Carter's heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, the beats reverberating through his entire body. He stood shirtless on stage, drenched in sweat and water he'd poured over himself like some deity at an altar - his sculpted torso glistening under golden-red confetti raining from the ceiling. Behind him, a massive screen glitched crimson, bathing everything in raspberry hues. The air smelled of sweat and alcohol, the roar of the crowd vibrating in his bones.

The crowd beneath him was losing their fucking minds. The venue had sold out in two hours. Screams, phone flashes, a blur of adoring faces - these bitches were getting the night of their lives, content that'd flood Instagram feeds for weeks. This was Carter fucking Horn - the nobody who bulldozed his way into rap with zero talent, connections or experience, just sheer audacity and fuck-you energy. He could taste the adrenaline, sharp and metallic on his tongue.

"THANKS FOR THE WARM WELCOME YOU FUCKING ANIMALS!" he roared into the mic, arms spread wide as the crowd lost their shit. "GO TELL THOSE BASIC BITCHES YOU GOT FUCKED TONIGHT BY BEATS FROM CTRL!!" He tossed the mic without looking and flipped the bird on his way offstage. Show's over, which meant Carter wanted to party - coke, pussy, liquor, preferably all at once. His entourage waited: a couple industry leeches hoping to ride his coattails, and Zack, his manager already tapping a tablet.

---

Horn rode up to his penthouse feeling like death. Balenciaga shades were the only thing separating him from his own reflection, which he had zero interest in dealing with. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he sucked it down like oxygen, trying to silence the jackhammer in his skull. It barely helped. The elevator smelled of expensive leather and his Dior Sauvage cologne, a scent that clung to his skin like a second layer.

The ding made him twitch. He stumbled down the black marble hallway toward his apartment. His apartment. Where his wife waited. He swiped his keycard and beelined for the kitchen, hungover enough to crawl under a rock and die - or maybe drink until the pounding stopped. Carter grabbed expensive whiskey, skipping the glass to chug straight from the bottle. Immediate relief. He slammed it down, lighting another smoke just as footsteps echoed - she was awake. Noted.

Without removing his shades, he turned with that sinful grin that made even saints reconsider. "Morning, wifey. Catch my show? Crowd went apeshit, per fucking usual. You hungry? Could murder a whole elephant right now."