“Just type in Juice WRLD,” Jarad said calmly, taking a bite of his dinner.
“Spell world without the ‘O’. W-R-L-D. The song is called Wishing Well.”
Brian typed the name into the SoundCloud search bar on his phone.
He fully expected to find a rough, amateur track with ten plays—maybe twenty if Jarad had forced his high school friends to listen to it.
But when the page loaded, Brian’s thumb froze hovering over the screen.
“Bro…” Brian whispered, his eyes widening in absolute shock.
He looked up at Jarad, then back down at his phone.
“Eighty-three thousand plays? In less than twelve hours? Is this a glitch?”
Carmella set her fork down, her brow furrowing.
“Eighty-three thousand people? Listening to you?”
Jarad just offered a small, knowing shrug.
“I guess people relate to it.”
Still in a state of disbelief, Brian turned his phone volume all the way up and pressed play.
The crisp, melancholic twang of the acoustic guitar instantly filled the small dining room.
Carmella closed her eyes, recognizing the beautiful melody she had heard him playing earlier.
But when the heavy trap bounce kicked in and Jarad’s raspy, agonizing vocals finally dropped, Brian’s jaw literally went slack.
He stared at his younger brother as if he was looking at a complete stranger.
The vocal texture, the mixing, the profound, heavy emotion in the lyrics—it didn’t sound like a kid making a song in his closet.
It sounded like a generational superstar.
When the three-minute track finally faded out into silence, Brian slowly set his phone down on the table.
“Jarad,” Brian said seriously, all traces of his older-brother teasing completely gone.
“That is the best song I’ve heard all year. You’re going to be famous.”
Miles away from the quiet, grounded reality of Homewood, the heavy, soundproof doors of a downtown Chicago recording studio swung shut.
It was nearly 2:00 AM.
Chance the Rapper slumped back into a plush leather sofa, rubbing his exhausted eyes.
He was the undisputed golden child of the Chicago hip-hop scene, fiercely protective of his city and constantly looking out for the next generation of artists.
Taking a break from a grueling six-hour vocal session, Chance pulled out his phone and opened Twitter to mindlessly scroll.
His timeline was a blur of fan art and tour updates, but tonight, there was a strange anomaly.
Several prominent underground blogs and a few local Chicago producers were all retweeting the exact same SoundCloud link.
People were quoting a clip from a Twitch streamer named Kaze, practically begging everyone to listen to this unknown artist.
Chance narrowed his eyes.
The name attached to the link was unusual.
Juice WRLD.
Curious, he clicked the link.
Because he was still in the studio, the audio automatically routed through his phone’s Bluetooth and blasted directly out of the massive, high-end studio monitor speakers mounted on the wall.
Chance stopped scrolling.
He tilted his head.
It was a simple acoustic loop, but it was incredibly soulful.
Then, the heavy hi-hat bounce kicked in, rattling the studio walls.
But when the vocals dropped, Chance sat up completely straight.
He listened to the entire track in absolute silence.
As a deeply independent, introspective artist himself, Chance instantly recognized the brilliance.
It was a devastatingly honest confession from a kid who sounded like he was drowning in the streets.
It carried the pain of Chicago, wrapped in a vocal tone that was completely unique.
Chance didn’t hesitate.
He knew exactly how hard it was to break out of the city, and he knew a generational talent when he heard one.
He tapped ‘New Tweet’ on his phone.
He noticed the artist didn’t even have a Twitter account yet, but that didn’t matter.
The music spoke for itself.
Chicago, we got a new voice.
This kid is incredibly special. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Do not sleep on this.
Whoever “Juice WRLD” is, you got a gift.
Keep creating.
He pasted the SoundCloud link and hit send.
With a single tap of a button, he released the track to millions of followers.
Chance grabbed his jacket, smiling to himself as he walked out of the studio.
He had just changed someone’s life.
The next morning, Jarad woke up to sunlight piercing through the gaps in his bedroom blinds.
He groaned, rolling out of bed.
The previous night had been incredible—the look of pure pride on his mother’s face and the stunned respect from his brother was worth more than any diamond plaque.
He walked over to his desk, took a sip of water, and jiggled his computer mouse to wake his PC from sleep mode.
His web browser was exactly where he had left it, resting on his SoundCloud profile page.
Jarad casually clicked the refresh button to see where the numbers had landed overnight.
The page reloaded.
Jarad violently choked on his water, coughing as he grabbed the edges of the monitor.
His heart exploded against his ribcage.
The play counter, which had seemed miraculously high at eighty-three thousand yesterday, had completely shattered his expectations.
Plays: 642,810
Over six hundred thousand plays.
Overnight.
His hands shaking, Jarad quickly opened a new tab and searched his stage name on Google.
Right at the very top of the search results was a tweet from Chance the Rapper’s verified account.
The hometown hero had co-signed him while he was sleeping, pouring literal gasoline onto an already blazing fire.
Jarad leaned back in his swivel chair, a massive, disbelieving smile breaking across his face.
Six hundred thousand plays on his very first drop.
It wasn’t just a viral moment anymore.
It was the foundation of an empire.