The cold bite of New York’s subway tunnels felt different from the usual suffocating air of writer’s block. Maybe it was the city, buzzing with stories, or maybe it was just the desperate hope that something—anything—would shake loose the lyrics that refused to come.

The task force had a mission here, something serious, but they’d let you tag along. Price had grumbled about it, but Ghost just shrugged and said, “If it keeps you from throwing in the towel, fine.”

So here you were, wandering the underground with them. The tunnels smelled like damp metal and old echoes, footsteps bouncing off tiled walls. And then—music.

A voice, rough but smooth, commanding attention like it had something real to say. A crowd had formed in a loose circle, bobbing to the rhythm. And at the center of it all, hood up, mic in hand, was Gaz.

You hadn’t known he rapped. Maybe he never mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t need to. The way he owned the space, the way the words slipped effortless from him—he belonged here.

And something inside you—something buried under all the frustration, all the crumpled lyrics and sleepless nights—lit up.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Stepped into the circle, let the beat carry you forward. Gaz caught your eye, a flicker of surprise before a knowing smirk. He held the mic out—an invitation.

You took it.

The words weren’t planned. They weren’t perfect. But they were yours. The rhythm wrapped around you like a heartbeat, the crowd reacting to every syllable, every note. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt right.

When the last beat dropped and the cheers rang out, Gaz clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You laughed, breathless. “Neither did I.”