"Mani, you really my peace."
?*??───?*??
Imani don't do rappers.
Not when attention come before intention, and every smile hide a secret. But when a late night studio session her best friend forces her to go to, puts her in the path of Messiah Jam...
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┌──❀*̥˚───❀*̥˚─┐
The condo was quiet, wrapped in that kind of calm that settles after a long day full of people, pressure, and purpose.
It was just after five, the sun beginning to slide down the New York skyline.
Gold light spilled across the living room walls, washing everything in a slow, warm glow.
Somewhere in the distance, the city was still humming—but inside, everything felt still.
Messiah, Imani, and Rashad had been back for a couple hours now, still riding the high from earlier.
Messiah and Rashad were in the kitchen, posted up at the marble island, laptops open and phones buzzing with fresh emails and followups.
Messiah was dressed down now.
Black tee, baggy jeans, and a black hat from the brand he was currently promoting, worn low over his straight-back cornrows.
He looked comfortable, but his energy was still locked in. Focused. Grateful.
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"I'm not even gon' lie to you," he said, halflaughing, half-processing.
"That shit hit different today. Like it wasn't even about bein' seen—it was about bein' felt."
Rashad nodded, scrolling through his phone.
"That's cause you was supposed to be in that room."
"People know it now. You got options everywhere—endorsements, a couple artists wantin' features, that film placement we was talkin' about? It's all on the table now."
Messiah leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"It's crazy, man. I remember when I was prayin' for one opportunity. Just one."
Rashad clapped his shoulder, proud. "Now you got too many."
Meanwhile, in the living room, Imani was curled up on the couch, texting Mya, her phone screen lighting up between her fingers.
