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45.69% Convict to King / Chapter 69: The Party

Capítulo 69: The Party

As the sun dipped below the Austin skyline Arell found himself wandering through the downtown streets, taking in the atmosphere.

The events of the day played through his mind like a highlight reel, but one moment stood out above all others: the encounter with Post Malone. Arell couldn't shake the feeling that they'd stumbled upon something special.

"Geoffrey's better handle all the paperwork quickly," Arell mused to himself, weaving through the crowded sidewalk. "Don't want anyone else picking him up before we do..."

His stomach growled, interrupting his train of thought. The aroma of food trucks and street vendors filled the air, a tempting mix of Tex-Mex, barbecue, and more exotic fare. Arell decided to grab a bite, making his way towards a cluster of food trucks.

As he waited in line for some tacos, a young couple approached him hesitantly.

"Excuse me," the girl said, her voice tinged with excitement. "Are you Arell? Could we get a picture?"

Arell smiled, still not entirely used to being recognized. "Sure thing," he said, posing with the couple as their friend snapped a photo.

This scene repeated itself a few times as he made his way through the streets, munching on his tacos. Each interaction left him with both pride and slight discomfort, the reality of his growing fame still sinking in.

As he walked, he passed various stages and impromptu performance spaces. A ska band blasted from one corner, while an acoustic singer-songwriter strummed on another. Street performers dotted the sidewalks - jugglers, mime artists, even a guy painted entirely silver posing as a statue.

"Man, this place has everything," Arell muttered to himself, shaking his head in amazement.

Then things took a turn for the surreal. As he passed a dimly lit bar, two young women stumbled out, giggling. They spotted Arell and their eyes widened with recognition.

"Oh my god, it's Arell!" one of them squealed. They approached him, swaying slightly.

"We love your music," the other one slurred, leaning in close. "Hey, wanna come back to our hotel? We could have some fun... all three of us."

Arell blinked, taken aback. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He felt a mix of flattery and discomfort, unsure how to respond.

"Uh, thanks for the offer," he stammered, "but I'm good. You two have a good night, alright?"

As he walked away, his head spinning slightly, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "Is this what being famous is like?" he wondered.

As Arell continued his meander through the streets, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a message from Swae Lee.

"Yo Arell! We throwing a massive party tonight. Pull up!"

Intrigued, Arell typed back, "How massive we talking?"

Swae's response was immediate: "EVERYONE gone be there. Trust."

Arell's eyes widened as he realized the implications. Everyone at SXSW?

Glancing down at his casual attire, Arell knew he definetly needed better clothes. He quickly dialed Geoffrey's number.

"Geoffrey, I need your help," Arell said as soon as his manager answered. "There's huge party tonight. Everyone who's anyone will be there. I need a fit, stat."

Geoffrey's voice came through. "I see. I'll pick you up in ten minutes. We'll find you something appropriate for the occasion."

True to his word, Geoffrey arrived promptly in the black BMW. They set off into the night, searching for a high-end boutique that would cater to their last-minute needs.

After a few unsuccessful attempts, they stumbled upon Stag Provisions, a trendy men's boutique known for its mix of contemporary and vintage styles. As they entered, the shop's rustic-chic interior and indie rock playlist set the tone.

A bearded sales associate in a flannel shirt approached them. "Evening, gentlemen. I'm Jake. How can I help you tonight?"

Arell spoke up. "I need something fresh."

Jake nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "Got it. Let's find you something that stands out."

What followed was a whirlwind of fabrics, colors, and styles. Arell tried on piece after piece, with Geoffrey and Jake offering their opinions.

First, Arell emerged in a pair of slim-fit raw denim jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

"It's a good start," Geoffrey mused, "but it's not quite stylish enough."

Next came a leather jacket paired with a graphic tee and some distressed jeans.

Arell shook his head, running a hand through his hair. The outfits Jake suggested were fine, but they didn't capture the essence of who he was or the statement he wanted to make. He glanced around the boutique, his eyes scanning the racks and shelves for something that spoke to him.

"Thanks, Jake," Arell said, his voice quiet but firm. "I appreciate the help, but I think I need to explore a bit on my own."

Jake nodded, understanding. "Of course. Take your time. I'll be here if you need anything."

Arell wandered through the store, his eyes drawn to the edgier, darker pieces. He paused at a rack of All Saints clothing, running his fingers over a black leather jacket.

"This is more like it," he murmured, pulling the jacket off the hanger. Its asymmetrical zipper and distressed leather gave it just the right amount of edge.

Next, he spotted a pair of black Balmain jeans. The fit was perfect – skinny but not too tight, with ribbed knee panels adding texture. Arell nodded to himself, draping the jeans over his arm.

For a top, he gravitated towards a Givenchy t-shirt with a graphic print. Simple, but with enough designer cachet to make a statement.

As he continued his search, Arell's eyes lit up at the sight of a pair of Yeezy Boost 350s. The low-top knit sneakers, having just been released that year, would add some serious street cred to his look.

To complete the outfit, he grabbed a black leather Saint Laurent belt with a silver buckle.

Arell made his way back to Geoffrey, arms full of his selections. "What do you think about these?" he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Not bad at all. Go try them on, let's see how it comes together."

A few minutes later, Arell emerged from the fitting room. The All Saints jacket hung perfectly on his frame, unzipped to reveal the Givenchy tee underneath. The Balmain jeans hugged his legs, ending just above the Yeezy Boosts. His Omega Seamaster Aqua Terra gleamed on his wrist, while his white gold necklace with the diamond pendant caught the light.

Geoffrey nodded approvingly. "Now that's what I call a look. You're gonna turn heads for sure."

Jake, who had been helping another customer, turned and gave a thumbs up. "Solid choices, man. You've got great taste."

Arell grinned, feeling confident and comfortable. He adjusted his necklace, the diamond pendant settling just right against the t-shirt. "This is it," he said. "This feels right."

 

<> 

 

As the BMW rolled up to the penthouse, the energy of the city pulsed around them. Arell stepped out, adjusting his new outfit.

The penthouse was a sprawling expanse of luxury, the kind of place Arell had only dreamed of. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the Austin skyline, and the sound of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the air. The place was packed with a mix of celebrities and influencers.

As he made their way through the crowd, Arell spotted Swae and Jeffrey, drinking near the bar. Swae Lee was dressed in a vibrant, patterned shirt and gold chains, while Young Thug rocked an oversized designer jacket and a diamond-studded watch.

"Swae! Thugger!" Arell called out, raising his hand in greeting.

Swae Lee's face lit up as he saw Arell. "Wassup!" he exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. "Glad you could make it!"

Young Thug dapped him up with a grin. "Lookin' sharp, lil bro. You ready to turn up?"

Arell laughed, feeling at ease. "Always. This place is crazy."

Swae Lee nodded towards the bar. "Let's get you a drink. What you having?"

As they ordered drinks and caught up, Arell's eyes roamed the room, taking in the scene. He noticed a blonde woman in an elegant dress, surrounded by admirers.

"Is that... Madonna?" Arell asked, his voice filled with awe.

Swae Lee smirked. "Yeah, man. I told you, everyone's here tonight."

Arell shook his head in amazement. "Damn, this is wild."

They raised their glasses in a toast, the liquid warmth spreading through Arell as he took a sip. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Travis Scott.

"Travis, what's good?" Arell greeted him a quick hug.

"Ay, you pulled up!" Travis said, his voice carrying the excitement of the night. "You enjoying the party?"

"For sure," Arell replied. "This place is something else."

Travis gestured to the man next to him. "You know French Montana, right?"

Arell nodded, dapping up French Montana. "Of course. Good to see you, man."

French Montana raised his glass in salute. "Likewise, bro. Heard good things about you."

As the night deepened and the penthouse buzzed with energy, Arell found himself lounging on a plush couch, sipping his drink and taking in the scene. He had spotted Nicki Minaj earlier, her vibrant pink hair a beacon amidst the crowd. Even Kim Kardashian was here, in a corner, surrounded by admirers. There were also a few NBA stars like James Harden and Kevin Durant were mingling, their towering frames making them easy to spot.

He leaned back, taking it all in. It was surreal to be in the midst of such an eclectic mix of people, all brought together by the allure of SXSW. As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on a girl who plopped down next to him on the couch. He did a double take. She had thick, curly hair and was dressed in a mix of streetwear and high fashion, looking both bored and slightly annoyed.

"Hey, you alright?" Arell asked, turning to her.

She sighed, pursing her lips. "Yeah, just... this party's kinda wack."

Arell chuckled. "Tell me about it. I'm Arell, by the way."

She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. "Amala, but everyone calls me Doja."

"Nice to meet you, Amala. So, what brings you here?"

"Performing later," she replied, twirling a strand of her hair. "Just trying to kill time until then."

"Performing? That's dope. What kind of music do you do?" Arell asked, intrigued.

"Mostly rap and R&B, but I like to mix it up. What about you?"

"Same here. Rap and a bit of everything else," Arell said with a nod. "Wanna get some air? There's an infinity pool outside."

Amala's eyes lit up. "Sounds good. Let's go."

They navigated through the crowded penthouse, bumping into a few people along the way.

As they stepped out onto the terrace, the cool night air was a welcome relief. The infinity pool shimmered under the moonlight, and they found a spot near the edge.

"So, how are you liking Texas?" Arell asked, glancing at her.

"It's alright," Amala said with a shrug. "But honestly, these parties can get old fast. What about you?"

"Hmm, I haven't been to much of these. Though, it's cool to be around all these people, but sometimes it feels like everyone's just putting on a show."

"Exactly," Amala agreed, her voice animated. "It's like, can we just have a real conversation for once?"

Arell laughed, feeling a connection. "So, tell me more about your music. What inspires you?"

"Everything, really. Life, love, heartbreak. I like to keep it real, you know?" Amala said, her eyes sparkling with passion.

"Yeah, I feel you," Arell said, nodding. "Music's always been my escape. Helps me deal with all the bullshit."

Amala smiled. "Same here. It's like therapy. Plus, it's the only thing that makes sense sometimes."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the gaps in their conversation.

"You ever get tired of it?" Amala asked suddenly. "The parties, the people, the constant hustle?"

"Yeah, sometimes," Arell admitted. "But then I remember why I'm doing it, it's all worth it in the end."

Amala sighed, her shoulders relaxing. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just... a lot sometimes."

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the air. Arell decided to steer the conversation towards lighter topics. "So, what do you do for fun, besides music?"

Amala's face brightened. "I love to paint, actually. It's a great way to unwind. And I have a bit of an obsession with cat videos on YouTube."

Arell laughed. "Cat videos, huh? Thats pretty interesting. I'm into gaming when I get the chance. And I hoop whenever I can."

"Basketball, huh? You any good?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'd like to think so," Arell said with a grin. "Played a lot in high school. Almost went pro, but, you know, life happened."

"That's impressive," Amala said. "I can't dribble to save my life. Any other hobbies?"

"Gaming, for sure. What about you? Any hidden talents?"

Amala thought for a moment. "I'm really good at hula hooping. Weird, right? But it's fun."

"Hey, whatever keeps you happy," Arell said, smiling. "You from around here?"

"Nah, I'm from LA," she replied. "Born and raised. You?"

"Chicago originally, but I live in Atlanta now. Love the vibe there," Arell said, leaning back on his hands.

Amala's eyes lit up. "Chicago! What's it like? I've always wanted to visit."

"It's amazing," Arell said, his voice filled with pride. "The food is incredible. Deep-dish pizza, hot dogs—Chicago-style, of course. And the music scene is unreal. There's always something going on."

"I've heard about the pizza," Amala said, laughing. "Gotta try it someday. What's Atlanta like compared to Chicago?"

"Different, but in a good way," Arell said thoughtfully. "Atlanta's got this crazy energy. The music scene is huge, especially for hip-hop. And the people are chill. It's a great place to call home now."

"Sounds like a good balance," Amala said, nodding. "LA can be a bit much sometimes. It's all hustle and no chill."

"Yeah, I get that," Arell said. "But it's gotta be cool living in a place where so much happens, though."

"It is," Amala agreed. "But sometimes I miss the simple things. Like just hanging out with friends without any expectations."

Arell smiled. "I feel you. Sometimes it's good to just kick back and relax."

They continued talking, their conversation flowing easily. They shared their favorite foods—Arell loved a good steak, while Amala was a sucker for sushi. They talked about drinks, with Amala preferring wine and Arell the same.

"So, what's your favorite thing about Austin so far?" Amala asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Honestly? The vibe," Arell said, looking around. "It's laid-back but still buzzing with energy. And the food trucks are amazing. What about you?"

"I love the music scene here," Amala said. "There's always some great live music happening. It's inspiring."

"Yeah, it's definitely a great place for that," Arell agreed. "You mentioned you're performing later. What kind of set are you doing?"

"Mostly my newer stuff," Amala said. "Trying to get a feel for how the crowd reacts. It's always a bit nerve-wracking, but I love it."

"You'll kill it," Arell said confidently. "You've got that star quality."

Amala smiled, a hint of a blush on her cheeks. "Thanks, Arell. That means a lot."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the city lights reflect off the pool. Arell found himself genuinely enjoying her company. She was funny, smart, and easy to talk to.

"So, any big plans after SXSW?" Amala asked, breaking the silence."

Arell leaned back, his eyes reflecting the city lights. "Yeah, I'm working on a mixtape. Got some new tracks that I'm excited about. Plus, I'm dropping a single in about a week. It's been a grind, but I'm pumped to see how people react."

"That's awesome," Amala replied, her enthusiasm genuine. "I've got a few things in the works too. I'm focusing on my music, obviously. Just dropped a song called 'So High' not too long ago, and it's been getting some good traction. Working on my next project and some collaborations. Just trying to keep the momentum going."

Arell nodded, impressed. "That's dope. I'm sure whatever you drop next is gonna be fire."

Amala smiled, appreciating the compliment. "Thanks, Arell."

The conversation flowed effortlessly, covering everything from their favorite foods to their inspirations. As the night wore on, Amala glanced at her phone and sighed. "I should probably get going."

"Yeah, I get that," Arell said, standing up. "Let me walk you to the elevator."

They strolled back through the bustling penthouse, exchanging a few more laughs. As they reached the elevator, Amala turned to face Arell.

"I had a great time talking with you, Arell. You're really easy to talk to."

"Same here, Amala. It was a pleasure. Hit me up anytime."

Amala smiled, giving him a quick hug before stepping into the elevator. "Will do. Good luck with everything."

"Thanks, you too," Arell said as the elevator doors closed. He watched the numbers descend, feeling a bit lighter than he had all night.

As he made his way back to the party, Swae Lee appeared, a grin on his face. "Where were you, bro? We were looking for you!"

"Just stepped out for a bit," Arell replied, smiling.

Swae Lee draped an arm around Arell's shoulders. "Come on, everyone's chilling in one of the rooms. Let's go."

They navigated through the crowded penthouse, finally reaching a spacious room filled with familiar faces. The air was thick with the scent of weed and laughter. Young Thug, Travis Scott, Swae's brother, and other rappers were lounging around, passing blunts and vibing to the music.

"Yo, Arell!" Young Thug called out, grinning widely. "We freestyling. Spit some shit."

"On the spot?" Arell asked, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.

"Yeah, man! We got a beat for you," Swae Lee said, as someone cued up a beat with a late-night Atlanta vibe.

Arell took a deep breath, nodding to the rhythm before launching into his freestyle.

"Yeah, yeah, money talk, I'm fluent, hear the chatter

Every dollar bill a trophy, watch the racks scatter

From the bottom where it's grimy, now I'm draped in swagger

Pockets bulging out, looking like a linebacker"

"Hoo, that's tough!" Travi$ Scott hyped him up, making everyone cheer.

"Flexin' on these niggas, turn my pain into a ladder

Cash rules, stacking cream, climbing every rung, faster

Money in the safe, multiplying digits, major

Used to struggle in the dark, now my shine's a blazer"

"Damn, that's fire!" Swae Lee exclaimed.

"Whipping in the kitchen, turning quarters into bricks

Riding dirty in the Bentley, got the forty with the sticks

Money made me savage, now I'm living lavish

Used to be broke, now I'm balling like the Mavericks

I'm Neo in the Matrix, dodgin'' all the shots

Rewriting the code, connectin'' all the dots

Young Thug let out an approving laugh. "Keep it going, Arell!"

"Swag dripping, designer from my head to my toes

Money talking loud, got my neck and wrist froze

Investing in the stocks, paper growing exponential

Money speaks for me, presidential credentials"

Arell paused, momentarily blanking out, but Young Thug was quick to jump in.

"Yeah, yeah, racks on racks, we stackin' high, no fallin'

Came up from the mud, now we steady ballin'

Whippin' foreign cars, we ain't never stallin'

Money like a river, got it steady flowin'

Pop it, pop it, straight outta the stash

Cash flow, Double O got us in a dash

Presidential watch on plain view, I''m on some bare essentials

Dropped eighty-one grand on grills, still ain''t smilin'' for the visuals

Diamonds on my wrist, ice cold, always glowin'

We came from nothin', now the world know us

Hit after hit, our name's what they be showin'

Pass the cash, gotta teach her, Cuban links, I reach her

 

All my hoes, they're the crew

All these stacks, they're the clue

Fake friends, they got the blues,

Told you these hoes, they're the news"

Arell nodded along, feeling the beat. It wasn't long before everyone joined in, creating an impromptu cypher that had the room buzzing.

They even turned it into a mini roast session, with everyone playfully taking jabs at each other. Arell and Swae Lee were in the middle of a heated exchange, the room roaring with laughter.

"Yo, Arell," Swae began, a mischievous grin on his face. "Why you dressed like you 'bout to rob a bank, bruh? All black everything, you a ninja now?"

The room erupted in laughter, and Arell shook his head, chuckling. He glanced at Swae, taking in his vibrant outfit – a bright patterned shirt, gold chains, and flashy sunglasses perched on his head.

"Oh, you wanna go there, Swae?" Arell shot back, a playful glint in his eye. "You out here lookin' like a human disco ball. Man, you got so much bling, I'm surprised you don't blind yourself every time you check the mirror."

The room exploded with laughter and cheers. Swae wrapped his arm around Arell, both of them laughing.

Travis Scott clapped his hands, grinning. "Eyy, you got him there, Arell!"

The Weeknd, who had been chilling quietly in the corner, let out a rare chuckle. "Oh wow," he said, shaking his head in amusement.

As the night went on, the freestyles flowed into conversations, stories, and more laughter. They passed around blunts and bottles, the air thick with smoke and the scent of expensive cologne.

"Man, this is what I needed," Arell said to Swae, who was lounging next to him. "Just a night to kick back and vibe."

"For real," Swae agreed, taking a drag from his blunt. "It's all love in here, bro."

They chatted for a bit longer, sharing stories about their craziest experiences and their favourite NBA players. Arell felt a strong bond with Swae, appreciating how easy it was to talk to him.

After a while, Arell decided to take a break from the room, needing some fresh air and a change of scenery. As he stepped out into the hallway, he was immediately approached by a group of girls. Leading the pack was a stunning young woman with long, wavy hair and flawless skin. She was wearing a pair of fitted jeans that hugged her curves perfectly and a cropped top that showcased her toned midriff.

Arell's eyes widened slightly as he took her in. "Damn," he thought, "she's gorgeous."

The girl smiled, clearly noticing his reaction. "Hey, I'm India," she said, extending her hand. "And these are my friends, Teyana, Jordyn, and Crystal."

India Love, Arell realized. He'd seen her on social media, but she was even more striking in person. He shook her hand, trying to keep his cool. "Nice to meet you, India. I'm Arell."

Her friends, all equally stunning, smiled and nodded their greetings.

"So, Arell," India began, her eyes locking onto his. "We were just about to head to a little afterparty. Thought you might want to join us."

Arell hesitated for a moment, his mind instantly drifting to the possibility of a setup. He considered the scenario, weighing the risks. But India's smile was disarming, and the vibe felt genuine.

They were in a high-profile environment, surrounded by celebrities and influential people. It seemed unlikely that anything shady would go down here. Besides, India was undeniably attractive, and the opportunity was too tempting to pass up. He'd inform Geoffrey to wait nearby in the case anyone 'shady' were to enter the penthouse.

"Sure," he said, flashing a confident smile. "I'd love to join you."

India's smile widened, and she linked her arm through his. "Great! Let's get going then."

As they made their way through the crowded penthouse, Arell's focus was momentarily diverted. He accidentally bumped into someone. "Sorry, bro," he said quickly, glancing up. The other person mumbled an apology too, but both of their words trailed off as they recognized each other.

Lil Durk stood before him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"What's up with you?" Arell asked, feeling a mix of surprise and defensiveness.

Durk raised an eyebrow. "Let me get a word real quick with you."

Arell turned to India. "I'll catch up with you in a bit, alright?"

India nodded, her smile fading slightly with curiosity. "Sure, don't take too long."

As Durk led Arell through the crowd, Arell's mind raced. He kept his hands close to his sides, ready to defend himself if necessary. If it was going to go down here of all places, then so be it.

They stepped outside into the cool night air, the noise from the party fading into the background. Durk stopped and turned to face Arell.

"Hey, folk, I ain't with what Reese got going on," Durk said, his tone serious but calm.

Arell blinked, momentarily confused. "What do you mean?"

Durk sighed, running a hand over his face. "The post Reese put up with the video of me in the song—that was from a while ago. And he told me you were speaking on me, so I tweeted about you being a bitch and whatever. Eventually I found out a few things for myself and I ain't got a problem with you, Arell. Reese was just stirring shit up."

Arell's defensive stance softened slightly, though he remained cautious. "Alright, I get it. Just threw me off 'cause I never had issues with you."

Durk extended his hand. "Shit's straight now. Ain't nothing to it."

Arell hesitated for a moment before shaking Durk's hand, feeling a sense of relief. They exchanged numbers, solidifying the understanding.

Durk looked at Arell seriously. "You straight in Chicago, man. Ain't nobody gonna mess with you on my side."

"Thanks, Durk. I appreciate that."


Capítulo 70: You're own tune.

As the night wore on, the penthouse was still buzzing. Despite the late hour, the party showed no signs of slowing down. Arell found himself near the exit, India clinging to his arm, her perfume a subtle but intoxicating scent. They were about to head out, planning to continue their night at Arell's hotel.

Just as they were about to step into the elevator, a familiar voice called out.

"Hey, hold up a second!"

Arell turned to see a man approaching them. Even in the dim light of the penthouse, there was no mistaking who it was. Sean Combs, better known as P. Diddy, was making his way towards them. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, a gold chain gleaming around his neck. His presence commanded attention, and several partygoers turned to watch as he approached.

"You're Arell, right?" Diddy said, extending his hand. "And who's this lovely lady?"

"India Love," she replied with a smile, shaking his hand.

Diddy nodded, his charismatic smile lighting up his face. "Great to meet you both. How are you enjoying the party?"

"It's been amazing," Arell replied, still a bit stunned to be talking to Diddy. "Really something else."

Diddy's focus shifted to Arell, his eyes appraising. "I've been hearing a lot about you, young man. I like how you handled yourself during that beef. Showed real maturity."

Arell felt a surge of pride at the compliment. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you."

"Is this your party?" India asked, her eyes wide with admiration.

Diddy chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, a friend of mine is hosting. But speaking of parties..." He turned back to Arell. "You've got to come to one of mine sometime. I throw some legendary bashes at my place in Los Angeles."

Arell nodded enthusiastically. "I'd be honored, for real."

Diddy's eyes flickered briefly to India, then back to Arell. "Say, young blood, mind if we chat for a moment? Just us?" His tone was light and inviting.

Arell nodded, turning to India. "I'll be right back," he said softly. She smiled, though a flicker of disappointment crossed her face.

Diddy led Arell to a quieter corner of the penthouse, his hand resting lightly on Arell's shoulder. The touch was friendly, almost fatherly.

"You know, I've had my eye on you for a while," Diddy began, his voice low. "Was thinking of bringing you into the Bad Boy family. But I hear Atlantic got to you first." He chuckled warmly.

Arell felt a surge of pride. "Yeah, they did. It's been great so far."

Diddy nodded, his smile never wavering. "I'm sure it has. Atlantic's got a good team. But listen, this industry... it's a wild ride. You've got to keep your wits about you."

Arell leaned in, eager to hear more. "What do you mean?"

Diddy's eyes twinkled. "Well, for starters, you've got to know how to party. That's where the real connections are made. Speaking of which, you and I need to hit the town sometime. Really get to know each other."

He launched into a string of jokes, each one funnier than the last. Arell found himself laughing along, feeling more and more at ease.

"Let me give you some advice," Diddy said, his tone turning serious. "In this game, loyalty is everything. But you've got to be smart about it. Know who's really in your corner."

Arell nodded, hanging on every word. Diddy continued, his voice taking on an almost mentoring quality. "You've got talent, no doubt. But talent alone won't cut it. You need to be strategic. Every move you make, every word you say, it all matters."

"How do you mean?" Arell asked, genuinely curious.

Diddy grinned. "Take tonight, for example. You're here, rubbing shoulders with the best in the business. That's good. But it's not just about being seen. It's about making an impression. You've got to leave people thinking, 'Who was that guy? I need to know more.'"

Arell soaked it all in, nodding eagerly. Diddy went on, "And your music? That's your calling card. But it's not just about making hits. It's about creating a sound that's uniquely yours. Something that makes people sit up and take notice."

"How did you do it?" Arell asked, fascinated.

Diddy laughed. "Oh, I've got stories for days. But here's one thing I learned early on - always be evolving. The minute you get comfortable, that's when someone else comes along and takes your spot."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And let me tell you something about these label execs. They're not your friends. They're businessmen. You've got to learn to speak their language, to see the game from their perspective."

Arell furrowed his brow slightly, trying to process all this information. Diddy noticed and clapped him on the back. "Don't worry, young blood. You'll figure it out. And hey, if you ever need advice, you've got my number now."

As they continued to chat, Diddy regaled Arell with tales from his early days in the industry. He spoke of wild parties, of deals made and broken, of triumphs and setbacks. Arell listened, enthralled, feeling like he was being given a masterclass in the music business.

"You know," Diddy said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice, "seeing you reminds me of myself at your age. All that hunger, that drive. You've got a bright future ahead of you, Arell. Just remember, in this game, you've got to be willing to do whatever it takes to win."

Arell nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and slight unease at Diddy's words. But before he could dwell on it, Diddy was laughing again, lightening the mood.

"But hey, enough of this serious talk. We're at a party, right? You should be out there, living it up. And don't keep that beautiful lady waiting too long," Diddy winked.

Arell left the penthouse with India, feeling a heady mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. They made their way back to his hotel, where they spent a passionate night together. As the morning sun filtered through the curtains, India left, leaving Arell alone in the quiet room.

Feeling a bit aimless, Arell decided to dive into his system challenges. He completed a few, but a sense of restlessness nagged at him. He thought about what song or style of music he wanted on his album, but every time he settled on a sound, a flood of new ideas overwhelmed him. Frustrated, he browsed through the system for something to take his mind off things.

That's when he saw it.

 

Unnatural Reward Unlocked: Final Curtain Call Experience

["Elvis Presley's Last Performance: An Emotional Journey (Legendary X Unnatural)]

 

'Hmm, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see what it's about'

As Arell activated the "Elvis Presley's Last Performance" experience, the world around him shifted and blurred. The hotel room melted away, replaced by the opulent surroundings of a lavish bedroom. Arell blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change. He found himself standing in a corner.

The room was a testament to Elvis's legendary status and eccentric tastes. Plush carpets in deep, rich colours covered the floor, while heavy velvet curtains hung from floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were adorned with gilded mirrors and ornate artwork, creating an atmosphere of grandeur tinged with excess.

In the center of the room stood a massive four-poster bed, its dark wood gleaming in the soft light filtering through the curtains. And there, nestled among a sea of silken sheets and plump pillows, lay the King of Rock and Roll himself.

Arell's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of Elvis Presley. This was not the young, vibrant Elvis of the 1950s that Arell had seen in old footage and photographs.

Elvis lay still, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His once-lean frame had thickened considerably, the result of years of indulgent living and declining health. His face, puffy and bloated and the strong jaw that had been a hallmark of his youthful good looks was now obscured by the fullness of his face.

As Arell watched, Elvis began to stir. The King's eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze that seemed clouded and unfocused. For a moment, Elvis just lay there, staring at the ceiling with an expression that mingled exhaustion and resignation.

Slowly, with visible effort, Elvis pushed himself up to a sitting position. He ran a hand through his hair, which was still styled in his signature pompadour but now showed streaks of gray at the temples. The simple act of sitting up seemed to leave him winded, and he paused for a moment, catching his breath.

Arell couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness as he observed. Yet, even in his decline, there was an undeniable aura about the man.

Elvis reached for the nightstand, his hand trembling slightly as he grasped a small orange bottle. With ease, he shook out a handful of pills and tossed them back, washing them down with a glass of water that sat nearby. Arell winced, remembering what he knew about Elvis's well-documented struggles with prescription medication.

As Elvis swung his legs over the side of the bed, Arell noticed the swelling in his ankles and feet. The King grimaced as he stood, steadying himself against the bedpost for a moment before shuffling towards the en-suite bathroom.

Arell found himself transported into the bathroom, where he watched as Elvis splashed cold water on his face. The King stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he took in his appearance. For a fleeting moment, Arell saw a spark of fire in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by a look of weary acceptance.

Elvis went through his morning routine with the mechanical motions of long-established habit. He shaved carefully, wincing occasionally as the razor nicked his skin. As he applied aftershave, Arell noticed how his hands shook, spilling a few drops on the counter.

Returning to the bedroom, Elvis made his way to a large walk-in closet. Arell followed, marveling at the array of flamboyant jumpsuits that lined the walls. Elvis's hand hovered over several before settling on a white jumpsuit adorned with intricate gold embroidery. It was a testament to his enduring showmanship – even in his current state, he was determined to give his audience a spectacle.

Dressing proved to be a challenge. Elvis struggled with the tight-fitting costume, his breathing becoming more labored as he tugged and adjusted the garment. Arell found himself wanting to step forward and help, before remembering that he was merely an observer.

Once dressed, Elvis returned to the bathroom. He spent a considerable amount of time applying makeup, carefully concealing the puffiness around his eyes and the pallor of his skin. Arell was struck by the care Elvis took in presenting a certain image to the world, even as his body betrayed the reality of his condition.

As Elvis worked, Arell noticed a small TV in the corner of the room flickering to life. A news anchor's voice filled the space, discussing the upcoming concert. "Tonight, Elvis Presley will perform at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis," the anchor announced. "Tickets for the show sold out within hours of going on sale, demonstrating that the King's popularity remains undiminished."

Elvis glanced at the TV, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He shook his head slightly, as if amused by the disconnect between the public perception and his private reality.

With his preparations complete, Elvis stood before a full-length mirror, critically assessing his appearance. He tugged at the jumpsuit, smoothed his hair, and took a deep breath. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and Arell could almost feel the weight of expectation settling on the King's shoulders.

When Elvis opened his eyes again, there was a change in his demeanor. Despite the physical toll evident in his appearance, there was now a glimmer of the old Elvis shining through. His posture straightened, his chin lifted, and a hint of his famous smirk played at the corners of his mouth. It was as if he was donning not just the jumpsuit, but the very persona of "Elvis".

A knock at the door broke the spell. "Mr. Presley?" a voice called. "The car's ready whenever you are, sir."

Elvis took one last look in the mirror. "Thank you, Charlie," he called back, his voice deeper and more gravelly than Arell had expected. "I'll be right out."

As Elvis moved towards the door, Arell felt a sudden urge to reach out. But of course, he couldn't. This was history, already written and unchangeable.

Elvis paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what lay ahead. Then, with a slight shake of his head and a murmured, "Let's give 'em a show to remember," he stepped out of the room.

As the door closed behind Elvis, Arell felt the world around him begin to shift once more.

He found himself transported to the backstage area of Market Square Arena. Stagehands rushed about, making last-minute preparations, while the distant murmur of an eager crowd filtered through.

Arell's gaze settled on Elvis, now seated in a makeshift dressing room. The King sat before a mirror, his eyes closed as a makeup artist touched up his face. Despite the transformation Arell had witnessed earlier, he couldn't help but think, 'He still looks like the Elvis I've seen in all those old videos. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.'

As if sensing Arell's thoughts, Elvis opened his eyes. The look in them was one of weariness and resignation, causing Arell's optimism to falter.

A man in a suit - likely Elvis's manager - approached, speaking in hushed tones. "Remember, E, we've got a full house out there. They're all here for you. Just give 'em what they want, alright?"

Elvis nodded, but Arell noticed the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for a glass of water. The King's voice was low and gravelly as he replied, "I always do, don't I?"

As Elvis stood to make his way to the stage, Arell saw him stumble slightly. A nearby assistant quickly steadied him, offering a concerned look. Elvis waved it off with a weak smile, but Arell couldn't miss the flash of shame that crossed the legend's face.

'This isn't right,' Arell thought, a knot forming in his stomach. 'He shouldn't be performing like this. Why isn't anyone stopping him?'

But as Elvis approached the stage entrance, Arell saw a transformation occur. The King squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and plastered on his famous smile. In that moment, Arell understood - this wasn't just a performance for the crowd, but a performance for everyone around Elvis, a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of the invincible icon.

As the opening chords of "C.C. Rider" filled the arena, Elvis stepped onto the stage, and the crowd erupted into deafening applause. Arell found himself standing right beside Elvis, an invisible observer, feeling the energy of the audience wash over him. He could see the faces of the fans, their expressions a mixture of adoration and awe.

Elvis took the microphone, his voice resonating through the arena:

"Oh see, see see rider

Oh see, what you have done I said see, see see rider

Oh see, what you have done

Oh girl, you made me love you

Now, now, now, now your lovin' man has gone."

Arell was captivated by Elvis's voice. Despite the visible toll on his body, the King's voice was as powerful and soulful as ever. It was clear why he was revered as one of the greatest performers of all time. Arell found himself getting lost in the music, feeling every note and lyric.

As Elvis moved through the song, his voice carried a depth of emotion that resonated deeply with Arell. The crowd's response was electric, their cheers and applause creating a wave of sound that seemed to lift Elvis, giving him the strength to continue.

"Well, I'm goin' away baby

And I won't be back till fall

Well, I'm goin' away baby

And I won't be back till fall

And if I find me a good lookin' woman

No, no, no, I won't be back at all."

Arell stood there, mesmerized, feeling a profound connection to the performance. He could sense the passion and pain in Elvis's voice.

"I'm gonna buy me a shotgun

Just as long as I am tall

Lord, Lord, Lord, I said I'm gonna buy me a shotgun

Just as long as I am tall A

nd I'm gonna shoot that man

Catch her, here he comes now."

Arell felt a thrill run through him, the raw power of Elvis's performance leaving him in awe. He watched as Elvis moved across the stage, his movements still graceful and commanding despite his obvious physical struggle. The King's voice soared, filling the arena with a sense of emotion and nostalgia.

As the song came to an end, the crowd erupted once again, their applause echoing through the arena. Arell could see the exhaustion in Elvis's eyes, but also a spark of satisfaction. He had given the performance his all, leaving everything on the stage.

 

<> 

 

As the concert progressed, Arell drifted through the performances, witnessing Elvis's struggle and determination. Despite his physical challenges, Elvis gave his all to each song, his voice still carrying the power and emotion that had made him a legend.

The audience seemed oblivious to Elvis's condition, cheering and singing along. But Arell saw the toll each song took on the King. Between numbers, Elvis would lean heavily on his microphone stand, his breathing laboured and his movements stiff.

Now, it was time for the final song.

Elvis made his way to the grand piano, positioned at the center of the stage. He moved slowly, each step deliberate and heavy. Two assistants discreetly approached, ready to help him if needed.

Elvis sat down at the piano, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above the keys. He took a deep breath, and the arena fell silent in anticipation. The King closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength, and then began to play.

The haunting melody of "Unchained Melody" filled the air, Elvis's voice, though tinged with the weariness of years, still held a powerful emotional depth.

"Oh, my love, my darling

I've hungered for your touch

A long, lonely time"

As Elvis sang, Arell felt a lump form in his throat. The lyrics seemed to carry an extra weight, a reflection of Elvis's own struggles and longing. The crowd was mesmerized, their collective breath held as they listened to the King's soulful performance.

"And time goes by so slowly

And time can do so much

Are you still mine?"

Elvis's hands moved over the piano keys with grace, but there was a visible effort in every motion. Arell could see the strain on his face, the way his shoulders hunched slightly as he poured everything into the song.

"I need your love

I need your love

God speed your love to me"

As the song continued, Elvis's voice seemed to grow stronger, fueled by the emotional connection he felt with the music. The audience swayed to the rhythm, some wiping away tears, others simply lost in the moment.

"Lonely rivers flow

To the sea, to the sea

To the open arms of the sea, yeah"

Arell watched in awe as Elvis gave his all, his fingers dancing over the keys with both elegance and desperation. It was clear that this performance was as much for himself as it was for the fans – a final, heartfelt farewell.

"Lonely rivers sigh

Wait for me, wait for me

I'll be coming home, wait for me"

Elvis's voice wavered slightly on the high notes, but there was a raw, unfiltered emotion that made the performance even more powerful. Arell could feel the tremors in the Elvis's words, the weight of a lifetime of experiences behind each note.

"Oh, my love, my darling

I've hungered for your touch

A long, lonely time"

As the final verse approached, the intensity of Elvis's performance reached its peak. His voice, though strained, carried a poignant vulnerability that resonated deeply with Arell and the audience alike.

"And time goes by so slowly

And time can do so much

Are you still mine?"

Elvis's hands trembled visibly now, but he pushed through, determined to finish the song. Arell felt a surge of admiration for the King, witnessing firsthand the sheer willpower and passion that defined his legendary career.

"I need your love

I need your love

God speed your love to me"

The last note hung in the air, a poignant echo of Elvis's final performance. The crowd erupted into a standing ovation, their applause a thunderous tribute to the King of Rock and Roll.

Elvis remained seated at the piano, his head bowed, and shoulders slumped. The exhaustion was evident, but so was the satisfaction of having given everything he had. Arell could see the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.

As the applause continued, Elvis slowly stood, leaning on the piano for support. He gave a slight nod to the audience, his smile tinged with both gratitude and sorrow. The assistants approached once more, discreetly helping him off the stage.

Arell blinked, suddenly aware of the wetness on his cheeks. He wiped away a tear he hadn't realized he'd shed, his heart still thrumming with the raw emotion of Elvis's final performance. "That was... beautiful," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the lingering echoes of the crowd's applause in his mind.

He wanted to stay in that moment, to relive the bittersweet triumph of Elvis's last show. But before he could even think to request it, the world around him began to shift and blur once more. The roar of the audience faded, replaced by the muffled sounds of a heated argument.

Arell found himself in a lavishly decorated office, all dark wood and plush carpets. Elvis, still in his white jumpsuit, sat slumped in a chair, his face a mask of exhaustion and frustration. Across from him, behind an imposing desk, sat a portly man with sharp eyes and a calculating expression. Arell recognized him immediately the same man he saw before, 'What was his name? Uh…. Park-Parker! That's it'

"Now, Elvis, my boy," Parker was saying, his voice oily smooth, "you can't be serious about wanting to cancel the next leg of the tour. Think of your fans, think of your commitments!"

Elvis ran a trembling hand through his hair, displacing the carefully styled pompadour. "Tom, I can't keep doing this. You saw me out there tonight. I'm exhausted, I'm sick. I need a break."

Parker's eyes narrowed. "A break? Elvis, we've discussed this. The lifestyle you want to maintain, it doesn't come cheap. We need to keep the money flowing."

As the argument unfolded, Arell felt a growing sense of unease. He watched as Parker skillfully manipulated Elvis, playing on his insecurities and his desire to please his fans. It was a masterclass in exploitation, wrapped in the guise of care and concern.

"No, no, no," Arell muttered, frustrated by his inability to intervene. He wanted to shout at Elvis, to warn him about the path he was on. But he was just an observer, powerless to change the course of history.

The scene shifted again, this time to a hotel room. Elvis was alone, surrounded by pill bottles and half-eaten plates of food. The once-vibrant King of Rock and Roll looked small and vulnerable as he stared blankly at a television screen, the flashing images reflecting in his tired eyes.

Arell's heart ached. This wasn't what he wanted to see. He longed to return to the concert, to witness once more the power and grace of Elvis's final performance. But the experience seemed determined to show him the harsh realities behind the glitz and glamour.

As he watched Elvis's slow descent, Arell couldn't help but draw parallels to himself. The warnings Diddy had given him at the party echoed in his mind. The music industry was indeed a wild ride, and now he was seeing firsthand how it could chew up and spit out even the biggest stars.

The scenes continued to unfold, painting a picture of Elvis's final days. Arell saw the constant pressure, the isolation, the struggle to maintain the larger-than-life persona that had become both a blessing and a curse. He witnessed the toll it took on Elvis's relationships, his health, and his spirit.

Through it all, Arell found himself longing to return to that final performance. Despite the physical struggles Elvis had faced on stage, there had been a purity to that moment. It had been about the music, about the connection between artist and audience. Everything that came after seemed to tarnish that memory.

As the scenes of Elvis's decline continued to unfold before him, Arell found himself wrestling with conflicting thoughts and emotions. He couldn't help but wonder why Elvis had allowed himself to be manipulated so thoroughly by Parker.

"Surely he must have known this wasn't right," Arell mused. "Couldn't he have just fired Parker and taken control of his career?"

But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Arell realized the naivety of such assumptions.

"It's not as simple as just saying no," Arell realized. "The pressure, the exhaustion, the need to keep performing... it's a slippery slope."

He felt a wave of gratitude wash over him as he thought about Geoffrey. Unlike Parker, Geoffrey was genuinely invested in Arell's well-being, not just his earning potential. "He actually wants the best for me," Arell thought. "He's loyal in a way Parker never was to Elvis."

Arell's mind drifted to other music legends who had struggled with the pressures of fame and the pitfalls of the industry. He thought about Michael Jackson, another larger-than-life figure who had grappled with prescription drug issues and the weight of public expectations. Prince, too, came to mind - a brilliant artist whose life had been cut short by an accidental overdose.

"Is this just the price of greatness?" Arell wondered. "Do you have to sacrifice everything else to reach the top?"

But even as these sobering thoughts swirled in his mind, Arell couldn't shake the memory of Elvis on stage during that final performance. Despite everything, there had been moments of pure magic, of connection between artist and audience that transcended all the behind-the-scenes struggles.

"I won't end up like this," Arell vowed silently.

The world around him shifted once more. He found himself backstage at a small, intimate venue.

Arell's gaze fell upon a man seated in front of a mirror, carefully applying makeup. It took him a moment to recognize the figure - it was Elvis, but not the Elvis he had just seen in his final days. This was a younger Elvis, still in his prime.

As Arell watched, a man in a crisp suit approached Elvis. Arell recognized him immediately as Parker. Parker leaned in, speaking in low, urgent tones.

"Elvis, my boy," Parker said, his voice dripping with false concern, "I've just heard from the venue. They're threatening to cancel the show if we don't tone things down. They're saying your act is too... provocative."

Elvis's eyes flashed with a mix of anger and hurt. "Tone it down? But this is who I am, Colonel. This is my music, my way of performing."

Parker's expression hardened. "Now, Elvis, you know I always have your best interests at heart. We need to be smart about this. Think of your career, your future." Another voice cut through the tension.

"Excuse me, Colonel," a young man said, stepping forward. "But I think Elvis is right. The audience loves him because he's different, because he pushes boundaries. If we start compromising now, where does it end?"

Parker's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could respond, Elvis stood up, his decision clear in his eyes.

"Thank you, Colonel, for your concern," Elvis said, his voice firm. "But I'm going to perform my way. If they don't like it, well... that's their problem, not mine."

As Elvis moved towards the stage, Arell saw a flicker of something dark pass over Parker's face. But it was quickly replaced by a resigned smile.

"Of course, my boy," Parker said smoothly. "You know best. I'm just here to support you."

Arell watched as Elvis took the stage, the roar of the crowd washing over him. The King's performance was electric, his movements provocative and his voice raw with emotion. It was clear that this was Elvis at his most authentic, untamed by the pressures of industry expectations.

As the scene began to fade, Arell felt a profound sense of what could have been. He saw now how even small compromises, made in the name of career advancement or appeasing industry figures, could snowball into a loss of artistic integrity.

"This is what I need to protect," Arell thought, his resolve strengthening. "My voice, my style, my authenticity. No matter how persuasive or well-intentioned someone might seem, I can't let anyone else dictate my art."

He thought back to Diddy's words at the party, to Petrick's enthusiastic pitches. While their intentions might not be as overtly manipulative as Parker's, Arell realized the danger in blindly trusting anyone who claimed to have his best interests at heart.

"They're not being nice out of the kindness of their hearts," Arell mused. "Everyone has an agenda. Diddy inviting a complete stranger to a party, being so open and close... there's more to it than just friendliness."

As the scene shifted once again, Arell found himself in a cozy living room. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, illuminating a woman seated at a piano. Her fingers danced across the keys, coaxing out a melody that was hauntingly familiar. It took Arell a moment to recognize her - Priscilla Presley, Elvis's former wife.

Priscilla looked older than in the photographs Arell had seen, but there was still a grace and beauty about her. Her eyes were closed as she played, lost in the music and memories it evoked.

As the last notes faded away, Priscilla opened her eyes. She seemed to look right through Arell, her gaze distant and melancholic.

"You know," she said softly, as if speaking to herself, "Elvis always said that music was his way of speaking to the world. It was how he shared his joy, his pain, his hopes and fears."

She ran her hand lovingly over the piano keys. "But towards the end, it became a cage. The expectations, the pressure to always be 'Elvis'... it was suffocating him."

Priscilla stood up, walking to a nearby shelf lined with photographs. She picked up one of Elvis in his prime, smiling and vibrant on stage.

"He was at his happiest when he was just being himself," she mused. "When he could sing what he wanted, how he wanted. When the music came from his heart, not from what others demanded of him."

She placed the photo back on the shelf, her fingers lingering on the frame. "If I could tell young artists one thing, it would be this: Don't lose yourself in trying to be what others want. The world doesn't need another copy. It needs your unique voice."

As Priscilla's words hung in the air, Arell felt a deep resonance within him. The scene began to fade, but the lesson remained clear in his mind.

 

"Be the song you were born to sing, not the tune others expect to hear."


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