The Man In The Mirror [Rapper System]

London. A city where the life of a child differed vastly from most places. London wasn't just a city you passed through; it was a world of its own, demanding that you stay. From the towering council flats to the narrow terraced houses with brick facades, wrought iron railings, and small, neatly fenced gardens, everything here felt unyielding. London was never an easy city. It was a place where the strong thrived and the weak scraped by, surviving on whatever they could claim.

But it hadn't always been this way. Before the violence, before the rise of gang culture and the slow decay of neighborhoods, London was a place of hope.

In the '60s and '70s, it was a beacon for immigrants seeking better lives—a place where families, black and brown, could carve out a piece of prosperity. But within that dream lay nightmares of racial discrimination and systemic poverty.

By the time the '80s rolled around, the streets of South London bore little promise. Turf wars and gang rivalries scarred the city, turning neighborhoods into battlefields. Disputes that once ended with words or fists now concluded with knives or worse. Retaliation became routine, and more bodies fell on the pavement. London bled, and no one came to its rescue.

People learned to live with it—because what other choice did they have? Life was never merciful to those at the bottom of the ladder. It offered no escape, only a cruel choice: push forward, the weight of the world pressing down, or fall beneath it, crushed by the same unbearable load. Either way, the burden remained. Either way, the ladder stood tall, as if mocking those struggling beneath its shadow.

Yet amidst the chaos, the streets still called to those born into it—to those who heard the rhythm of survival thudding in their chests, who tasted the bitterness of a life spent chasing dreams they couldn't quite reach. Some found solace in ignorance, while others became conduits of chaos, lost in the cycle of violence.

But Amias refused to accept this flawed reality. Where there was chaos, he believed order could be found. When sirens wailed through the night, their cries sharp and unrelenting, he closed his eyes and let his dreams take flight. He imagined a London of hope and prosperity, rather than misery and despair.

Despite his daydreams, memories of his father's birthplace clung to his heart like the pull of a sweet melody. Raised in Texas, where the skyline stretched endlessly under a blazing red sun and the land seemed to swallow the horizon, he grew up where life was simpler. In Texas, people were 'Texas tough'—hardened by the land but friendly all the same.

Amias cherished every piece of it. The rugged cowboys with sun-weathered skin and calloused hands, their boots caked in dust from herding cattle. He remembered the honky-tonk bars where folks laughed and danced to Willie Nelson and George Strait. Even the crass, free-spirited rednecks who lived as untamed as wild mustangs.

Though he was born and lived in London, Amias never stopped being a Texan at heart. The Lone Star State was stitched into his soul, its rhythm echoing beneath the surface of his life.

He remembered the lazy days of his childhood—days when his biggest worry was finishing homework before heading out to play. He was eleven when his mother decided to divorce his father, pack up and move. "Closer to family," she said. "Closer to opportunities."

Even at that age, he understood. His father wasn't great at being a dad. He'd often return home after long nights, getting up to who knows what with his friends. By the time his mother learned that he had fathered another child while with her, she decided to call it quits.

Being a single mother was difficult, and unwilling to count on his father's benevolence she decided she needed support elsewhere.

At the time, Amias was anything but happy about leaving. Texas was his world. He remembered the days spent at skateparks, drenched in sweat under the relentless sun, practicing flip-tricks and racing to water fountains to quench their thirst.

But it wasn't just the place he'd miss. More than anything, he'd miss his friends. For a quiet kid who struggled to socialize, finding a group of misfits to call his own meant everything. And that was thanks to Paul.

Paul was the life of the party—outgoing, vibrant, bold. Paul made friends effortlessly, and by extension, so did Amias. It didn't take long for Amias to realize that introverts don't make friends—they get adopted by extroverts.

They were a wild bunch, causing havoc on skateboards across Texas. More than once, irritated neighbors shouted at them, and once or twice, the cops showed up, surprisingly laid-back compared to the trouble Amias would later witness in London.

But soon, he waved his friends goodbye. His mother had already given up so much in search of something better, so they packed their small life in Texas and moved.

In time, he understood how some were pulled into lives of crime, plucked from normality and thrown into a dangerous game they couldn't control. He watched as they hustled on street corners, struggling to survive another day. It was then that he learned a harsh truth: the world waits for no one, and if you don't make a move, the world will make it for you.

No one taught him how to survive. But he watched. He listened. He learned.

Amias never thought of himself as a gang member. He never wore colors or threw up signs. Even with his friends' ties to local crews, he wanted no part of it. He was trying to steer clear, fighting to stay above the pull of the streets.

London wasn't just a city. It was a beast—alive, breathing, constantly shifting. It pulled you in, wrapped you tight, and never let you go. It was beautiful and brutal, a place where dreams were born only to be crushed beneath hurried footsteps on cracked pavements.

Amias knew this from the moment he arrived. He was eleven then, fresh off the plane from Texas, blinking against the pale, grey light of a city that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. His mother's hand was tight around his, her jaw set, eyes hard. She walked quickly, as if moving fast enough could erase the past they were running from.

She never talked much about why they'd left Texas. Not in so many words, anyway. But Amias was no fool. He remembered the arguments, the broken glass, his father's voice echoing through the house, rough and slurred. He remembered the nights his mother would lock the door, her shoulders tense, listening for the sound of tires on gravel. They were running from him—from the man who should have been their protector but turned into a stranger she couldn't trust.

His father ran with the Tango Blast in Texas. A gang that moved weight across the state, lining pockets with blood money.

They met when his father visited London—charming and confident, with a smile that made promises he never intended to keep. His mother was young, hopeful, swept up in his world. She followed him back to Texas, leaving her family behind in Brixton, believing in a future that never came.

She found out about his other child when Amias was nine. He heard her crying behind closed doors, her voice breaking as she begged for the truth. His father didn't deny it. He never did like to lie. He just shrugged, lighting another cigarette, eyes cold and distant.

Amias watched as she packed their lives into suitcases, moving quietly, like she was afraid to disturb the ghosts in the house. They flew to London, landing in a world that felt cold and heavy.

They moved in with her brother, Uncle Desmond. His house was cramped and noisy, filled with the sounds of Guyanese patois and the smell of curry simmering on the stove.

He struggled to understand the fast life and felt out of place among cousins who'd known each other their whole lives.

Oakley was different, though. The oldest cousin, just a few years older than Amias, but he carried himself like a man. Confident, laid-back, with a sharp tongue and a lazy smile. Oakley had a way of making you feel like you belonged, even when you didn't. When Amias first arrived, awkward and silent, Oakley was the one who took him under his wing.

"Ami, come check this," Oakley called, waving him over to the sofa. He was watching some grime videos on YouTube, head nodding to the beat. "You like this kinda music?"

Amias shrugged, unsure. "Dunno. Haven't heard it before."

Oakley's eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in mock horror. "You jokin', yeah? Man's never heard grime? Nah, that's mad. I gotta educate you, fam."

They spent hours that night, Oakley explaining each artist, each bar, each beat, his excitement infectious. Amias found himself laughing, the tension in his chest easing. For the first time since Texas, he felt like he could breathe.

But life in London wasn't easy. His mother struggled, working long hours in a cramped office, always tired, always stressed. Amias saw the bills piling up the moment they moved to an apartment, watched her cut corners, stretch meals. He hated it. Hated feeling helpless, hated seeing her break down behind closed doors, thinking he couldn't hear.

Money was tight, but the streets were rich. He saw the way Oakley moved—dressed in designer clothes, always with cash to spend, never wanting for anything. Oakley never looked stressed, never looked worried. Amias was tired of worrying.

He waited until Oakley was alone, leaning against the wall outside Desmond's house, his phone glowing in the dark. Amias took a breath, heart pounding. "Oakley… I need to make some money."

Oakley looked up, his eyes narrowing. "You know what you askin' for, yeah? This ain't no joke, Ami."

"I know." Amias swallowed hard, his voice steady. "I just… I need to help my mum. I can't keep watchin' her struggle."

Oakley's face softened, his shoulders relaxing. "I get that. I do. But this life… it ain't easy. Once you start, it's hard to get out."

"I'm not scared."

Oakley studied him for a moment, his gaze searching. Then he nodded. "Alright. But you move smart, yeah? No dumb shit. You sell to the posh kids—rich white boys who just wanna get high. They don't bring trouble."

Amias agreed, and Oakley handed him a small bag, the plastic crinkling. "Start with that. Move it quick, come back, and I'll sort you out."

It was easy at first. Amias kept it lowkey, selling to the rich kids at school who paid stupid amounts just to feel rebellious. The money came in fast, and for a while, it felt like he'd found a way out.

But the streets don't let you go that easy.

He was walking through an alley with Mason when it happened. It was late, the sun setting behind the council flats, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. They were laughing, talking about the party coming up that weekend, their voices echoing off the narrow walls.

Then the shadows moved.

A figure stepped out, his face hidden beneath a hoodie, shoulders broad and tense. Amias' heart sank. The man's voice was low, rough. "Where's my p's, fam?"

Mason's face went pale. "I-I don't have it… I swear—"

The knife was out before Amias could blink, glinting in the fading light. "Are you mad? You're trapping on my turf and not paying tax brother?" the man growled, his grip tightening on Mason's collar.

Amias' chest went cold. He tried to speak, but his voice was gone, his feet glued to the ground. The knife flashed, quick and brutal. Once. Twice. The sound was wet, sickening. Mason's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his body jerking before crumpling to the ground.

Amias ran. His legs moved on instinct, his heart thundering in his chest, the world blurring around him. Pain burned across his arm, white-hot and searing. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not even when Mason's screams echoed in his ears, not even when the blood soaked through his sleeve, dripping onto the pavement.

He burst through his front door, slamming it shut, his body shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps. His mother looked up, her eyes widening in horror at the blood on his arm. She asked questions, her voice sharp and frantic, but Amias couldn't answer. He couldn't find the words. Couldn't tell her how he watched his friend die, how the streets took Mason and he left him behind. Like a coward.

She never asked about the scar that remained—a jagged line across his bicep. It only served as a reminder. A image ingrained so deeply into his mind, so much so that the moment he closed his eyes, the nightmare surfaced, his vision a canvas of grey and red. He'd shudder hearing each time he heard the hollow scream of Mason, a desperate cry in his moment of helplessness.

Two years later, at the age of seventeen the memory clung to him like a shadow under the sun, a record that never ceased to repeat.

He'd yet to forgive himself for running off, leaving his own best friend to die meaninglessly in that alleyway and he hated the hidden figure, for taking away someone he cared for.

He didn't quit at moving weight. As heartless as it may sound he treated the experience as a valuable lesson. Cautiously, he continued supplying white teenagers of blue collared suburban households, seeking to aid their fits of rebellion.

He had always known his way of life would have a profound effect on him—negatively, of course. It was the reason he maintained a careful boundary between himself and the activities that could plunge him into an inescapable existence. Though his heart grew heavier with each passing day, the thought that he might lose his sanity had never crossed his mind.

But he had, undoubtedly, gone insane. Because if he hadn't—why was there a glowing blue holographic screen suspended against the dreary London skyline?

{"Hi Amias. Would you like to be a rapper?"}