The Lowlands dawned the same way every day: with the rumble of the first motorcycles, the murmur of street vendors and the watchful eyes of those marking territory. Zion Carter wandered those streets as if they were an extension of his body. With a half-consumed cigarette between his lips, he dodged puddles and crossed glances with figures who, like him, knew exactly where they stood in the neighborhood's power scheme.
"Riven, right?" asked a young man from around a corner, carrying a backpack that clearly contained no books. Zion nodded slightly. He didn't need any more. In the Lower Zones, reputation spoke for one.
That day he had a meeting with one of the Organization's lesser capos. There were rumors that a rival group was attempting to infiltrate the areas controlled by his employer. Although Zion did not consider himself a strategist, his instincts and his ability to read people had made him a valuable resource.
In the gambling den where the meeting was taking place, the air was thick with smoke and tension. Marcos, a man with a scarred face and ever restless eyes, greeted him with a curt gesture.
"Riven, we need you to find out who is leaking information. This is getting out of hand."
Zion settled into a rickety chair, setting his cigarette down in an overstuffed ashtray. "I'll do it, but I'll need a couple of names and some time. And I also want something in return: access to the Organization's study."
Mark looked at him, first surprised, then amused. "Are you still into that music of yours? I thought you were past that phase."
"Music was never a phase," Zion replied earnestly. "It's my way out, Marcos. And if you want my loyalty, I need something to keep me sane."
The kingpin watched him for a moment before nodding. "Done. But solve this problem first."
The next few days, Zion immersed himself in work. He discreetly questioned suspects, reviewed merchandise movements, and analyzed patterns that others had overlooked. His clinical, calculating approach set him apart from the rest. He was not impulsive, but when he acted, he did so with a precision that intimidated everyone.
In the evenings, he would return to the microphone. In a small makeshift studio that a friend had set up in the basement of his house, Zion began to shape Illmatic. Each beat was a scar, each verse a confession. His younger brother, Nate, listened from a corner, admiring how Zion transformed the chaos of his life into art.
"This is different," Nate said one night, after Zion finished recording a track. "It's like you're telling something that no one else dares to say."
"It's because no one else lives this like we do," Zion replied, lighting up another cigarette. "I want people to hear this and understand that the Lowcountry isn't just a place. They're a conviction and an identity."
A week later, Zion identified the traitor. He was a young member, desperate for money and with little experience. The Organization was quick to deal with him, but not before sending a clear message, "No one betrays and lives to tell the tale." Zion watched the scene coolly, reminding himself that this was the price of his choice.
The promised favor came soon after. Marcos gave him access to the Organization's studio, a much more sophisticated place than the basement where he had been recording. Here, with professional equipment and experienced producers, Zion felt he could finally shape his vision.
The process was intense. Whole days composing, recording and perfecting every detail. But there were also conflicts. Some in the Organization saw his music as a dangerous distraction. "You're drawing too much attention to yourself," one of his superiors warned him. "Remember Riven: success comes at a price."
"I know," Zion replied with a lopsided smile. "But I also know I'm willing to pay it."
The album was almost ready when the first real warning came. A rival group began making aggressive moves, attacking points controlled by the Organization. Zion found himself caught between two worlds: the artist seeking his voice and the loyal member of a mob demanding his strength.
But if he had learned anything in the Underlands, it was that you could never waver. So he adjusted his jacket, tucked his lyric notebook into an inside pocket and went out to face whatever came his way. Because, at the end of the day, he wasn't just surviving in the Downbelow. He was part of them, and his voice, like his actions, would resonate for a long time to come.