The red recording light on the streaming software had vanished, leaving Jarad completely alone in the quiet isolation of his new studio.
He sat back in his chair, taking a slow, deep breath.
The acoustic foam on the walls did exactly what it was designed to do—it swallowed the sound of the outside world entirely, leaving nothing but the faint, rhythmic hum of his computer tower.
Just minutes ago, he had been speaking directly to tens of thousands of people, stripping away the mystery of his identity and setting the tone for his entire career.
Now, the digital stadium was empty, and it was just him and the blank canvas.
Jarad reached for his phone, which was still vibrating relentlessly against the surface of his folding table.
He ignored the flood of Twitter mentions and YouTube comments, tapping directly into the Tumblr app.
He didn’t even have to initiate the conversation.
A message from se7enteenblack was already waiting for him, time-stamped just three minutes after his stream ended.
se7enteenblack: I literally just watched you build a professional vocal booth inside a junk closet in front of fifty thousand people.
You are absolutely insane, Jarad.
The new microphone sounds incredible by the way.
Jarad smiled, the bright light of his phone screen reflecting in his eyes.
He leaned back against the foam-lined wall and typed his reply.
JuiceWRLD: I had to put the rumors to rest before people started thinking I was a thirty-year-old industry plant.
The gear is flawless.
The space is completely dead silent.
We have the perfect environment for your vocals now.
se7enteenblack: I can’t wait.
Hearing you play that acoustic progression at the end of the stream gave me chills.
I already have my verse entirely written.
The pen was just flying tonight.
JuiceWRLD: That’s the energy we need.
But what about your solo stuff?
You said you write every day.
Are you working on anything for yourself right now, or just my feature?
The typing bubble on Ashley’s end danced on the screen for a long time.
Jarad waited patiently, knowing how deeply protective independent artists were of their unreleased work.
Finally, a block of text came through.
se7enteenblack: I actually am.
I wrote something a few days ago.
It’s entirely mapped out in my head.
The lyrics, the cadence, everything.
It’s a lot different than my usual acoustic covers.
It’s darker.
More alternative pop.
JuiceWRLD: What’s it about?
se7enteenblack: It’s about being in a relationship with someone who is entirely emotionally unavailable.
Like you’re sleeping next to them, but they aren’t really there.
You’re just searching for a ghost.
I have the whole vision for it, but honestly…
my production skills are terrible.
I only have a cheap laptop mic and some basic piano loops.
I feel like the song is too big for the equipment I have.
It’s frustrating.
Jarad stared at the screen, his heart skipping a beat.
Searching for a ghost.
He knew exactly what she was talking about.
In his past life, Ghost was the breakout, platinum-selling single that completely launched Halsey’s career into the stratosphere.
It was the track that got her signed to a major label and put her on arena tours.
And right now, in 2014, it was just a collection of lyrics sitting in a nineteen-year-old girl’s notebook, waiting for the right sonic landscape.
Jarad didn’t want her uploading a low-quality demo to the internet.
He wanted to help her build the anthem she deserved, exactly the way it was meant to sound.
JuiceWRLD: Don’t record that on a laptop mic, Ashley.
If the song is as big as you say it is, it needs to be treated with respect. Find the original chapter at g.com.
It needs heavy bass, atmospheric synths, and pristine vocal layering.
se7enteenblack: I know!
But studio time in New Jersey is like a hundred dollars an hour.
I work at a pizza place, Jarad.
I don’t have that kind of budget right now.
Jarad didn’t hesitate.
He sat forward, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
JuiceWRLD: You don’t need a budget.
You have me.
Come to Chicago this Saturday.
The typing bubble appeared, stopped, and then appeared again.
se7enteenblack: Saturday?
This weekend?
JuiceWRLD: Yes.
My mom already cleared the guest room for you.
You can take the train in on Friday night, stay for the weekend, and leave on Sunday.
We have 48 hours.
We’ll record your verse for ‘Life’s a Mess’, and then we will lock the studio door, boot up the software, and I will personally produce the instrumental for ‘Ghost’.
We’ll record both tracks right here.
No hourly rates.
No studio executives.
Just us making art.
Jarad watched the screen.
He knew it was a massive proposition.
Traveling across the country to stay at the house of a sixteen-year-old she had only spoken to on Tumblr was a leap of faith.
But he also knew that Ashley possessed a relentless, fearless ambition.
She was an artist who would walk through fire for her music.
A minute passed in silence.
Then, a single message popped up.
se7enteenblack: I am booking my train ticket right now.
Send me your address.
Jarad exhaled, a massive, triumphant smile breaking across his face.
JuiceWRLD: Done.
See you on Saturday.
He closed the Tumblr app, tossing his phone onto the small folding table.
The schedule was officially locked.
Saturday would be the most important recording session of his new life.
But he couldn’t wait until the weekend to do his own homework.
If Ashley was coming to record her verse, and if Sarah the violinist was coming to lay down her strings, the instrumental foundation of Life’s a Mess needed to be absolutely flawless.
Jarad turned his attention back to his laptop screen.
He opened his digital audio software, the interface dark and empty, waiting for a heartbeat.
He reached over and grabbed his acoustic guitar.
The wood felt familiar and warm against his chest.
He positioned himself in front of the sleek, matte-black condenser microphone he had just unboxed.
He adjusted the heavy metal stand so the mic was pointing directly at the twelfth fret of the guitar—the absolute sweet spot for capturing the richest, most balanced tone of the instrument.
He reached out, clicked the red record button on his screen, and closed his eyes.
The moment his fingers struck the strings, the magic of the soundproofed room became undeniable.
Without the harsh echoes of his bedroom walls, the microphone picked up nothing but the pure, weeping emotion of the chord progression.
The sound was incredibly intimate.
He played the melancholic, descending melody perfectly on the first try, letting the final note ring out until it faded entirely into the silence of the foam panels.
He stopped the recording, put the guitar down, and grabbed his mouse.
He dragged the audio file into the main arrangement window.
Jarad duplicated the guitar track, panning one slightly to the left speaker and the other slightly to the right.
It sounded massive, but it still lacked the aggression.
It was time to build the trap foundation.
Jarad pulled his digital keyboard into the center of the desk.
In 2014, the underground scene was obsessed with distorted, chaotic drums.
But Jarad knew that for a ballad to work, the percussion needed to be incredibly clean, punchy, and deliberate.
He loaded up a crisp, tight hi-hat sample.
He didn’t want a generic, rapid-fire machine-gun roll.
He played the keys manually, tapping out a bouncy, syncopated rhythm that felt alive, adding slight variations in the volume of each hit so it sounded like a real drummer was in the room.
Next came the snare.
He chose a sharp, wooden rimshot that cut through the soft acoustic guitar perfectly, placing it firmly on the third beat of every measure to anchor the rhythm.
Then came the monster.
The 808 bass.
Jarad scrolled through his massive library of bass samples until he found the perfect one—a deep, chest-rattling tone that didn’t have too much distortion.
He wanted the bass to hug the listener, not deafen them.
He mapped the 808 to his keyboard, finding the exact root notes of the acoustic guitar progression.
He pressed record again, closing his eyes and nodding his head violently as he played the bassline live.
He let the heavy 808s glide and slide between the chords, creating a massive, stadium-shaking bounce that violently contrasted with the sad, weeping acoustic guitar.
He hit the spacebar, stopping the track, and immediately looped the sequence.
The sound blasting through his studio headphones was extraordinary.
The marriage of the acoustic emo-rock foundation with the heavy, aggressive hip-hop drums was seamless.
It was the exact blueprint of the sound that would eventually take over the entire world, and he was refining it to absolute perfection.
But as the instrumental looped for the tenth time, Jarad didn’t celebrate.
He listened critically, his eyes scanning the colorful blocks of audio on his screen.
The track was huge, but there were specific, intentional pockets of empty sonic space.
He pointed to the screen, tracing a gap in the high-frequency range.
That’s where Sarah’s violin is going to weep, he thought, visualizing the classical strings tearing through the heavy bass.
He traced another gap in the mid-range.
And that’s where Ashley is going to harmonize.
He spent the next two hours completely lost in the engineering process.
He didn’t write any of his own lyrics; he didn’t need to.
The words to Life’s a Mess were permanently burned into his soul.
Instead, he focused entirely on the mix.
He tweaked the volume of the kick drum so it punched perfectly through the 808 bass without muddying the sound.
He added a very subtle, spacey reverb to the acoustic guitar, making it sound like it was being played in an empty cathedral rather than a closet.
By the time he was finished, it was past midnight.
The house was completely silent.
Carmella had long since gone to sleep, and Brian was in his room down the hall.
Jarad took off his headphones, his ears ringing slightly from the hours of focused listening.
He saved the project file, naming it LIFES_A_MESS_MASTER_INSTRUMENTAL, and leaned back in his chair.
He looked at the microphone, standing tall and pristine in the center of the tiny room.
Just a few days ago, he was fighting a massive internal war, terrified of relapsing, terrified of the future, and recording his pain into a cheap piece of plastic.
Now, he had two million people waiting on his every move.
He had a generational pop star booking a train ticket to sleep in his guest room.
He had a high school prodigy ready to lay down live strings.
He wasn’t just a kid who got lucky on the internet.
He was a conductor orchestrating a massive cultural shift.
Jarad reached over, turned off the small desk lamp, and stepped out of the soundproofed closet.
He closed the door quietly, leaving the magic sealed inside the room, and walked down the dark hallway to his bedroom.
As he laid down in his bed, staring up at the familiar shadows on his ceiling, his mind was completely clear.
There was no anxiety.
There were no cravings for the substances that had once controlled him.
For the first time in his entire life, the only thing keeping him awake was the sheer, thrilling anticipation of tomorrow.