Capítulo 87: Devon
"Oh, my bad," he muttered to himself. "I'll call him back when I'm done."
Just then, the studio door opened, and Devon walked in. Arell looked up, nodding in greeting.
"Yo, what's good?" Devon said, his eyes bright.
Arell leaned back in his chair. "Just working on some new stuff. What's up with you?"
Devon grinned, holding up a flash drive. "Man, I've been making beats. Been working on my production skills, you know? Thought maybe you'd want to hear some."
Arell hesitated for a second. He was in the middle of his own work, but he could see the hope in Devon's eyes. After a moment, he nodded. "Alright, let's hear what you got."
Devon eagerly plugged in his flash drive and pulled up his beats. As the first one started playing, Arell listened carefully, his face neutral. The beat was... okay. Not great, but not terrible either. It had potential.
When the track finished, Arell nodded slowly. "It's not bad, man. You've got some good ideas in there."
Devon's face lit up at the praise, but Arell held up a hand. "But you've got room for improvement. Your kick drum needs more punch, and your hi-hats could use some variation. Try playing with the velocity on those."
As they went through more of Devon's beats, Arell continued to offer constructive criticism and tips. Devon soaked it all in, clearly grateful for the feedback.
When they finished listening to the last beat, Devon stood up to leave. "Thanks. I really appreciate you taking the time to listen."
Arell looked at Devon for a moment, then made a decision. "You know what? Stick around. Let's make some music together."
Devon's eyes widened in surprise and excitement. "For real?"
Arell nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, man. Let's see what we can cook up."
Meanwhile, in the office he'd set up in the mansion, Geoffrey was poring over an email from Craig Kellman of Atlantic Records. The message detailed an upcoming fashion show in Florida, emphasizing the networking opportunities it presented for Arell.
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, processing the information. The event would certainly provide good exposure for Arell. The guest list was impressive - Diddy as one of the main hosts, even Rihanna was set to attend. It was the kind of high-profile event that could further cement Arell's rising status in the industry.
However, Geoffrey couldn't shake a feeling of unease. "Exposure is good," Geoffrey mused aloud, "but seeing the main host... I don't entirely trust them around Arell."
He thought about Arell's recent behavior - the increased smoking, the reluctance to attend therapy sessions. Maybe a trip could help him unwind a bit. Florida was nice this time of year, after all.
Then there was the matter of Juice WRLD, the promising young artist they'd recently signed to Infinity. Juice had mentioned having a friend who could rap - Geoffrey couldn't remember the name, something about a ski mask? And that friend apparently had another friend who was also talented. It would be good to finally meet these potential new artists.
"A trip to Florida it is," Geoffrey decided. He also noted some other attendees he'd like Arell to meet - J. Cole, ScHoolboy Q, artists who might be good influences or potential collaborators.
Back in the studio, Arell and Devon were deep in their creative process. As they worked on a new beat together, Arell found himself pleasantly surprised by how quickly Devon was picking things up.
"Yo, you're getting the hang of this pretty fast," Arell commented, nodding approvingly as Devon made a subtle adjustment to the hi-hat pattern.
Devon grinned, clearly proud of the compliment. "Thanks, man. I've been studying hard, you know? Watching tutorials, practicing every day."
As they continued to work, Devon suddenly turned to Arell with a curious expression. "Hey, what's your producer tag?"
Arell paused, realizing he hadn't even thought about it. "I... don't have one, actually."
Devon's eyes widened in disbelief. "For real? Bro, you gotta make one! You should start selling beats too, you know? There's good money in that."
"Yeah?" Arell asked, intrigued.
Devon nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, man. I've started doing it myself. Check this out." He pulled up one of his beats and played it. At the beginning, a smooth voice said, "Ay Dave, you made this one?"
Arell nodded appreciatively. "That's smooth, man. I like it."
"See? You should definitely make one," Devon insisted. "It's like your signature, you know?"
Arell leaned back in his chair, thinking. "I guess I just never really thought about it. I've been so focused on the rapping side of things."
They went back to working on their beat, but Arell's mind kept drifting to the idea of a producer tag. What would he use? How could he make it unique?
As they were finishing up, Geoffrey walked into the studio, a smile on his face.
"Hey guys," he greeted them. "How's it going in here?"
"Pretty good," Arell replied. "Devon's been showing me some of his beats. He's got talent."
Geoffrey nodded approvingly at Devon before turning back to Arell. "That's great. Listen, you've got a trip to Florida for a fashion show. I've been arranging some things, including a tour of the Everglades. I think it'll be a good opportunity for you to unwind a bit, maybe get some inspiration."
Arell hesitated. "I don't know, man. I've got a lot of work to do here. Maybe I should just stay and focus on the music." But before he could continue a thought appeared. "Elvis did the same thing you're doing now. Always working, never taking a break. And look how he ended up. You need to enjoy yourself."
Arell paused on the thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. A break might be good."
"Great," Geoffrey said, clearly relieved. "We'll go over the details later. For now, why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
After Geoffrey left, Arell turned to Devon. "You up for some PS4?"
Devon grinned. "Always."
As they settled in to play, Arell's phone buzzed with a message. It was from India, asking when he'd come by. Arell felt a twinge of unease at her eagerness.
"I'll call when I'll come," he typed back, then added to Devon, "Hey, when I go see India, I'm definitely bringing Cam and Jamal with me. She's been acting kinda... I don't know, eager?"
Devon nodded understandingly. "Yeah, better safe than sorry."
As they loaded up 2K, he remembered the missed calls from Malik.
"Hold up," Arell said, pausing the game. "I need to call Malik back."
He dialed Malik's number and waited as the phone rang. After a few moments, Malik answered.
"Yo, Arell. What's up?" Malik's voice sounded relieved.
"Hey, man. Sorry I missed your calls. Been busy in the studio. What's going on?" Arell asked.
Malik's tone shifted to something more serious. "Just wanted to update you on Kenny. He's doing a lot better now. The bullets are out, and the doctors say he's on the mend. It's gonna take some time, but he's a fighter."
Arell felt a weight lift off his shoulders. "That's good to hear. Kenny's been through a lot. He deserves to catch a break."
"Yeah, definitely. Also, Geoffrey mentioned you've been smoking a lot lately. You okay, man?"
Arell sighed. "Yeah, I've been stressed. A lot's been happening, you know?"
Malik paused before speaking again. "I get that. But maybe you should think about talking to someone. Geoffrey mentioned therapy, and I think it might be a good idea. You always take care of everyone else, but you gotta take care of yourself too."
Arell hesitated. "I don't know, man. Therapy just... doesn't feel like my thing."
"I get it," Malik said. "But just think about it. You deserve to be okay, you know?"
Arell nodded, even though Malik couldn't see him. "Alright, I'll think on it."
"Good," Malik replied. "And remember, we're all here for you."
"Thanks, Malik. I appreciate it."
After ending the call, Arell sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on what Malik had said. It made sense, but the idea of opening up to a therapist still felt foreign.
"Everything okay?" Devon asked, sensing the shift in Arell's mood.
"Yeah," Arell replied, shaking off his thoughts. "Just needed to check in with Malik. Kenny's doing better."
"That's good to hear," Devon said with a smile. "Ready to get back to the game?"
<>
Arell and Devon were deeply engrossed in their NBA 2K match. The virtual crowd's cheers filled the room as Devon's player drove towards the basket, attempting a layup. Suddenly, Arell's defender came out of nowhere, swatting the ball away with a thunderous block.
"Damn!" Devon exclaimed, a rare show of emotion from the usually quiet young man.
Arell chuckled, "Got to be quicker than that, D."
As they continued playing, Arell couldn't help but notice the intensity in Devon's eyes. It was a look he'd seen before, one that hinted at the complex personality beneath Devon's calm exterior.
Just then, Devon's player collided hard with one of Arell's, sending both athletes sprawling across the court. The game called a foul, but Devon's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the controller.
"You good?" Arell asked, noticing the shift in Devon's demeanor.
Devon nodded silently, his eyes still fixed on the screen. But Arell could see something had changed. The incident had triggered something in Devon's memory, transporting him back to a time and place far removed from the comfortable sofa they now sat in...
Chicago, 2009
The summer heat hung heavy in the air, a group of kids, no older than 12 or 13, were gathered on a makeshift basketball court, the hoop nothing more than a milk crate nailed to a telephone pole.
Among them was Devon, lanky and awkward, his growth spurt having hit early but his coordination not quite caught up. He dribbled the worn basketball, his eyes darting around, looking for an opening.
"Yo, D! Over here!" called out one of his friends, waving his arms.
Devon hesitated for a moment before attempting to pass. The ball sailed through the air, but it was intercepted by a taller boy from the opposing team.
"Nice try, scrub," the boy taunted, easily dribbling past Devon and scoring.
Devon's face burned with embarrassment as his teammates groaned. He could hear the whispers, the barely concealed ridicule. It wasn't the first time he'd messed up, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.
As the game continued, Devon found himself increasingly sidelined, his teammates reluctant to pass him the ball. He stood on the edge of the court, trying to look engaged but feeling more and more invisible.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the far end of the street. A group of older teens, known troublemakers from a rival block, were making their way towards the court. The basketball game came to an abrupt halt as the younger kids watched warily.
The leader of the group, a heavyset boy with a permanent scowl, zeroed in on Devon. "Aye, ain't you Sheila's boy?" he called out, his voice dripping with malice.
Devon froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew about his mother's debts, the whispered threats he'd overheard late at night when she thought he was asleep.
"I asked you a question," the teen growled, closing the distance between them.
Devon managed a small nod, his voice failing him.
The older boy grinned, but there was no warmth in it. "Well, you tell your broke ass mama she better have our money by Friday, or we gonna have a problem. You feel me?"
Devon nodded again, his eyes fixed on the ground.
"I can't hear you," the teen snarled, grabbing Devon by the front of his shirt.
"Y-yes," Devon stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The older boy laughed, shoving Devon backwards. He stumbled, falling hard on the concrete. The other kids watched in silence, no one daring to intervene.
As the group of teens sauntered away, their laughter echoing off the buildings, Devon remained on the ground. He could feel the eyes of his friends on him, could sense their pity, their secondhand embarrassment.
Slowly, Devon got to his feet. Without a word, he turned and walked away from the court, ignoring the halfhearted calls of his friends to come back.
That night, Devon lay in bed, replaying the day's events in his mind. The failed pass, the taunts from his teammates, the confrontation with the older teens - it all swirled together in a toxic mix of shame and anger.
He thought about his mother, working two jobs and still barely making ends meet. He thought about the threats, the constant fear that hung over their small apartment like a storm cloud.
As he stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and shouting that were the lullaby of the projects, Devon made a decision. He wouldn't be weak anymore. He wouldn't be the one people laughed at, or pitied, or pushed around.
From that day forward, Devon began to change. He spent hours in his room, doing push-ups and sit-ups until his muscles screamed. He studied the older boys in the neighborhood, the ones everyone respected and feared, mimicking their walk, their talk, their stoic expressions.
He started hanging around the periphery of the local gangs, running small errands, keeping his eyes and ears open. He learned the unwritten rules of the streets, the balance of respect and fear that governed their world.
At school, Devon became a shadow. He spoke only when necessary, his responses curt and to the point. He cultivated an aura of quiet menace, his silence more intimidating than any threat.
The first time someone tried to bully him after his transformation, Devon's response was swift and brutal. The fight was over almost before it began, leaving his would-be tormentor bloody and bewildered. As he stood over the fallen boy, Devon felt a rush of power, of control. Never again, he vowed, would he be the victim.
His reputation grew quickly. The quiet kid with the intense eyes, the one you didn't want to cross. Even the older boys began to take notice, nodding in recognition when he passed.
But with each passing day, Devon felt a piece of himself slipping away. The carefree kid who loved to laugh and play was buried deeper and deeper beneath layers of hard-earned toughness. He built walls around his heart, high and strong, letting no one in.
At night, in the privacy of his room, Devon would sometimes allow himself to remember the boy he used to be. But those moments of vulnerability were fleeting, quickly squashed by the memory of that day on the basketball court, of the shame and helplessness he'd felt.
As the years passed, Devon's transformation became complete. The silent, menacing young man became all that people saw, the frightened boy inside hidden so well that sometimes even Devon forgot he was there.
Back in the present, Devon blinked, the memory fading as he refocused on the game in front of him. Arell was looking at him with concern.
"For real, D, you okay?" Arell asked again.
Devon nodded, his face impassive. "Yeah, I'm good. Just got lost in thought for a second."
Arell studied him for a moment longer before turning back to the game. As they resumed playing, Devon felt a familiar tightness in his chest, the walls he'd built so long ago straining against the weight of unspoken words and buried emotions.
For a brief moment, he considered opening up to Arell, sharing the memory that had surfaced. But the impulse passed as quickly as it had come. Some habits, Devon knew, were too deeply ingrained to break.
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