Jarad stared at the glowing monitor, the astronomical numbers on his screen reflecting in his wide eyes.
Over eighty-three thousand plays.
For a kid recording out of his closet with zero following and zero marketing budget, it was a statistical impossibility.
He grabbed his mouse, his clicks frantic as he opened a new tab.
He had to figure out where the leak came from.
He remembered the flood of comments on SoundCloud mentioning a streamer named Kaze, so he navigated straight to YouTube and typed Kaze Juice WRLD into the search bar.
Instantly, a dozen different highlight clips popped up, uploaded by various fan channels within the last few hours.
The top result was titled: KAZE REACTS TO GENERATIONAL TALENT (0 PLAYS TO 50K).
Jarad clicked the video.
He watched through the screen as the massive Twitch streamer, sitting in a high-end neon studio, aggressively paused Wishing Well and stared directly into the camera.
Jarad listened as Kaze praised the vocal texture, the emotional weight, and the raw acoustic production, practically screaming at his twenty thousand live viewers to go stream the track.
Scrolling down to the video description, Jarad found another clue—a link to a statewide university forum.
He clicked it and found himself staring at a massive, multi-page thread titled You guys NEED to hear this.
The thread was overflowing with thousands of college students dissecting his lyrics, sharing their own struggles with mental health, and praising his sound.
A quiet, triumphant laugh escaped Jarad’s chest.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, running a hand through his short twists.
The internet was a machine, and he had accidentally hit the exact right button to turn it on.
He was viral.
Before he could fully process the gravity of his new digital reality, a sharp, familiar voice echoed up the staircase.
The illusion of internet superstardom instantly shattered, replaced by the grounded reality of a Friday night in Homewood, Illinois.
Jarad closed his tabs, leaving the millions of potential listeners trapped behind his monitor, and jogged down the stairs.
The kitchen smelled incredible, filled with the rich aroma of seasoned chicken and roasted vegetables.
Carmella was moving rapidly between the stove and the counter, while Brian, his older brother, was already sitting at the small dining table, scrolling lazily on his phone.
“Grab the forks and spoons, please. And the napkins,” Carmella instructed without looking up from the oven.
Jarad moved smoothly into the routine, setting the table with a practiced ease.
The stark contrast between being a viral sensation online and doing household chores in his mother’s kitchen wasn’t frustrating; it was incredibly grounding.
This was why he was doing it.
The digital numbers on a screen didn’t matter unless they could put food on this exact table.
Once the food was plated, the three of them sat down.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clinking of cheap metal utensils against ceramic plates and casual Friday evening chatter.
Then, Carmella set her glass of ice water down and looked across the table at Jarad.
“So,” she started, her tone casual but her eyes sharp and observant.
“Did you upload that song you were working on yesterday?”
Brian stopped chewing.
He lowered his fork, looking back and forth between his mother and his younger brother with utter confusion.
“Jarad, you’re making music now?”
Jarad felt a sudden spike of nervous energy.
He hadn’t planned on telling his family about the internet explosion just yet—partly because he didn’t want to overwhelm his mother, and partly because he knew the rap industry carried a heavy stigma in their household.
“Yeah,” Jarad replied, keeping his voice steady as he looked at his mother.
“I finished it last night after we talked. I put it on the internet this morning before school.”
“Wait, like, you’re actually rapping?” Brian asked, a skeptical but amused smile spreading across his face.
He leaned forward, genuinely intrigued.
“Since when do you have a studio set up in your room?”
“It’s just an acoustic guitar and a mic,” Jarad shrugged, trying to play it down.
“It’s not really standard rap. It’s more… melodic. Just talking about some things.”
Carmella gave a small, approving nod.
She remembered the raw emotion she had overheard through the thin walls of his bedroom.
“He plays the guitar beautifully on it. It’s got a very heavy message, but it’s honest.”
Brian’s eyes widened slightly.
If their strict, conservative mother was openly praising a hip-hop track at the dinner table, it had to be something entirely different.
He pulled his phone back out of his pocket and unlocked the screen.
“Alright, you can’t just drop that on me and not let me hear it,” Brian laughed, opening his browser.
“What’s the name of the track, little bro? Let me see what you’ve got.”