Khaled reached out and slammed his hand down on the master fader of the soundboard. The beat dropped.
From the far corner of the room, sitting at a baby grand piano that no one had noticed him playing, Usher looked up. He hadn't said a word all night. He wore a black leather vest over a bare chest, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. He struck a single, minor chord on the piano. The note hung in the air, melancholic and powerful, vibrating against the heavy bass traps in the walls. Khaled reached out and slammed his hand down
DJ Khaled stood in the center of the room, draped in a black velvet tracksuit that absorbed the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent grids. He wasn't yelling. Not yet. He was staring at a massive, custom-built soundboard that looked like the cockpit of a stealth bomber. He hadn't said a word all night
"I got the soul, Khaled," Usher said softly. "But soul hurts. You want me to tell them how it feels to have everything and still feel like you're losing? You want me to tell them about the sleepless nights in the penthouse?" The note hung in the air, melancholic and
"We need the soul," Khaled whispered. "We have the muscle. We have the hunger. We have the future. But we need the soul to tie the knot."
"I'm looking at the numbers, Khaled," Drake said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm looking at the city. Everyone wants a piece of this. I’m tired of playing nice. I’m tired of smiling for the cameras when I know what they say when I leave the room. I’m just… I’m fed up." "Then put that pain in the microphone, boy!"
"The wind is blowing south tonight, Khaled," Ross rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "The ships are in the harbor. The cargo is heavy." "It's too heavy," a new voice cut through.