Chapter 14
Chapter 14
“...Why are you copying him?”
The moment the words left his mouth—
Ah.
The sound that came out was nothing like what he had imagined.
He had meant to ask as carefully as possible.
But after passing through his rigid vocal cords, the question came out at a completely different temperature from what he intended.
A low, dry voice, as though he were conducting an interrogation.
But it was already too late.
On the other side of the glass, J-Rackz’s face had gone pale.
...What did he just say?
J-Rackz’s heart skipped a beat.
Sweat seeped from the hand gripping his headphones.
Why am I copying him?
In truth, there was no need to ask.
He already knew the answer himself.
...But he noticed immediately? After hearing just one verse?
J-Rackz clenched his teeth.
What am I supposed to say?
That he did not know?
That would be a lie.
That he had done it deliberately?
That would be even more pathetic.
Let’s be honest.
He had already been seen through anyway.
There had never been any point in trying to hide it from Shotgun.
“...I wasn’t consciously trying to copy Lil D.”
He had held the underground throne for a year.
And what had changed?
Rent was still tight.
No matter how loudly people cheered for him at The Vault, those cheers never showed up in his bank account.
But Lil D had reached the charts with [DRIVE].
Streaming revenue was coming in, and Lil D had said he was going to buy out his Lamborghini lease.
What about me?
The thought that maybe he could reach the same place if he performed like Lil D had seeped into his flow.
“Yo, Shotgun.”
“...”
“Explain it in a little more detail.”
Now that the problem had been pointed out, J-Rackz needed to know exactly where it was so he could fix it.
H-he wants more detail?
Behind Park Geon’s sunglasses, his eyes darted from side to side.
He did not have the confidence to explain it using professional knowledge.
Once again, it was nothing more than a vague instinct.
“Well...”
His vocal cords were still stiff.
His low voice came out.
“...I think it would be better if you were more aggressive.”
He could not explain any further than that.
He had liked the J-Rackz he heard at The Vault, and he thought it would be better if J-Rackz kept that feeling and delivered the rap as though he were pushing harder against the listener.
More aggressive? What does that mean?
J-Rackz could not understand such vague feedback at all.
What exactly did “aggressive” refer to?
Did Shotgun want him to increase his volume?
Use a harsher tone?
Chew his consonants harder?
“What exactly do you mean?”
“...”
Shotgun remained expressionless.
As though he had already given the answer.
At that moment—
...That’s it.
Originally, J-Rackz’s style was to land the first syllable precisely on the strong beat when the kick dropped.
That gave each bar weight and punch.
But now, he was avoiding the kick and slipping syllables into the weak beats.
Just like Lil D.
But J-Rackz naturally had thick vocal cords.
That was his weapon.
By placing that voice offbeat, he lost the weight that made him distinctive without gaining the fluidity Lil D had.
The result was an awkward delivery stuck somewhere in between.
Aggressive.
Now I understand exactly what he meant.
Understanding dawned across J-Rackz’s face.
Meanwhile, Lil D slowly closed his eyes.
As expected.
Lil D had already known.
Recently, J-Rackz had been trying to wear his flow.
But if Lil D had been the one to say it directly—
J-Rackz would never have admitted it if it came from me.
Criticism from a rival became provocation.
Criticism from a producer became feedback.
But Shotgun saw through it after one verse and said it straight to his face.
He had not softened the wording either.
Shotgun did not care about reading the room.
He simply drove the point in directly.
He did the same thing to me.
Creak—
The booth door opened.
J-Rackz walked over to Shotgun.
“I’m stopping the recording here for today.”
Park Geon stiffly lifted his head.
“After hearing what you said, I’m sure now. I was wearing someone else’s clothes. I abandoned my own style.”
“...”
“So I think I need some time.”
“...”
“I won’t forget what you said today.”
With that—
“...Thanks, Shotgun.”
J-Rackz turned away.
For Black communities, car washes were gathering places second only to barbershops.
People talked about what was happening in the world while spraying down tires and applying wax.
“Did you hear J-Rackz is taking a break from The Vault stage for a while?”
A man holding a hose spoke.
The man wiping a hood with a towel in the next wash bay answered.
“Suddenly?”
“He supposedly went into seclusion to train.”
A man sitting on the waiting bench joined in.
“I know why.”
“What happened?”
“They say Shotgun called him out the second he heard the first verse. Asked him why he was copying Lil D.”
“After one verse?”
“No cap.”
“Come to think of it, J-Rackz’s performances haven’t felt like they used to lately.”
“Right. That’s why I didn’t go last week either.”
Up to that point, the story was still close to the truth.
But as the rumor crossed from the car wash to the taco truck, it gradually began to mutate.
“Did you hear? Shotgun slammed his fist down in the middle of J-Rackz’s recording, cut the beat, put on his sunglasses, and glared at him.”
“Sheeeesh! What did J-Rackz do? The J-Rackz I know wouldn’t just sit there and take it.”
“No. I heard he froze exactly where he stood, still holding his headphones.”
“Seriously?”
“...The King knelt before Shotgun.”
“He knelt?!”
“Metaphorically, nigga! Metaphorically!”
“On my mama, so that shock is why he locked himself away to train?”
And then—
“Yo, did you hear? J-Rackz knelt in front of Shotgun and cried!”
“The King of the underground knelt in front of Shotgun and cried?!”
“On God.”
The rumor kept rolling and growing more exaggerated.
Meanwhile, J-Rackz himself was shut inside his room training and had no idea such rumors were circulating outside.
And so, Shotgun’s image became more and more firmly established.
“First he buried B.I.G in the diss battle, and now this...”
“Shotgun is one scary bastard.”
“And I heard the Crips are backing him too.”
“...Shit. He’s someone you absolutely never want to mess with.”
Big Joe.
An OG of the Crips.
His network had deep roots.
Rappers born in the hood who had made it onto Billboard.
Basketball players from South Central who had reached NBA courts.
Actors raised in Compton who had made names for themselves in Hollywood.
They were all people who had started on the streets.
And people who started on the streets did not forget where they came from, no matter how high they climbed.
Even if they wanted to forget, they could not.
It was part of what people called homie culture.
Do not forget where you were born and raised.
There was a reason Neymar supposedly paid old hometown friends enormous monthly allowances.
...Because otherwise, you might get shot.
In any case, Big Joe’s phone was full of names like that.
“...”
Big Joe looked down at his phone screen.
[DRIVE] — Lil Dunk (Prod. SHOTGUN)
Billboard Hot 100: No. 34.
(Translator’s Note: Billboard Hot 100 — Billboard’s main U.S. singles chart, introduced in its current form on August 4, 1958. Rankings combine factors such as streaming, radio airplay, and sales.)
The artists already near the top of the chart had climbed there with label-backed playlist pushes, radio promotion, and massive social media advertising budgets.
Lil D had none of that support.
He had crawled this far on nothing but the buzz from the diss battle and the quality of the song itself.
There’s still room to climb.
Big Joe stood up.
They needed a stage that could push this momentum further.
Two hours later.
The front desk employee’s eyes widened when Big Joe entered the building lobby.
“Excuse me, but who are you here to see...?”
Big Joe lowered his sunglasses and said one thing.
“Tell Derek I’m here.”
Less than three minutes later, the elevator doors opened.
Derek Monroe.
The executive director of the LA Soundwave Festival.
He wore a suit, but the faint trace of a black tattoo showing at the back of his neck revealed where he had started.
He had left the hood as a teenager and entered the event industry.
From the very bottom, he had climbed to his current position.
Derek Monroe had never once forgotten where he came from either.
...Because otherwise, you might get shot.
“OG. I’m sorry you had to come all the way here. I should’ve come to you.”
“Forget it. I know you’re busy.”
Derek personally escorted him to the third-floor office.
Posters from every previous Soundwave Festival were arranged chronologically across the walls, while this year’s lineup sheets and stage maps were spread across the desk.
“Would you like something to drink...?”
“I’m fine.”
Big Joe sat on the sofa.
Then he placed his phone on the table.
The chart screen was visible.
“Damn. No. 34 on Billboard...”
Derek looked closely at the screen.
“It’ll be higher tomorrow.”
“...”
“Put Lil D on Soundwave.”
Derek adjusted his posture.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, thought for a moment, then carefully spoke.
“OG, I don’t like saying this, but...”
“Say it.”
“Honestly, [DRIVE] is doing incredibly well. An underground rapper reaching No. 34 with his first single... and yes, he could climb even higher. But you know the scale of the Soundwave stage. His live performance ability needs to be proven before I can report this upward.”
Big Joe put a cigar between his lips.
“I guarantee it. I’ve seen that bastard perform live several times.”
“...Understood.”
Derek nodded.
“Thanks, Derek. And since we’re doing this, put him on the hip-hop stage, in the slot right before the headliner.”
(Translator’s Note: Headliner — The principal or most prominently billed performer at a concert or festival. A slot immediately before the headliner is usually considered one of the most important positions on a lineup.)
“I’ll review it positively.”
“And one more thing.”
Smoke curled up from the end of Big Joe’s cigar.
“I’m planning to put Shotgun on Lil D’s stage as the DJ.”
“...Shotgun?”
Derek knew who he was too.
The producer behind [DRIVE].
The ruthless bastard who had buried B.I.G in the diss battle.
The monster who had even DJed at The Vault.
But—
DJing at Soundwave?
That was a completely different issue from asking him to put Lil D on the lineup.
“Every DJ on Soundwave’s hip-hop stage is a professional with touring experience.”
Derek pointed at the stage map.
“But as far as I know, the only time Shotgun has officially performed as a DJ was once at The Vault...”
Big Joe ground his cigar into the ashtray.
Shotgun.
He remembered that night.
The Vault.
Lil D’s return.
But what had impressed Big Joe the most was Shotgun’s attitude behind the DJ booth.
The sunglasses.
That signature expressionless face.
The way his hands moved without showing even the slightest trace of tension.
For an unknown producer, he had the nerve to demand fifty percent publishing. That bastard has guts that rival a gang member’s.
More importantly, there was his instinct for deliberately leaving empty space in the beat.
That skill.
That sense.
Because of it, Lil D had been able to freestyle, and as a result, he drew a bigger response than J-Rackz.
The conclusion was simple.
Big Joe believed Shotgun could stand alongside any professional DJ.
“Listen, Derek.”
“!”
The OG’s heavy voice made Derek flinch.
“Listen carefully.”
Big Joe spoke meaningfully, then placed a call.
Ring... ring...
He turned on speakerphone.
“Yeah, Shotgun.”
Big Joe briefly explained the current situation.
Then, as he waited for an answer—
“...I’m confident.”
Big Joe looked at Derek and raised one corner of his mouth.
“He says he’s confident.”
Park Geon ended the call.
His hand was trembling.
“...”
Big Joe had just told him that if he did not DJ at the Soundwave Festival, he would kill him.
Park Geon had definitely heard it clearly.
And the stage is Soundwave?
At The Vault, most of the crowd had been Black.
But this was a massive festival where people of every race came together.
He was supposed to DJ there?
He had even made mistakes last time.
And yet he had accepted anyway.
Once again, his survival instinct had intervened.
There was a Korean saying, after all.
Even rolling in a field of shit is better than being dead.
At this point, what is this?
Just how much longer were they planning to squeeze him dry?
Were they trying to extract absolutely everything they could from him like some kind of milking machine?
These ruthless gangster bastards!
He buried his face in the bed.
“...It’s over. It’s really over. Beatmaking, producing, DJing... and now a festival stage? Every time one thing ends, another one gets added...”
He glared resentfully at his index finger.
His entire life had fallen apart because of that one finger.
Buzz—
[Big Joe: Home address.]
...Fuck.
Now the gang boss was demanding his home address.
The reason was obvious.
It was a silent threat.
If the milking machine did not perform well, Big Joe would come directly to his house.
“Aaaaah...”
A sudden wave of dizziness hit him.
He felt like he was going to faint.