair while Father goes through the setlist one final time.
Through the walls, I can hear the rumble of 100,000 people filing into their seats.
A stagehand with a headset appears in the doorway, holding up five fingers.
"Five minutes until showtime," he announces, his voice barely audible over the growing noise.
Uncle Ahmad returns, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Remember, this is your moment to show them who you truly are," he says, resting a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
I step out onto the Wembley stage, the roar of 100,000 fans deafening.
I take a deep breath and begin to sing, my voice echoing through the stadium.
The crowd dances and cheers as I perform "Who I Am," then move into "Legacy."
I sit at the piano, pouring my heart into the lyrics about family and music.
As the last note fades, I stand up and exit the stage to thunderous applause.
Backstage, I meet up with Aunt Ayan and my parents, along with my teenage cousins.
We watch Uncle Ahmad's performance from the wings, his rock songs sending the audience into a frenzy.
Aunt Ayan leans over and whispers, "You were incredible out there, truly a star in the making."
I smile, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through me.
Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, saying, "This is just the beginning; imagine what you'll achieve next."
I collapse onto the dressing room couch, grabbing a water bottle and draining it completely.
My throat feels raw after performing for 100,000 people.
Reaching for my phone, I see my social media notifications exploding.
My follower count has jumped from 100 to 4 million overnight.
Comments and messages flood in, begging for new music.
With shaky hands, I prop my phone against the makeup mirror and start recording a video message.
The bright dressing room lights illuminate my sweaty face as I thank my fans and promise new music soon, encouraging them to stream my existing songs.
I wake up at 9 AM to the sound of heavy rain outside.
After a quick shower, I meticulously shave my legs, armpits, back, hips, face, and private parts.
Once done, I get dressed and join my parents for breakfast in our grand dining room.
Our chefs and maids bustle around, serving us food and drinks.
As we eat, I check my phone and see that the video I uploaded last night has gone viral on TikTok and Instagram, with millions of views already.
Mom looks up from her coffee, a knowing smile on her face.
"You've tapped into something real, something people are craving," she says, her voice filled with pride.
Dad nods in agreement, adding, "This is your chance to redefine what our family's legacy means for the next generation."
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, examining my existing tattoos.
The intricate designs cover my arms, a script adorns my abdomen, and small symbols decorate my hands.
My fingers trace the silver studs in my ears, imagining where I could add more.
Opening my phone, I scroll through different styles of nose piercings and tattoo designs while sitting on the edge of my bed.
Mom walks in without knocking and sees what I'm looking at.
She frowns slightly, reminding me that I have interviews and photo shoots coming up.
"Maybe wait until after all that," she suggests before leaving.
I shake my head and start texting Uncle Ahmad to ask for his tattoo artist's number.
His reply comes swiftly, and I know exactly what my next step will be.
I sit in my Range Rover outside Uncle Ahmad's favorite tattoo shop in Soho.
The neon sign buzzes above the door, and I grip my phone, which has the appointment confirmation on the screen.
Through the window, I see the artist, Jake, preparing his station.
He's the same man who inked Uncle Ahmad's famous dragon piece that covers his entire back and chest.
The sound of rain pattering against the windshield fills the air as I check my sketches one last time.
I've decided to get a microphone wrapped in thorny roses on my neck, just like Uncle Ahmad's style but with my own twist.
My hand hesitates on the door handle as I spot a few paparazzi gathering across the street.
I sigh and turn to my manager, who sits in the passenger seat, "Do you think this is too much attention for just a tattoo?"
She glances at the paparazzi and shrugs, "It's all part of the game; they love a good story, especially when it involves you."
I nod slowly, feeling the weight of her words, "Alright then, let's give them something to talk about."
I step out of the car and walk into the shop, the bell above the door jingling as I enter.
The artist, Jake, looks up from his station and nods in recognition.
"Hey, you must be Mohamed Abdi," he says, extending a hand for me to shake.
I take it firmly, replying, "Yeah, that's me."
He doesn't seem fazed by my family's fame or my viral hits.
"Nice to meet you," he says, gesturing for me to follow him.
We walk over to his station, and he asks what I'm getting today.
"I want a nose piercing and music tattoos on my shoulders," I say confidently.
He nods and asks if I have any existing tattoos.
I lift my sleeves to show him the ones on my arms and hands, then pull up my shirt to reveal the script on my abdomen.
He nods his approval and points to a chair in the corner.
"Take a seat there. I'll get everything ready," he says before walking away.
I lay down in the chair and wait for him to prepare his tools.
As the needle buzzes to life, I close my eyes and embrace the moment, knowing I'm crafting my own legacy.
I recline in Jake's worn leather chair, gripping the armrests as the needle first pierces my shoulder.
The sharp buzz fills the small room while Jake works methodically, wiping away excess ink with a damp cloth.
Through the shop's front window, I spot camera flashes from paparazzi gathering outside.
Jake remains focused, unfazed by the commotion as he traces the intricate design.
The sting intensifies when he reaches my collarbone, making me wince.
I breathe deeply, remembering how Uncle Ahmad described his first tattoo session.
"Pain is temporary, but the art is forever."
I sit up slightly to watch Jake's steady hand, the needle moving in fluid motions.
He pauses occasionally to wipe away excess ink, his focus unwavering.
The paparazzi outside continue their relentless flashes, but Jake remains professional, his attention solely on the art unfolding on my skin.
I shift in the chair, adjusting my position to give him better access to my shoulder.
The needle buzzes steadily, and I feel a slight burn as it glides over my skin.
I grit my teeth, reminding myself that it's all worth it for the final result.
Jake works meticulously, adding delicate details to the design.
The room is silent except for the hum of the needle and the occasional flash from outside.
Finally, he finishes and steps back to admire his work.
I stand up and walk over to the mirror to examine the new tattoo on my shoulder.
It's a beautiful piece of art, just like Uncle Ahmad's. I smile at Jake and thank him for his work before walking out of the shop.
As I step outside, I'm immediately bombarded by camera flashes from the paparazzi waiting across the street.
I pause for a moment, letting the rain wash over me, before raising my chin and facing the cameras with a newfound sense of purpose.
I walk out of the tattoo shop into the rain, the fresh ink on my shoulder still stinging.
The paparazzi swarm around me, their cameras flashing incessantly.
I wave at them, a confident smile on my face as I stride down the street.
The rain soaks my clothes, but I don't mind; the attention fuels me.
I pause for a moment, letting them take more photos, and then continue walking.
"Hey, Mohamed," a voice calls out from the crowd, and I turn to see my cousin Samira pushing through the throng of photographers.
Her eyes are wide with excitement as she reaches me.
"Congratulations on the tattoo," she says, glancing at the plastic wrap covering my new ink.
"And congratulations on 'Legacy.' It's a hit!"
I grin, feeling a surge of pride.
"Thanks, Samira. What brings you here?"
She shrugs, her dark hair falling over her shoulders.
"I was in the area and saw the paparazzi. I figured it was you."
She looks at me with a serious expression.
"Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Sure, what is it?"
She takes a deep breath before speaking.
"I want to join the family business."
I frown slightly, unsure what she means.
"What do you mean?"
She smiles, her eyes shining with determination.
"I want to be part of our family's music legacy. I've always loved singing, and I've been working on some songs. I want to release them."
I stare at her for a moment, surprised by her revelation.
"Wow, Samira. That's amazing. I had no idea you were interested in music."
She nods vigorously.
"Yes! I've always loved it. And seeing your success with 'Legacy' has inspired me. I want to follow in your footsteps."
I smile, feeling a sense of pride and responsibility towards my cousin.
"Of course, Samira. I'd be happy to help you. Let's get you into the studio and record some demos."
Her face lights up with excitement.
"Really? You'd do that for me?" I nod, feeling a sense of purpose wash over me.
"Of course. We're family, and we support each other."
We walk together down the street, the paparazzi still following us but keeping their distance.
We reach my Range Rover parked nearby and climb inside.
As we drive away from the crowd of photographers, Samira turns to me with a hopeful expression.
"So, when can we start working on my music?"
I smile at her enthusiasm.
"How about next week? I'll introduce you to James at the studio, and we can set up a time for you to record some demos."
She nods eagerly, her eyes shining with excitement.
"Sounds great! Thank you so much for this opportunity."
I turn the key in the ignition, and the Range Rover roars to life.
Samira settles into the passenger seat, her eyes bright with excitement.
As we pull away from the curb, I glance in the rearview mirror and see the paparazzi still gathered outside the tattoo shop, their cameras raised as they take one last shot of us driving away.
The rain drums against the windshield, casting a rhythmic melody over our conversation.
Samira looks out the window, watching the rain-soaked streets pass by.
"So, how does it feel to have a new tattoo?" she asks, her voice filled with curiosity.
I glance at my shoulder, where the fresh ink is still wrapped in plastic.
"It's sore, but it was worth it," I reply, a small smile playing on my lips.
She nods, understanding in her eyes.
"I've always wanted to get a tattoo, but I'm scared of the pain."
I chuckle softly.
"It's not that bad. You'll get used to it after a while."
We drive in silence for a moment, the only sound being the rain pattering against the car.
Then Samira speaks up again. "I have something to show you," she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone.
She scrolls through her music library and presses play on a rough recording of herself singing an original song.
Her voice is raw but full of potential, and I can already imagine ways to enhance it in the studio.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel as I listen to her sing.
The song is catchy and upbeat, with lyrics that speak to her experiences growing up in a family of musicians.
As we approach a red light, I glance over at Samira and see her nervously fidgeting with her bracelets.
It reminds me of my first time in the studio, how anxious I was to prove myself.
I smile reassuringly at her, knowing that this is just the beginning of something incredible.
I park the Range Rover in our garage and immediately pull out my phone.
Samira sits nervously in the passenger seat, fidgeting with her bracelets as she waits for me to make the call.
I tap out a quick text to James, asking him to book studio time for us tomorrow.
He responds almost instantly, suggesting 10 AM.
I glance over at Samira, who looks hopeful but also a bit apprehensive.
I quickly type out a confirmation, not wanting to give her too much time to second-guess herself.
"See you then," I text, before slipping my phone back into my pocket.
The fresh tattoo on my shoulder stings slightly as I shift in my seat, but I ignore the discomfort.
I turn to Samira and give her a reassuring smile.
"All set. We'll be in the studio tomorrow morning."
She beams with excitement, her eyes shining with anticipation.
"Thank you so much, Mohamed. This means everything to me."
I nod, feeling a sense of pride and responsibility towards my cousin.
"We're family. We support each other."
As we step out of the car and head towards the house, I pull out my phone again to finalize the details with James. "Hey man, it's Mohamed. Just wanted to confirm tomorrow's session," I say, walking through the front door and into the living room.
James's voice crackles through the phone as he responds.
"Yeah, no problem. What time were you thinking?"
"How about 10 AM? We'll need a few hours to get everything set up."
"Sounds good. What kind of equipment do you need?"
I glance over at Samira, who is nervously pacing back and forth across the room.
"I'm not sure yet. We'll figure it out when we get there."
"Alright, just let me know if you need anything specific."
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"Will do. Thanks again for your help."
"No problem. See you tomorrow."
As I hang up the phone, Samira turns to me with a curious expression.
"What was that about?"
"Just confirming our studio time with James," I reply, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
"Oh, okay. So what happens next?"
I shrug nonchalantly.
"We show up tomorrow morning and get started."
She nods enthusiastically.
"Sounds good. I can't wait." The next morning, we arrive at the studio bright and early.
James is already there, setting up equipment in the main room.
The air is charged with possibility as we step inside, ready to turn Samira's dream into reality.
I lead Samira through the studio, pointing out different rooms and explaining their functions.
She touches the platinum records on the walls reverently, her eyes lingering on my recent plaque.
As we enter the main room, James looks up from his work and nods in greeting.
"Hey, Mohamed. Ready to get started?"
I give him a thumbs-up before turning to Samira.
"Okay, let's get you set up."
I lead her over to the recording booth, where she looks around in awe.
The room is small but well-equipped, with a state-of-the-art microphone setup and soundproof walls.
Samira runs her hand over the smooth surface of the desk, taking in every detail.
I smile as I watch her, remembering how excited I was during my first session here just weeks ago. "So, this is where the magic happens," I say, gesturing to the microphone.
Samira nods eagerly, her eyes shining with anticipation.
"And what about these?" she asks, pointing to the headphones hanging on the wall.
"Those are for monitoring," I explain.
"You'll wear them while you're singing so that you can hear yourself clearly."
She nods again, taking in every word.
"And what about this?" she asks, pointing to a small control panel on the wall.
"That's for adjusting levels," I reply.
"If you need more volume or less noise in your headphones, just let me know and I'll take care of it."
Samira nods once more, looking determined.
"Got it. Let's do this."
As we finish setting up, James gives us a thumbs-up from outside the booth.
"The levels look good," he says through our headsets.
"Whenever you're ready."
I give Samira an encouraging nod before stepping out of the booth and closing the door behind me. Through the glass window, I watch as she takes a deep breath and settles into position at the microphone.
I stand at the mixing console with James, waiting for her to start.
As soon as she does, her voice flows through the speakers, rich and full of emotion.
She hits every note with natural ease, her talent shining through even in this rough take.
I grip the edge of the mixing board tightly, feeling my heart swell with pride.
James adjusts levels on the board while I watch Samira through the glass.
Her eyes are closed in concentration, her body swaying slightly to the rhythm of the song.
The melody is catchy and upbeat, with lyrics that speak to her experiences growing up in a family of musicians.
It reminds me a little bit of Aunt Ayan's early work, but Samira brings her own unique style to the table.
As she sings on, her confidence grows.
Her voice becomes stronger and more expressive, filling the room with energy and passion. I glance over at James, who is nodding along appreciatively.
He gives me a thumbs-up and a smile, clearly impressed by what he's hearing.
When Samira finishes her first take, she opens her eyes and looks out at us through the glass.
I can tell that she's nervous about our reaction, so I give her a reassuring thumbs-up of my own.