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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