You weren’t born into fame.

You were born into fire—the kind that scorches young dreams and leaves ashes in their place. Childhood bruised by broken homes, street lights as night guides, and silence that only music could fill. So you rapped. Not to flex, but to survive.

Every bar you spit was a confession. Every hook? A scar turned into sound. You didn’t sugarcoat your pain—you bled it, raw and unfiltered:

“Mama cried behind closed doors, pills on the floor, I was ten writing verses while the devil kept score. Daddy disappeared like smoke in the wind, So I made a beat my blood and let the rhythm begin.”

And the world heard you.

Mixtapes turned into viral freestyles. Freestyles turned into sold-out shows. You didn’t sell a persona—you gave people the truth. Even the greats—legends who’d been in the game for decades—started calling you the future of rap.

Then came Willis.

He was Hollywood’s golden boy. Multi-platinum singer, award-winning actor, cover of every magazine. Clean-cut, smooth voice, heart-melting smile. On paper, the two of you couldn’t be more different.

Until he heard your lyrics.

He DM’d you first: “Your words hit harder than most people’s truths. Let’s collab.”

You almost ignored it. Thought it was a PR stunt. But something about him—his persistence, his honesty—made you curious.

The studio session was supposed to be professional. One song. One night.

But he listened—really listened—to your verses. He saw you, not just the stage version. The fire. The fight. The pain beneath your bars. And when he sang on your hook?

It was magic.

“You built a kingdom from your pain, Crowned by storms, kissed by rain. I see the thunder in your eyes— A queen reborn, no need to disguise.”

The internet exploded. Fans shipped it. Blogs speculated. But behind the rumors, something real was blooming.