Rewind With A Superstar System-Chapter 97: Calling Old Friends (1)

<🎧 Song Recommendation: Risk It All by Bruno Mars>

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[SUPERSTAR SYSTEM — STATUS PANEL]

[BIO]

● Name: Von Varley

● Age: 18

● Class: Student

● Title: Uncrowned King (equipped), Street Performer

● System Level: 1

[STATS]

● Vocals: B- (145/1000)

● Composition: D+ (15/100)

● Charm: B- (10/1000)

● Willpower: C- (0/300)

[PROGRESSION]

● Skills: Basic Instrument Mastery, Resonance (D), Emote (B), Advanced Choreography Mastery (B)

● EXP: 4,080

● Current Fans: 280,991

● Quests: 2 available.

● Star Shop: 55 Vouchers

Von looked at his pool of unspent Experience Points, and a small smile lit up his face. His rapidly growing popularity had broken more fan-gain milestones over the last few weeks thanks to the viral explosion of Masquerade.

He had purposely chosen to save all the rewarded EXP, wanting to see the effect of a massive, sudden upgrade all at once.

Now, standing in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar studio, it was time to cash in.

With a quick, decisive thought, he commanded the System. He spent exactly 1,855 EXP from his pool, dumping it entirely into his primary weapon.

A warm, electric sensation instantly flooded his throat. It felt like his vocal cords were being bathed in warm honey, tightening, refining, and expanding their physical limits.

[Stat Upgraded!]

● Vocals: B+ (0/1000)

Von exhaled slowly, feeling the newly unlocked resonance vibrating in his chest cavity.

He wanted it to enter the elite A bounds so badly, but he forced himself to hold back. He planned to save his remaining points to boost his severely lacking [Composition] stat for the upcoming writing sessions, and probably invest in another Zone State Pill from the Star Shop if he hit a wall.

"Yo, Von? You good in there?"

Patch's voice crackled through the studio monitors, interrupting his internal zoning out. Von had been standing completely still with his hand on the booth door for some long seconds now.

"Yeah, sorry," Von called back, pulling the heavy glass door open and stepping inside.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the world vanished. The acoustic isolation of Studio A's booth was absolute. It felt like stepping into a vacuum. There was no hum of the air conditioner, not even the faint rustle of Emily shifting on the leather couch. Just pure silence.

He stepped up to the vintage Sony C-800G microphone, adjusting the heavy pop filter. It felt incredibly right.

"Just lay down a rough melody," Patch instructed through the headphones clamped over Von's ears. "Let's see what we're working with. Metronome is running... now."

A steady click-track began ticking in Von's ears. He closed his eyes, centering himself. He didn't need a beat yet. He just needed to set the emotional foundation.

Taking a deep breath, Von engaged his newly upgraded [Vocals]. He simultaneously triggered his [Emote] and [Resonance] skills, forcing the raw emotion of longing and isolation to coat every single syllable he was about to produce.

He opened his mouth and sang a cappella.

🎸 ♪

The only time I sat and waited for the sunrise

Was when I saw the fear of leaving in your brown eyes

🎸 ♪

Out in the control room, Emily's pen paused.

Just the first two lines were enough for her to notice the increase in his tonal quality.

In the booth, Von kept his eyes closed, fully surrendering to the music.

🎸 ♪

"This is just a separation, babe, it's all fine" 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Makin' quiet calculations on the long drive

🎸 ♪

By the time he finished the verse, Patch's was staring at the mixing console with his hands on his chin. He slowly reached out and hit the talkback button.

"Bro, what did you just do to your voice? I mixed your vocals three weeks ago. It didn't sound anything like this. It's so much better now."

Von opened his eyes, a confident smirk playing on his lips as he looked through the thick studio glass at his stunned team.

"It's good news for the album, isn't it?" Von asked casually.

Patch stared at him for a second longer before a massive, manic grin split across his face. He frantically started adjusting the EQ knobs on the seventy-two-channel board.

"Of course it's good news! Whatever it is you just did, keep doing it. Don't change a single thing. Can you go again? I'm laying a heavy acoustic loop under it right now."

"Run it back," Von said, leaning into the mic.

And just like that, the first single of the album had begun shaping up.

***

Far away from Venetian Islands, the reality of the music industry was a lot less glamorous.

In a dive bar in downtown Seattle, Noah Billy was aggressively wiping down the counter with a rag that smelled like his broken dreams.

His life had been in a freefall for the past three months. It all started with a song. You're Gonna Come Home. Noah had sworn on his life that he had written that track. But when he tried to take it to the internet, claiming the sudden viral sensation Von Varley had stolen his phone and his music, it had backfired spectacularly.

Von's legal team hadn't even needed to sweat. They produced timestamped videos of Von busking the exact song on the streets of Miami weeks before Noah had even conceptualized it.

The internet had branded Noah a delusional clout-chaser.

The backlash had ruined him. The legal fees from his frivolous lawsuit had drained his meager savings account to zero. He had to sell his recording equipment just to make rent.

And then, Lena left.

His girlfriend hadn't left him because he was broke; she had left him because the obsession had hollowed him out.

She couldn't handle the late nights of him pacing the apartment, drinking cheap whiskey, and cursing Von Varley's name.

She couldn't handle watching a talented, bright-eyed musician give up just to wallow in bitterness. The day she packed her bags, Noah had shoved his guitar into the back of his closet and hadn't touched it since.

Now, he was twenty-two, completely unrecognized, and pouring cheap beer for construction workers just to afford instant noodles.

Deep in his pocket, his cheap smartphone began to vibrate.

Noah ignored it, tossing the damp rag into the sink. It had been ringing off and on for the last two hours. It was an unknown number with a Florida area code. He just assumed it was another aggressive debt collector trying to squeeze blood from a stone.

"Closing time," Noah muttered to the empty room, turning off the signs and locking the heavy front door.

He grabbed two heavy bags of trash from the kitchen and pushed his way out through the back exit into the cold alleyway.

A light drizzle was falling, soaking through his thin hoodie. He threw the trash bags into the dumpster and leaned against the cold brick wall of the alley, pulling a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Just as he put one between his lips, his phone started vibrating again.

Miami, Florida.

Noah gritted his teeth, his temper finally snapping. He pulled the phone from his pocket and swiped the green button, pressing it to his ear.

"Listen to me," Noah barked. "I don't have the money. Calling me at midnight isn't going to magically make five grand appear in my bank account, so stop harassing—"

"Noah Billy," a calm smooth voice interrupted on the other end of the line.

Noah froze. The cigarette slipped from his lips and tumbled into the wet pavement. He knew that voice. He had heard it on the radio, on television, and in his nightmares for the last months.

"Who is this?"

"It's Von Varley. Independent artist and CEO of Absolute Records."

A hot surge of anger boiled up in Noah's chest.

"You," Noah intoned. "You've got some absolute nerve calling my number. You stole my song! You ruined my life! Why the hell would I ever want to speak to you?"

"We've been over this before, dude," Von's voice remained unbothered by the outburst. "I'm not here to exchange words and waste my time with you over the past."

"Then why are you calling me?!"

"Because I'm recording my debut studio album," Von said simply. "And I'd like the two of us to work on one of its tracks. Together."

Noah blinked, the rain matting his hair to his forehead. The anger was suddenly derailed by confusion. "What? You want... you want to collaborate with me? Why me?"

"Because despite your attitude, you have a talent that the industry is lacking right now... I don't want to feature you on You're Gonna Come Home. That's my solo track. I want to fly you down here, put you in a room with me, and we create a brand-new acoustic anthem entirely from scratch."