"Hmph."
Taylor pouted at first, then locked eyes with Anya, and they both burst into giggles, covering their mouths.
They honestly couldn't picture Leon wrapped in a scarf, trying to pull off the "elegant gentleman" look.
"Ready?"
Max loaded the backing track into the equipment and gave a thumbs-up.
"Anytime," Leon replied with an 'OK' sign.
Recording electronic music is relatively straightforward—same principle as most rap.
The singer just needs to ride the beat and stay in the pocket. No complex acoustic instruments are needed; the synthesizers do the heavy lifting.
Even if the raw vocal isn't perfect, post-production pitch correction handles it.
In this genre, you don't have to worry about criticism; auto-tuned vocals aren't a crutch here, they're an aesthetic choice that fits the electronic vibe perfectly.
Taylor put on her headphones and nodded to Max.
As the backing track kicked in, she dove right in.
"Tell me what's the trick to love, I wish I knew; I'm so done with this sick obsession for everything I want..."
She stunned everyone from the first note. Her perfect, girlish tone left the original demo in the dust.
David Guetta and Max exchanged a look and shrugged simultaneously. "I mean, what is there to say?"
Compared to the melancholic, old-school vibe of Shallow, upbeat pop-EDM was clearly more in Taylor's wheelhouse.
She excels at love songs, but she doesn't wallow in misery.
Every painful breakup transforms into a page in a teenage diary set to music.
That's exactly why she has such a stranglehold on the Millennial fanbase—the era of "my life is over" heartbreak ballads is dead. Stop gaslighting young people with outdated views on romance.
After dropping a cheeky "F you," Taylor got so hyped she started club-dancing right there in the booth.
She didn't care that her blonde hair was messy and blocking her view. She grabbed Leon's arm, "Cheer up, honey~"
Leon couldn't say no, so he awkwardly swayed along to the beat and finished his verse.
...
When he first debuted, his singing style was wild and unpolished—pure street style. But now, he had made a quantum leap.
Despite his packed schedule, he never missed the bi-monthly vocal lessons provided by Columbia Records.
His performance in the booth was near flawless, handling the breath control effortlessly without that gasping-for-air quality found in the original male demo.
Still, next to Taylor, he faded into the background.
That's the gap in raw talent.
Taylor's naturally girlish tone was born for this genre. If you swapped her out for Katy Perry's power-house belt, no amount of post-production could achieve the same texture.
"You guys are glowing..."
Anya's eyes were sparkling. Beyond the genuine anticipation of seeing them get married, she felt a strange, indescribable flutter.
A sixteen-year-old girl is prone to admiration; that's just hormones at work.
If you translated that age to the animal kingdom, you'd call it "mating season."
A sour pang of jealousy hit her nose, and Anya quickly shook her head. "What the hell am I thinking..."
As the final note faded, the two producers took off their monitor headphones and stood up to applaud.
Max nudged Guetta. "This is exactly why I love working with Leon. Look at the time—we're done already?"
"I couldn't agree more," Guetta nodded genuinely.
During his stint with Cash Money Records, those nggas who didn't know a lick of music theory gave him endless headaches.
Missing beats, forgetting lyrics... piecing together a generic chart-topper from ass-shaking and profanity could take two or three days.
"You should write more songs like this in the future. I love the energy in the lyrics." Taylor hooked her arm around Leon's neck and rewarded him with a kiss.
Leon held her waist, whispering something in her ear that made her blush. "Is there another reward for tonight?"
Taylor rolled her eyes playfully and rubbed her stomach. "I'm a little hungry."
Then she turned her attention to Anya. "These past few days have been terrible. Want to grab a drink and relax?"
"You forgot she's only sixteen. That's not legal drinking age here," Leon reminded her.
"In the UK, it's legal for kids over five to drink low-alcohol beverages at home," Anya chimed in quickly. Alcohol always holds a mysterious allure for girls that age.
She said that, but coming from such a strict family, her parents had never actually let her touch the stuff.
Not even non-alcoholic beer.
Her protest surprised Leon—looks like the rebellious phase of a sixteen-year-old is inevitable.
"You also forgot British law says under-18s need a guardian's supervision to drink!"
"Aren't you right here?" Anya muttered softly.
"..." Leon was speechless. Since when was he promoted from boss to legal guardian?
The three of them took the Bentley driven by Jorge back to the Tribeca mansion.
Anya and Taylor had endless topics, chatting from the car ride all the way home—TV shows, movies, makeup, and eventually, boys.
Since her exposure increased, Anya's fame had skyrocketed.
Thanks to her new label as "Street Jesus's Favorite British Chick," her social media following had exploded, and she was getting invites to blogs and celebrity parties.
She was getting hundreds of DM confessions a day, even from some C-list Hollywood actors.
Under the protection of "Romeo and Juliet" laws, those thirsty Americans didn't care about her age.
"Don't look at actors through a filter. They are completely different people on screen versus in real life..." Taylor was passing on her wisdom. "You have to keep your eyes open when picking a boyfriend..."
Seeing the conversation heading in a weird direction, Leon couldn't help but interject, "Listen, if any scumbag harasses you, give me his name!"
"Free love is a girl's right, you shouldn't interfere," Taylor argued. The open social climate of America meant the average dating age kept dropping.
The days of fathers chasing bad boys off the porch with a shotgun were gone; now, most American parents would invite the punk in for coffee and encourage them to do homework together.
If they didn't, they'd be labeled "old-fashioned" or "rednecks."
Leon sighed helplessly. "I promised Anya's parents. This is serious..."
Back at the house, the two Miss Taylors showed no signs of stopping their chat.
They kicked off their trench coats and high boots, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. Four long, pale legs dazzling Leon so much he found it hard to focus.
He only got to enjoy the view for a few minutes before his phone rang.
It was Lil Durk.
"Dammit."
Leon was worried this loudmouth ngga would ruin things, but he eventually picked up.
"Boss! Please! Give me the info on those two guys! I gotta avenge Von personally!"
"Writing two songs dedicated to Von is the best gift you can give him. You're a singer now, not a damn street thug," Leon said, leaning against the balcony and rubbing his forehead.
Although Durk and Von both came out of Chicago and grew up in the same rough environment, they were different.
Von was a pure wild animal. He had no complex values of good and evil; he only cared about the block, his family, and his homies.
Durk was more of a trash-talk expert; the real killers never said much.
"Please, Boss! This is important to me!" Durk begged. "You don't know what the fans are saying in my comments. They're calling me a soft ass for not avenging my homie!"
Hearing this, Leon had an even bigger headache.
This ngga was eager for revenge purely out of damn ego!
Under the relentless pestering, he finally gave up the information on the second shooter.
"An Inglewood local, did twelve years for robbery, tight with the local Bloods," Leon said. "He's already on the run, but he hasn't gone far... Listen, put that fire in your heart into your lyrics. Don't be a nobody, ngga. Prove your worth!"
"Don't worry, Boss! I'll use this guy's blood to forge my new song!"
Durk hung up before he even finished his sentence.
Leon lit a cigarette against the wall. Releasing the shooter's info wasn't a big deal; maybe it would give Durk some inspiration.
The FBI would release the investigation results sooner or later anyway.
He didn't believe that ngga actually had the guts to do what a real thug does.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Taylor's five assistants were standing there carrying bags upon bags of takeout.
It was stuffed with food from the nearby Soho district—Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Italian, everything.
Taylor pulled a bottle of Domaine Leflaive white wine from the cabinet. "Cheers~ Let's chase the gloom away~"
Clink. The three glasses touched, though Anya was holding orange juice.
In America, that's the standard issue for kids at the dinner table.
Unsurprisingly, the girls had zero interest in the topics Leon brought up regarding the record industry, media, or politics.
Before long, the subject shifted back to gossip.
"Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson are dating!"
"Omg, really?" Anya covered her mouth, looking shocked. "I'm a die-hard fan of the Twilight series. I've read the books at least three times..."
"Of course it's true. Stewart told me herself," Taylor said, forking a piece of tuna into her mouth. "I always guessed there was something between them. I knew it!"
"You could tell from the way they looked at each other in Twilight 3," Anya blinked, her imagination running wild.
Leon didn't hear a single punctuation mark of this conversation. His only interest in the Twilight series was the box office.
In 2008, Twilight created a $400 million box office miracle on a budget of just $37 million, becoming the dark horse of the year.
Every subsequent film grossed over $700 million, becoming a phenomenon.
Summit Entertainment, which co-distributed the film, instantly became the most profitable independent studio.
However, earlier this year, Lionsgate acquired control of Summit for $410 million in cash and stock.
Miles had once bragged to him, "Soon Lionsgate will be as great as Warner Bros..."
Leon didn't care what he said, but the event sounded an alarm for him: once an independent studio touches the distribution cake, the old-school movie giants will circle like sharks smelling blood.
The breakup of DreamWorks was proof. Founder disputes were one thing, but the key was that the ambitious DreamWorks had tried to touch the distribution business of the "Big Six."
Leon left the table early, giving the ladies space to chat about private topics.
He sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone. The discussion about the "February 19th Chicago Hanging Body" incident remained high on social media.
The noise mocking Von's death had suddenly quieted down. Lil Wayne, Drake, and Chris Brown all shut their mouths in unison.
The instigator, Jay-Z, was also unusually quiet. Obviously, Leon's bloody and brutal retaliation exceeded his imagination.
But this was all just the prologue.
Half an hour later, the two ladies finally moved from the dining table to the sofa.
"It feels a bit hot, don't you think?" Taylor pulled at the collar of her tight sweater.
"I think so too..." Anya agreed.
With that, the two went into the cloakroom.
When they reappeared, they were wearing only cool camisole dresses, the hems barely reaching their knees.
Their fair, pristine feet dangled recklessly in front of Leon.
It was the first time he felt the New York capitalists and politicians had done something right—if the heating wasn't this good, he wouldn't be enjoying this view.
The TV was playing Leon's favorite show, Shameless. The male lead, Frank, was sleeping with a woman dying of cancer just to get a piece of her inheritance.
The sex-addicted daughter, Karen, was sleeping with any man she could find...
The explicit plot made Anya avert her eyes.
"Can't you watch something normal?"
Taylor sighed. Her tolerance was much higher than Anya's, but she still couldn't understand the twisted worldview of the characters.
The show basically had no moral compass.
"Just treat it as a great documentary," Leon quipped.
"A documentary?"
"Real life at the bottom is exactly like this," Leon spread his hands. "Can you imagine teenagers going to school with backpacks full of Glocks and weed instead of books?"
Taylor tried to picture it but couldn't.
It sounded like something happening in a war-torn African region, not here in New York, the heart of the world's strongest nation.
"It sounds incredible, but it's real. In Brownsville, good kids learned how to relieve stress for their mothers a long time ago."
Despite saying that, Leon picked up the remote and changed the channel to the drama-filled reality shows the girls loved.
The two Miss Taylors watched TV and gossiped until the party broke up at 11 PM.
Four days later, a twenty-minute shock video swept across the major gore sites in the US, rocketing to the number one spot in clicks.
In the footage, a hooded black man was surrounded by a dozen militants armed with M4 carbines.
His eyes were covered with black tape, and he was stripped to the waist.
His hands were tied behind his back, and he sat on the ground gasping for air.
The leader, wearing a skull balaclava, asked in the Spanish familiar to all gore fans: "Speak. What is your name, and who do you work for?"
Immediately after, another militant translated it into English.
The black man sitting on the ground was covered in intimidating tattoos, but in front of a group of drug traffickers armed to the teeth, he was as scared as a dog with a broken spine.
He was shaking all over, his dark lips turning pale.
He stammered, "I'm an American, you can't hurt an American citizen..."
Smack.
The leader smashed his mouth with the rifle butt, sending two teeth and a nerve flying out.
Obviously, the noble status of an American citizen didn't phase these ruthless thugs.