Infiltrated
"Let's, let's
Let's, let's
Heyyy Ya
Heyyy Ya
Heyyy Ya
West of love is where I'm ready to goooo....."
"OH MY- BRO!" Dontai's eyes widened to saucers. "The way he flipped that beat... that's crazy! That's actually crazy!"
Meanwhile, in his more subdued setup, No Life Shaq leaned forward, his analytical mind already piecing together the layers. "Now y'all know me, I catch these bars quick, but..." He shook his head slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "This man is operating on another level. Let me break this down for y'all."
"Life force on life support, these parasites keep feeding
Bleeding me dry, but I'm the one they accusing of bleeding
Needing space from these face-eaters, grace-defeaters
They speak in tongues, but their actions are the real speakers
Impulse buyers of my time, leaving my account with no results
Consult the book of the dead, but can't read between the lines
Defined by what they consume, guess that makes 'em fine dining
Brain dead, but still talking, walking contradictions
Afflictions of the living, giving in to soul evictions
Restrictions on my spirit, but I'm ghost-riding the whip
Slipping through their fingers like a poltergeist, I dip.…"
"See, he ain't just talking about the industry bleeding him dry," Shaq explained, his voice taking on that teacher-like quality his subscribers loved. "He's flipping it – they accusing him of bleeding, but they're the parasites. And look at this wordplay: 'face-eaters, grace-defeaters.' That's a double entendre right there. They eating his face like parasites, but they also defeating grace, meaning they ain't got no class. Not going to lie Meek, GG, I already know."
Back on Dontai's stream, the energy was electric. "WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?" he yelled, jumping up from his chair. "Chat going crazy!"
"…Melanin rich, melatonin poor, American dream's insomnia
Civil Rights movement in my REM sleep, Martin's vision - I saw
My grandmother taught me treat women with respect
Started from the bottom, yeah, both parents dipped
Jewish on my father's side, American pride
Y'all tried to use that against me, but I won't hide
My heritage is strength, not something I deny
Y'all brought my family in it, that's where I draw the line..."
Anthony Fantano adjusted his glasses, speaking in his measured, analytical tone. "What's fascinating already about this track is how it subverts expectations. When everyone was anticipating a straightforward diss track, Arell delivered something more akin to social commentary. This Civil Rights movement in REM sleep line – he's drawing a parallel between Martin Luther King Jr.'s 'I Have a Dream' speech and his own journey, but doing it through the lens of sleep cycles. It's... actually quite brilliant."
The Genius breakdown video was already in production, with Rob Markman leading the discussion. "There are layers here that people might miss on first listen," Rob explained, gesturing to the lyrics displayed behind him. "When he mentions his Jewish heritage and American pride, he's directly addressing the attempts to use his mixed background against him. But notice how he immediately follows it with 'Y'all brought my family in it' – he's setting boundaries while simultaneously showcasing his complexity as an artist."
"Started from Mill-ions now we here at rock bottom
Riding coattails so long you forgot how to walk proper
Dream chasers turned to clout chasers, that's when the plot rotten
Used to be inspired by you, now I see through your top doctors
Used to watch Fresh Prince before I knew what Banks meant
Now I'm watching grown men banking off fake defense
Y'all so desperate for attention, it's getting intense
Like officers trading badges for rap credentials, make it make sense."
"Oh. OH!" Shaq's eyes widened. "Started from Mill-ions now we here at rock bottom? Like Drake? 'Started from the bottom'? 'Started from the bottom now we here'? I think he just dissed Drake here."
Back on Twitch, ImDontai was practically jumping out of his chair. "THE FRESH PRINCE BAR!" He replayed the section about Banks, letting out his characteristic laugh. "Banks – like Jeffrey in Fresh Prince, but also like financial institutions. Then he hits you with that line about 'grown men banking off fake defense' – that's a direct shot at how certain rappers monetize their street credentials!"
Fantano adjusted his glasses. "What we're seeing here," he began, his hands moving in characteristic gestures, "is actually a fascinating deconstruction of hip-hop's power structures. The way he's weaving these references..."
"Love tried to flip me like pages, but I'm no fiction
Six degrees of separation led to wrong predictions
They say I did her wrong, but truth don't need correction
Drake didn't take her to the 6, that's misdirection
Speaking of Love, funny how you switch affections
Going Bad like Williams Roberts, that's a double blessing"
"The 'Love tried to flip me like pages' sequence is masterful," Rob Markman continued in his breakdown. "He's working with multiple meanings here. On one level, he's addressing rumors about his relationship it also seems he's saying Puff Daddy attempted to 'Flip' him, as in 69, a sex position. But then he brings in 'Six degrees of separation' – that's both a reference to the social connection theory AND a subtle dig at industry politics, if we refer to an earlier verse "West of love is where I'm ready to goooo" it seems he's referring to that particular separation from the industry and instead focusing on his private life, West of Love meaning to distance himself from Puff Daddy, symbolizing the industry, and West of love as in embracing familiar ties, India Westbrooks. The Drake line about 'the 6' also adds another layer, playing with geography and loyalty. I'd like to ensure we take notice of the fact that the song sampled 'Hey Ya' heavily focused on themes of loveless relationships and divorces, it seems he's labeling himself as an outcast, a divorcee of the Industry."
"But I ain't scared of paper tigers or their accomplice
Caught between two ages like a paradox, or should I say Kylie?
Catherine Howard to King Henry, that's the parallel I draw
Tudor dynasty to modern times, the pattern's raw
Tyga, you're... well, let's keep it playing
Umm, how could I address this? Do morals adhere to this?
Hmm? I mean I'm cool black chillin with some white stripes
A hunter hides his habits, prowlin' shadows in his dark life
Just another masked move, same appetite, same spin
Keep it friendly to the cameras, play it coy, play it calm Tyga
If you got stripes don't let them be shown' brodie
Can you let her get past that sweet sixteen brodie?"
"AYOOO!" Dontai backpedaled from his desk, hands raised. "NAH NAH NAH! He ain't just... Chat, did he just... OH MY GOD!"
Shaq paused the track, shaking his head. "Now look, I usually catch everything, but I had to check Genius for this Catherine Howard reference. That's that historical stuff – she was like 16-17 when King Henry... man, Arell going DEEP with these parallels!"
In his studio, Fantano was scribbling notes. "The way he's connecting Tudor dynasty politics to modern industry machinations... it's actually brilliant. And notice how he's using that OutKast sample not just as a beat, but as a thematic framework..."
"How you went from 'Dreams and Nightmares' to Sweet Dreams with Diddy?"
Shaq sat back, removed his headphones, and just stared at his screen. "It's over," he said quietly.
Dontai had collapsed back into his chair, spinning slowly. "Bro... BRO!"
"They took "love" and made it commerce, left out hope or recognition
Hide insecurities behind a brazen claim to be the GOAT
Drowned in jewels, cars, but can't stay afloat in what they wrote
How many more heroes of self can the culture tolerate?
Stacked them tales up high, still they fall like a paperweight
Hidin' truth in the lines, spendin' all the rent on clout
Fame's a shiny devil—see how fast it pulls 'em out
But it's the fabric underneath, where legacy truly sits
Holdin' firm, unscathed by trends or Twitter's fickle fits
They talk hate, throw love, but I see what's truly beneath
Silent truths buried in the beats they never choose to breathe
And for the conscious rappers who's thoughts he's been burying?
We pray for Oxytocin, embrace compassion on a soul he'll behold."
"The way he structured this is actually genius," Fantano mused, leaning back in his chair. "He starts with broad social commentary, then narrows into personal narrative, before finally delivering those knockout punches. But he does it with such finesse that you almost don't realize how deadly the bars are until they've already landed.
Fantano was nodding slowly, a rare smile playing at his lips. "I've rarely seen someone flip expectations like this. When everyone was waiting for aggression, he delivered introspection. When they expected anger, he gave them artistry. Strong 8 to a light 9 on this one, and I don't say that lightly."
Across social media, the reactions were pouring in. Reaction channels were going live by the minute, each trying to unpack the layers, the references, the double and triple entendres. But it was Shaq who perhaps summed it up best:
"Look," he said, leaning into his camera. "Y'all know I analyze bars for a living. This whole track feels like... like he's already won. Like he knew this was coming and just been waiting to show them what real power looks like."
The chat exploded with agreement as Shaq shook his head one final time. "Game over. For real this time. Game. Over."
In his dimly lit room, Dontai was still processing, his chat moving so fast it was barely readable. "Yo," he said finally, voice unusually quiet. "Y'all think... y'all think they gonna respond to this? CAN they even respond to this?"
The question hung in the air, but they all knew the answer. Some bodies are better left buried. Some victories don't need a response.
=
The silence in Studio A of Jungle City was deafening. The kind of silence that follows an atomic bomb, where even the dust is afraid to settle. The Funktion-One monitors—probably worth more than most people's cars—had fallen quiet after playing Arell's track, but the bass still seemed to reverberate through everyone's bones.
Meek Mill sat frozen in the leather studio chair, his usual energetic demeanor replaced by something between shock and disbelief. Rick Ross stood by the mixing console, sunglasses doing little to hide his furrowed brow. The Game leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Tyga, who'd been pacing the room like a caged tiger during the track, suddenly stopped mid-stride.
"Man, that shit ain't even hard though," Tyga announced, trying to sound dismissive but his voice cracking slightly. "Like, fr fr, I been in these streets—"
"Tyga..." DJ Drama, who'd been quiet until now, pinched the bridge of his nose. "My guy... he literally called you a pedophile. On wax. With historical references."
"Yeah, but—"
"He compared you to King Henry VIII, fam. That's... that's AP History level bars."
"Listen—"
"The Tudor dynasty, my guy. The TUDOR DYNASTY."
Tyga's face scrunched up. "Man, whatever that is—"
"It means you like teenagers, bro," someone called from the back of the crowded studio.
"Ay yo, who even said that?" Tyga spun around, suddenly militant. "Who in here talking? I don't even know half y'all!"
The room fell silent again as everyone looked around. There were indeed a lot of unfamiliar faces packed into the studio session. A young man in the corner was typing furiously on his phone, trying to look inconspicuous.
"Yo, what you typing?" Ross called out, suddenly suspicious.
The guy looked up, deer-in-headlights style. "Uh... tweeting about the Lakers?"
"Let me see that phone," Meek started moving toward him.
"Arell, yeah they shook. Mission accomplished. Won't need that second track after all—" The guy read aloud as he typed, then realized what he was doing. "Oh shit!" He bolted for the door, knocking over a $3,000 microphone stand in the process.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?" Meek exploded, but the spy was already gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
"Didn't he say he was OVO?", "No clue." Two randoms said in the background.
"See, this is what I'm saying!" Tyga was still on his previous point. "I'm really bout that action. In these streets—"
"Tyga, please shut up," Ross sighed, removing his sunglasses to rub his eyes. "How did he know about the Diddy thing? That ain't even public."
"Forget Diddy," Meek was pacing now. "How he know about them DMs? About the..." he lowered his voice, "...the thing in DC?"
Everyone turned to look at The Game, who hadn't moved or spoken since the track ended.
"Ay Game," Ross called out. "This was your idea. What's the play?"
The Game just stared at the floor.
"Game?"
"..."
"YO GAME!"
"I'm thinking!" Game snapped, then went quiet again.
"Nah, we need to respond quick," Meek declared. "I'ma call Drake—"
The entire room groaned.
"What?"
"You and Drake are beefing, remember?" Drama sighed. "After you called him out for not promoting Rico enough?"
"DAMN!" Meek slumped in his chair. "Aight, who we got? Let's get Young Thug—"
"Friends with Arell," someone called out.
"Kendrick?"
"Doesn't know any of us exists."
"J. Cole?"
"Peaceful ass nigga, plus he and Arell do meditation retreats together or some shit."
"50?"
The room just stared at him.
"What about T.I.?"
"Doing federal time."
"Common?"
"You want Common on a diss track?"
"EMINEM!"
The silence that followed was painful. Ross slowly put his sunglasses back on, as if to shield himself from the stupidity.
"Be fr fr," Drama said quietly.
A young engineer in the back raised his hand tentatively. "I mean... we could still drop our track? We got three verses, the beat is crazy..."
The Game suddenly pushed off from the wall. "Nah."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"What you mean 'nah'?" Meek demanded.
"I mean nah." Game started walking toward the door. "I'll take whatever punishment Diddy got planned. This ain't it."
"You can't just—"
"He quoted my police record," Game said quietly. "The real one. Not the public one." He reached the door and paused. "Think about that." And then he was gone.
The room erupted into chaos. Tyga was still trying to convince someone—anyone—that he was "bout that action." Meek was running through increasingly desperate lists of potential features "What about Ja Rule? WHAT ABOUT JA?". Ross had collapsed into a chair, sunglasses firmly in place, possibly asleep.
In the corner, the engineer who'd suggested dropping their track anyway was listening to it again on headphones. His eyes went wide and he quickly started hitting keys on his laptop.
"Uh... guys?"
No one paid attention.
"GUYS!"
"WHAT?" everyone snapped.
"So... I was just listening to our track again and... uh... that's not the beat we recorded on."
"What you mean?"
"I mean... someone changed the beat. It's... it's the instrumental to 'In Da Club.'"
Meek's face went pale. "But how..."
Another guy nobody recognized stood up in the back. "Oh yeah, that was me. My bad." He started backing toward the door. "Arell says thanks for the session files by the way!"
And then he was gone too.
Tyga jumped up. "Man, FUCK this! I'm really bout to—"
"Tyga, I swear to god," Ross finally spoke, not moving from his chair. "If you say you 'bout that action' one more time, I'm gonna personally make sure them text messages with Kylie leak."
The room fell silent again.
Somewhere in the distance, they could hear police sirens. Nobody moved.
"So..." the engineer finally said. "Should I... delete the session?"
Before anyone could answer, every screen in the studio suddenly went black, then lit up with the same image: a rickroll video.
"We're no strangers to loveYou know the rules and so do I (do I)A full commitment's what I'm thinking ofYou wouldn't get this from any other guy…"
And somewhere, in a much calmer environment, Arell Rose was probably still sipping wine and watching Netflix.
As Meek stared at the rickroll video now playing on every available screen, a notification popped up on his phone. He looked down at it reflexively, then immediately wished he hadn't.
@XXL: BREAKING: Arell Rose "Wishing For One of A Kind" just overtook Dreams Worth More Than Money, 62k units sold!
"Your heart's been aching, but you're too shy to say it (say it)Inside, we both know what's been going on (going on)We know the game and we're gonna play it"
"I'm going home," Ross announced, standing up.
One by one, people started filing out of the studio, leaving Meek alone with his thoughts and Rick Astley's voice echoing from every speaker.
"Never gonna give you upNever gonna let you downNever gonna run around and desert youNever gonna make you cryNever gonna say goodbyeNever gonna tell a lie and hurt you"
The engineer waited until everyone was gone before whispering into his own phone: "Phase two complete. Rolling out the twitter campaign now."
Sometimes, the biggest L's come in silence.
And sometimes they come with a soundtrack.
=
The holographic display from the system bathed Arell in it's blue glow, numbers and achievements scrolling past like a digital waterfall. He lounged in his ergonomic chair.
"Most Simultaneous Charting Singles for a New Artist... Top 10 Hits as a New Artist... Fastest Ascent to Multiple Billboard Entries..." The list went on and on, each achievement triggering a small ping from the system. "Youngest to debut in top 10 Billboard 200..."
The dots continued appearing, representing countless other records that felt more like statistics than actual achievements. Arell waved his hand through the hologram, watching the numbers disperse like smoke before reforming.
"You really gonna make me sit through all of this?" he muttered to the system, which responded with another cheerful ping.
Then came the rewards display, and Arell's expression shifted from mild annoyance to the same disbelief that conformed his face when he first saw them. Among the impressive array of rewards – some that made his eyes widen despite his attempted nonchalance – was one that made him question the system's entire existence.
[Song Structure: "Baby Shark"]
Artist: Pinkfong
"This has to be a joke," Arell sat up straight, gesturing at the hologram. "This was the best song structure you said system…. Its literally a nursery rhyme! What am I supposed to do with Baby Shark?"
The system pinged again, almost smugly.
"Don't ping at me like that," he grumbled, running a hand over his face. "This is disrespectful. I know you got better stuff in there, let me get another good one, like I'm The One or Praise Tha Lord."
His attention shifted to the Billboard numbers floating in another corner of the display. Somanyzombie$ had cracked the top 10, which was surprising, very much so. Psychedelic was hovering in the top 50, along with a few others. The streaming numbers were ridiculous – his fans were consuming content like it was water in a desert.
Speaking of fans...
[Fan Engagement Update: K-Pop Style Stan Culture Integration]
Effect: +20% Fan Loyalty
Effect: +35% Fan Acquisition Rate
Note: Fans will demonstrate increased dedication without reaching toxic levels
Warning: May result in occasional flash mobs of synchronized dancing
"At least that makes more sense than Baby Shark," Arell muttered, then froze as a new notification popped up.
[Billboard 200 Update]
Current Position: #3
Previous Position: #2
Note: Meek Mill has experienced a sudden surge of 12,000 pure album sales, elevating "Dreams Worth More Than Money" to #1
Arell stared at the numbers, then let out a laugh that was more amused than bitter. "Twelve thousand pure albums?" He shook his head, reaching for his phone to text Geoffrey. "They're not even trying to make it look real anymore."
His phone buzzed with a response before he could even type.
Geoffrey: Already on it. PS - Nardwuar confirmed for tomorrow. Coming to the warehouse at 2.
Arell squinted at the name. "Nard... what? That can't be right." He typed back quickly.
Arell: The interviewer's name is Nordwar?
Geoffrey: Nardwuar. Trust me, you're gonna want to be ready for this one.
Arell: Nardwuar? Like... that's a real name?
Geoffrey: The Human Serviette. Look him up.
Arell: The human what now?
Geoffrey: Just... be prepared. He knows things.
Arell glanced back at the holographic display, where Baby Shark still floated mockingly among his rewards. "Can't be any weirder than this," he muttered, then paused as another thought struck him. "Though speaking of weird..."
He pulled up the pure album sales numbers for Meek's sudden surge, examining the distribution patterns. The system helpfully provided a breakdown:
[Sales Analysis]
- 37% from single retailer in Philadelphia
- 24% from bulk purchases using identical payment methods
- 21% from stores reporting physical sales without inventory records
Conclusion: Statistical anomaly detected. Probability of organic sales: 2.03%
"You know what?" Arell leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Let them have this one. Sometimes you gotta let people tell on themselves."
He turned his attention to the tour preparations. Two days until they hit the road, and based on the pre-sale numbers, every venue was going to be packed.
He turned back to his computer, pulling up the tour schedule. Tomorrow, Nardwuar – he double-checked the spelling – would be here, and then it was time to hit the road. Let Meek have his mysteriously appearing album sales. He was sure the system in its oh' so wonderous wisdom had a reason for why it had chosen this moment to drop a children's song in his lap. Things were getting interesting.
"Chess, not checkers," he reminded himself, then started preparing for whatever tomorrow might bring. After all, if there was one thing he'd learned about the system by now, it was that its moves always made sense eventually.
Even if sometimes those moves came with dorky little shark songs attached.