CJ stood backstage at the Urban Pulse Festival, his hoodie zipped up to his chin, his breath sharp with nerves. Beyond the curtain, a crowd roared. Hundreds of voices. Maybe thousands.
Blanco stood beside him, grinning like a politician at a camera.
"Listen," he said, slipping a laminated VIP badge around CJ's neck, "this is it. The crowd's yours. No filters, no edits. Give them pain. Give them passion. But don't—" he paused, tightening the strap on CJ's mic pack—"don't go off-script."
CJ blinked. "Off-script? I'm freestyling."
Blanco frowned, subtle but sharp. "Just don't go deep into the 'slum sob story' stuff tonight. Keep it commercial. Clean. A little catchy, a little shiny. That's what this stage needs."
CJ's chest tightened. "But my story is the sob story."
Blanco clapped his shoulder. "Then save it for your album. This is for the sponsors."
And just like that, CJ realized: he was being filtered. The same boy who once rapped barefoot on his balcony was now being edited in real-time—by someone who barely knew him.
---
He stepped onto the stage, blinded by white light. The crowd erupted.
Phones rose.
The beat dropped.
And CJ began.
He rapped with rhythm. Precision. Style. His bars hit like waves—smooth and timed. But not once did he go deep. Not once did he talk about hunger, or heartbreak, or Esther's cough, or Charles's beat, or Tico's silence.
He gave them fire—but not his fire. It was clean. Polished. Safe.
When he walked off the stage, sweat dripping, Blanco was already on a call.
"That was perfect," he mouthed, giving CJ a thumbs-up.
But CJ didn't feel perfect. He felt… muted.
---
Later that night, in the green room, CJ scrolled through his socials.
Hundreds of comments.
> "CJ went commercial!"
"Smooth set but felt too clean. Where's the pain?"
"Why didn't he do that verse from Pulse?"
"I miss the old CJ…"
He locked the phone.
Lulu hadn't texted. Charles hadn't tagged him in the new beat drop. James hadn't even watched the livestream.
And still… the unknown number came back.
> "Nice show. Shiny. Safe. Forget who you are yet?"
CJ's hands trembled. He typed:
> "Who are you? Why do you keep texting me?"
A pause. Then:
> "The version of you that refuses to die."
---
The next day, Charles posted a new track to SoundCloud.
It wasn't a diss. Not directly.
But the title—"Background Noise"—spoke volumes.
CJ listened in silence.
> "I gave my beats to a dreamer, he gave his soul to the stage.
Now the dream got filters, and the fam got fades.
I ain't bitter—I'm building. Just tired of fake praise.
While you rap in soft shoes, we still walk through the maze."
CJ sat on his bed, knees up, trying to breathe.
The line that hit hardest was the last:
> "Don't forget who stood when your legs were still shaking—
We clapped in silence, when no crowd was waiting."
---
That evening, CJ returned home for the first time in three days.
Esther Wambui was sitting near the window, peeling potatoes.
"You didn't tell me you were on TV again," she said without looking up.
CJ walked in slowly. "I didn't think it mattered anymore."
"It always matters," she replied. "But I understand. Bright lights can blur your memory."
He sat beside her.
"I think I'm changing," he said quietly.
She nodded. "You are. But the question is—are you choosing how you change? Or is someone else choosing for you?"
He looked down. "I don't know."
"You used to write like your heart was on fire. Now you write like someone's standing behind you with a checklist."
CJ swallowed hard.
She looked at him gently. "We all wear masks, son. Just don't let yours replace your real face."
---
That night, CJ returned to the rooftop. The same rooftop where he had once spit bars with nothing but a dream and a beat.
Lulu was already there.
She didn't speak when he arrived.
Just stared out over the city skyline.
"Thought you forgot this place," she said finally.
"I almost did."
She didn't smile. "You were good at Urban Pulse. Polished."
"But not me."
"No," she agreed. "Not you."
He sat beside her. "I didn't come here to defend myself."
"Then why?"
"To ask…" He hesitated. "...if I still have a place in this crew."
She looked at him, her face unreadable.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "We're not your backup dancers, CJ. We were your beginning. But lately, it's like you've left us in the prologue."
Her words were knives—but they cut clean.
"I want to fix it," CJ said. "Not out of guilt. Out of gratitude."
Lulu finally turned fully to him. "Then stop performing. Start remembering."
---
Later that week, CJ canceled a branding meeting.
He returned Charles's call.
He pulled Tico aside after school and asked, "Still want to record that collab?"
And for the first time in weeks, he sat with James—not to talk business, but just to freestyle for fun.
The light was still there. But he was learning how to carry it without burning those who helped him find it.
---