When they finally stepped outside, the cold Washington air hit Dayo's face.

He stopped for a moment, watching the crowd disperse and the bright stage lights fade behind him.

Alice came up beside him, arms folded. "You know this isn't over, right?"

Dayo sighed. "Yeah. I know. He just started, and he means business."

She glanced toward the hall where Michael had been sitting.

"He made his move tonight. This was just a warning — he's coming for you."

Dayo looked up at the sky.

"Let him warn all he wants. I've made up my mind — I'd rather work as a delivery man than work under anyone, least of all Michael."

Alice smiled faintly. "Good. Because the next storm is going to be worse."

Dayo didn't answer. He just stared ahead, expression calm but eyes sharp.

Deep down, he already knew — this was only the beginning.

He turned to leave, the faint city lights reflecting in his eyes.

"Let's go," he said quietly. "We have work to do."

The noise of the hall faded behind him — replaced by silence, purpose, and the quiet promise of another fight to come.

---

Just then, someone tapped his shoulder.

Turning back, he saw it was Michael's assistant.

"Good evening," she said politely. "I'm Clara, Mr. Michael's assistant."

Dayo nodded. "And what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Michael would like to see you."

"Okay, sure. Lead the way. Let's go, Alice."

He wasn't surprised — he already knew Michael would call for him. What he didn't know was why.

Clara coughed lightly. "He only wants to see you."

"Oh." Dayo glanced at Alice. "I'll be back."

He turned back to Clara.

"Alright then," he said evenly. "Lead the way."

She led him through the quiet backstage corridor and out into the cold night. A sleek black limousine was parked by the curb, engine humming softly. Clara walked up, knocked on the tinted glass twice, and said, "Sir, he's here."

Then she stepped aside and opened the door.

Dayo entered.

Inside, soft jazz played from hidden speakers. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and aged whiskey. Sitting opposite him was Michael — legs crossed, suit immaculate, a glass in hand.

"Ah, Dayo," he said smoothly, smiling as though they were old friends. "I've been waiting for you. Have a seat."

Dayo smirked but complied, sitting calmly across from him.

"So, Michael," he said evenly. "To what do I owe this meeting?"

Michael chuckled, studying him. He couldn't get used to how fearless Dayo was — rare, in an industry where everyone either feared him or worshiped him.

"Oh, relax, Dayo. Let's just talk for a while."

He poured another glass and slid it across the table. "Here. Relax. Have a drink."

Dayo accepted it but didn't sip. "Thanks for the offer," he said politely. "But I don't take alcohol — professional purposes."

Michael laughed softly. "You know, I can't remember the last time someone said no to me. And here you are — saying no twice in the same breath." He leaned back, amused. "You're funny."

He swirled his drink once before continuing. "So, Dayo — your album. I'm not going to lie. I've never seen anything like that. The way you took over the internet, the momentum, the reach — it was… unbelievable."

Dayo smiled slightly. He could already see what Michael was doing — fishing. Testing. He decided to play along.

"Haha, coming from you, Michael," Dayo said lightly, "I'm honored that you took note of it."

Michael smirked. He could tell Dayo was dodging the question, refusing to show any cards. He decided to dig deeper.

"Yeah," he said, leaning forward. "I've got my whole team studying how you did it. How does someone record an album of that quality in just two weeks?"

Dayo kept his tone steady.

"Michael, I don't even know how to explain it myself," he said, forcing a small laugh. "It was a phenomenon — the kind that even I couldn't fully understand. Everything just clicked. (He went on describing how he recorded, mentioning the countless late nights, the endless retakes, the lucky harmonies from his featured artists, the last-minute fixes that somehow became magic. He painted the whole story vividly — but it was clear Michael wasn't listening. Dayo could tell the older man didn't care about the process. He wanted the secret — the system — the part Dayo could never reveal."

Michael's face, calm before, turned grim.

"Enough," he said sharply.

The word cut through the car like a blade.

Dayo stopped talking and looked straight at him. "Any problem, Mr. Michael?"

He stretched the "Mr." deliberately.

Michael narrowed his eyes. "You know, you're too smart for your own good, Dayo."

Dayo gave a light laugh. "Haha, I've been told that since I was two. I'm flattered to hear it from you. You wouldn't mind humoring me again, Mr. Michael?"

Michael stared at him for a long moment, still trying to understand how Dayo could be this casual — this fearless.

Finally, he asked, "Do you plan on having a future in this industry?"

Dayo smiled faintly. "Of course, Michael."

"Then I'll ask you for one thing," Michael said smoothly. "If you can give me that, I'll stay out of your way — no interference with your label, your friends, or you."

Dayo leaned back, pretending to look intrigued. "Oh? And what might that be?"

Michael's tone shifted, his words measured.

"Your album's success was… unnatural. It dominated the entire internet for a week straight. No other story, no trending tag — nothing could break through it. Even the social media outlets couldn't stop your numbers from climbing. You created something beyond ordinary PR. I want to know how."

He paused, smiling faintly. "If you can tell me — and keep it between us — you'll be in the clear."

He sat back, confident, thinking he'd cornered Dayo with an irresistible deal.

Dayo smiled quietly.

If he really had a "secret" — something humanly explainable — maybe he would've considered it. Maybe. But he didn't. The "system" was his alone, and it wasn't something he could share — even if he wanted to.

He met Michael's gaze squarely. "If I told you I had no secret, would you believe me?"

Michael's expression twitched slightly, but he kept calm. "No. I wouldn't."

"Then you'll have to," Dayo said simply. His voice dropped into something quiet, resolute. "Because I don't have any secret, any formula, or any trick. It just happened. I was as surprised as you were."

He said it, hoping — foolishly — that Michael might believe him.

But the chances were zero. Not close to it — absolute zero.

Michael's calm slipped. His jaw tightened as he leaned forward. "Does this seem like a joke to you, JD?" he snapped. "If you don't agree to this deal now, you might not have much of a career left. So—"

He leaned closer — "Will you hand it over or not?"

Dayo swallowed once, picked up his untouched drink, and finally took a small sip — water, not whiskey. Then he met Michael's eyes again.

"Mr. Michael," he said quietly, "you called me smart not long ago. Do you think I don't understand the situation I'm in?"

He smiled slightly, almost sadly. "I do. Which is why I'm telling you seriously — I don't have what you're looking for. You yourself can testify that I attract attention easily. But there's no secret formula here."

He spoke not from fear — but from restraint. He had no interest in fighting Michael, not now. His foundation was still too small. If avoiding conflict kept his people safe, that was the wiser move.

But it seemed Michael wasn't in the mood for reason.

"You're too smart for your own good," Michael hissed. "I gave you a chance — and you messed it up. Remember this moment, because you just triggered your own downfall."

He knocked twice on the glass.

The car door on Dayo's side clicked open.

Dayo stood up slowly. But before stepping out, he looked back — his gaze colder than before, carrying a quiet, lethal calm. The kind of look that didn't belong to a pop star… but to someone who had seen war.

"Mr. Michael," Dayo said softly, "I'll say this once."

He paused. "You can touch me or my label. But don't — ever — touch anyone around me. Don't even think about it."

He smiled faintly, but his eyes were steel.

"I may be a small fish to you now, but if you cross that line… I'll personally end you. And everyone is backing you."

Then he turned and walked away without looking back.

The car door shut behind him with a dull thud.

Michael sat there for a long moment, the echo of Dayo's words hanging in the air. For the first time in years, he felt something he didn't recognize — a flicker of unease.

He stared at the empty seat across from him and muttered quietly,

"Who… is Dayo?"

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