Nighttime in the Lowlands always brought with it an air of uncertainty. The blackened sky mingled with the neon lights that flickered over disreputable stores. From an open window, the echoes of laughter drowned out by the music could be heard. The rain had come, and with it, the smell of wet earth that contrasted with the metallic scent of the surroundings.
In a studio that was not listed in any official record, Zion was bent over a hardcover notebook. The place was charged with energy: wires crossed on the floor, speakers vibrating with raw beats, and a microphone waiting to capture the emotions Zion transformed into art. Next to him, Nate fiddled with a keyboard bigger than he was, trying to mimic the music he so admired.
"How's that track coming?" asked Nate, leaning over to see what his brother was typing. Zion didn't look away from the sheet, but allowed himself a fleeting smile.
"Intense," he replied. "This isn't just a song, Nate."
The younger boy nodded in admiration, but before he could respond, a pounding on the door interrupted the atmosphere. Zion put down his pencil and stood up, signaling Nate to stand still. He opened just enough to see who it was: a thin boy, his face scarred by stress and his clothes soaked from the rain.
"What's up, Kenny?" asked Zion, keeping his tone low.
"We've got trouble, Riven," the young man replied, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "Marcos wants to see you right away. It's a big deal."
Zion closed the notebook and passed it to Nate. "Put it away and don't open it," he ordered. "I'm going to figure this out. Don't leave here."
The meeting place was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the neighborhood. The dim light of a single swinging lamp illuminated Marcos, surrounded by several members of the Organization. On a makeshift table were maps, notes and what appeared to be a briefcase of money.
"Riven, you're just in time," Marcos said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We have a delicate job, and I want you on the team."
Zion crossed his arms, assessing the situation. "What kind of job?"
"There's a shipment we need to secure. The rivals are trying to take control of the route. Let's send a clear message."
Zion nodded, realizing this was non-negotiable. "When?"
"Right now. Prepare what you need."
The mission was swift and brutal. An exchange of gunfire in a dark alley ended with several wounded on the opposing side and the charge secured. Zion, cool and efficient, led the group without losing his cool. It was a reminder of why the Organization valued him so highly: he not only carried out orders, but did so with chilling precision.
When it was all over, they returned to the warehouse. Marcos patted him on the shoulder. "Good job, Riven. With guys like you, we're going to keep the Lower Zones under control."
Zion didn't respond, but inwardly he knew that every action plunged him deeper into that world. There was no way out, but he wasn't looking for it either.
Hours later, Zion returned to the study. Nate was asleep in a corner, hugging the notebook he had entrusted to him. Zion walked over, took it carefully, and opened it to review what he had written before he was called away.
The words on the page seemed to come alive. They were raw, reflecting not only the violence he had just witnessed, but also the intensity of his emotions. Zion grabbed the microphone, adjusted the headphones and began recording. His voice, raspy with fatigue, filled the space.
At that moment, Riven was neither a member of the mob nor a young man trapped in the Underlands. He was a storyteller, a chronicler who captured the reality of his world in sharp verse.
When he finished, the silence in the studio was almost deafening. Nate awoke and watched him with sleepy but admiring eyes.
"Was that part of the album?" he asked, still half asleep.
Zion turned off the microphone and dropped into a chair. "Yes. And it's going to be the best thing I've ever done."
The album was progressing apace, but tensions in the Lower Zones were rising as well. Zion was in a delicate balance between his loyalty to the Organization and his commitment to the music. Each time he recorded a new track, he felt he was getting closer to his goal, but he also knew that goal made him more visible, more vulnerable.
One night, as he was walking back to the studio, a car pulled up next to him. The window slowly rolled down, revealing the face of one of the Organization's top capos, a man known only as "The Old Man."
"Riven," he said in a voice that didn't need to rise to command respect. "I hear you're making noise with your music. I like it. But remember something: success comes at a price, and we've already invested a lot in you. Don't let us down."
Zion held her gaze without hesitation. "I would never do that."
The Old Man nodded and the car drove away, leaving Zion with an uneasy feeling. He knew that message was both a compliment and a warning.
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Zion would record for hours, negotiate with the Organization to maintain his access to the studio, and face the responsibilities that came with his role in the mob. Every step he took brought him closer to his goal, but it also took him further away from any hope of redemption.
One afternoon, while working on a new lead, Nate approached him with a notebook full of drawings and scribbled letters.
"What are these?" asked Zion, taking the notebook.
"They're ideas for the album cover," Nate replied with a coy smile. "I know I'm not as good as you, but I want to help you."
Zion looked at the drawings and felt a lump in his throat. In a world so cold and heartless, Nate was his only anchor. He closed the notebook and ruffled her hair.
"Thank you, Nate. This means a lot."
In the deep darkness of the Lower Zones, Zion stood in the study, looking out a window that overlooked the filthy streets. Rain beat against the glass, and neon lights reflected off the puddles on the pavement. With a cigarette between his fingers and his notebook open on the table, Zion knew he was on the right path, even if that path was paved with danger and sacrifice.
Illmatic was taking shape, and with each song, Riven made it clear that the Lowlands was not only his home, but his deepest inspiration.