The air in the small corner bodega was thick with the smell of microwaved beef patties and Pine-Sol.
Malik Rivers stood behind the counter, hands tucked in the front pocket of his faded black hoodie. The buzzing hum of the cooler behind him blended with the occasional ding of the door chime. Another customer came in, nodded, and made a beeline for the beer fridge.
"Long day, huh?" the old man at the lotto machine muttered.
Malik just nodded. He wasn't much of a talker—especially not mid-shift. This job wasn't hard, just… gray. Same faces. Same transactions. Same slow drip of hours that made you feel like time was melting through your fingers.
By the time 5 o'clock hit, he felt the weight in his shoulders loosen just a little. Shift over.
He clocked out with a tired swipe, gave a nod to his manager, and slipped his earbuds in as he pushed open the door. The world outside was still alive—chaotic and buzzing, but in a different key than the hum of the bodega.
As he walked down Tremont, the soft strum of a lo-fi instrumental trickled into his ears. Jazzy keys. Loose snares. Bass like a heartbeat underwater. It was something he downloaded from a random YouTube channel the night before—a beat with no name, no tags, just "Track 23" in his files.
He walked past bodegas, barbershops, kids hollering on stoops. His eyes half-lidded, head nodding to the rhythm, the words started to form quietly in the back of his mind like they always did.
Then—
chaos.
Sirens wailed. Red lights pulsed against brick walls. Around the corner, a thick wall of smoke curled up into the sky like an exhale from hell. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, phones out, necks craned.
A firetruck skidded to a halt, and men in gear stormed the scene.
Malik slowed his pace, earbuds still in. From the corner of his eye, he caught it—one of the firefighters stumbling back, their pant leg caught in flames.
Another firefighter yelled, "Stop! Drop! And Roll!"
The guy hit the ground fast, rolling through puddles and ash. Smoke hissed. Steam rose. For a second, the street was dead quiet.
Then—applause. Relief.
Malik blinked, shook his head, and kept walking. His breath misted in the air as the beat continued in his ears.
He chuckled quietly to himself, mumbling under his breath as the words slid into the rhythm:
"Stop, drop, and roll / fire in my soul
Watchin' ashes float / while I walk alone
Heat in my step / flames in control
I ain't tryna burn out — I'm just tryna glow…"
He smirked. Just something small. But it fit the moment. It always did when the beat was right.
—
By the time he got back to the apartment—third floor, cracked railing, door with chipped paint—his hoodie smelled like smoke and city air. He fished his keys out, stepped inside.
The scent of garlic and onions hit him like a hug.
"In here," called his brother's voice from the kitchen.
Malik kicked off his sneakers and walked in to see Andre Rivers—older by four years, broader, beard scruffy, apron over his hoodie—stirring something in a pan.
"Yo," Malik said, voice low.
"Yo," Andre said back, without looking. "You smell like you walked through a bonfire."
"There was one. Building on Tremont."
"For real?"
"Firefighter almost lit up too. He was good, though. Stop, drop, and roll. Textbook stuff."
Andre snorted. "Damn. Whole city really tryna set itself on fire before summer."
Malik helped out, slicing tomatoes and packing some of the leftover stir-fry into containers for lunch tomorrow. They moved in sync—like always.
"Work was trash?" Andre asked.
"Same old," Malik said. "Customer dropped a Snapple and tried to blame me for it."
"Classic."
"What about you?"
Andre shrugged. "Boss was on one. Girlfriend's mad 'cause I told her I can't make Saturday brunch."
"Oh no," Malik said with a mock gasp. "Brunch?"
"She say it like it's court-mandated. Like I have to attend."
"She's gonna break up with you."
Andre grinned. "Bout time. I been tryin' to break up with her for six months."
They laughed, and for a moment, the day felt lighter.
But soon enough, Andre was putting on his sneakers, grabbing his coat.
"Heading out," he said. "If I don't come back, tell mom it wasn't her fault."
"She'll blame herself anyway," Malik said. "Be safe, man."
"You too. Don't burn the house down."
"Yeah, screw you too," Malik shot back.
Andre smirked, closed the door behind him.
—
The apartment was quiet again.
Malik sat down at his desk, the glow of his monitor flickering on his face. He pulled out his headphones, thinking about that beat again—the unnamed one. He wanted to write, maybe even record a test verse or two.
As he opened his browser, a notification popped up.
"Verify your account to continue using Instagram."
He frowned.
"Oh, right," he mumbled.
A few nights ago, Andre had convinced him to finally set one up. "You don't gotta show your face," he'd said. "Just let people hear you."
He clicked the link and logged in.
When the screen asked him to upload a profile photo or media, he hovered.
His cursor danced over the "Upload" button.
He hesitated.
Then sighed.
"…Why not?"
He opened his files, scrolled through old selfies, screenshots, beat folders. He went to click one but accidentally hit the "back" button on his mouse. The browser refreshed.
He sighed, pulled it back up again.
Something had auto-filled. The site had grabbed a file and queued it for upload.
He didn't even check.
Just clicked "Upload."
Walked away.
Made tea.
And didn't realize that the file it selected—
Wasn't a selfie.
Wasn't a screenshot.
It was a full MP3.
His latest mixtape demo.
Unreleased.
Unmixed.
Raw.
And within minutes, it was live.