Dev The Rapper?

Brandon and Gordon strode purposefully down the third-floor hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished walls.

As they approached one of the recording studios, Brandon's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out, glancing at the caller ID before answering.

"Yo, Dev. What's up?"

"Yo, B! I heard you takin' over BMG, dawg! That's sick!"

Devon's excited voice crackled through the speaker.

"I'm in the lobby right now, fam. Where you at?"

Brandon chuckled, shaking his head.

"Head up to the third floor, Dev. Find me in Studio A."

"Bet, I'm on my way!"

Brandon ended the call as Gordon opened the studio door.

"A friend, young master?"

"Yeah, it's Devon Sinclair."

Gordon's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Ah, the foster child."

Brandon settled into a plush chair in the control room, his fingers drumming absently on the armrest.

"Gordon, what do you know about Dev? All I remember is him crying about being bullied by the other Sinclair kids. It's pretty unheard of for a family at their level to grant the privilege of their last name, right?"

Gordon nodded, his face thoughtful.

"Indeed. As I recall, even illegitimate children aren't bestowed the family name."

"That's what Mom said," Brandon replied.

"So what's Dev's story?"

Gordon cleared his throat.

"Devon's birth father was a war veteran in Sir David Sinclair's platoon when he was serving. After that he became Sir David Sinclair's right-hand man and sworn brother. Once, hitmen were hunting Sir David down, Devon's father took a bullet for Sir David. It's said that even after being shot, Dev's father sacrificed his life, staying back to hold off the hitmen so Sir David could escape."

Brandon leaned forward, intrigued.

"Damn, that's intense. When was this?"

"Devon was only four or five at the time," Gordon continued.

"Sir David adopted him as his own, which caused quite a controversy amongst our ranks. That's why Devon is ostracized, viewed as a peasant who got lucky. He's especially hated by Sir David's illegitimate children."

Brandon leaned back in his chair, processing the information Gordon had shared.

*Knock*

*Knock*

Before either of them could respond, the door burst open, revealing Devon in all his wannabe gangster glory.

He sauntered in, gold chains jangling with each step.

"Yo, B! What's good, my man?"

Devon's voice boomed through the studio as he spread his arms wide.

Brandon stood, offering a fist bump.

"Dev, what's up? Didn't expect to see you here."

Devon's eyes darted around the room, taking in the high-tech equipment.

"This place is lit, fam! You really runnin' the show now, huh?"

"Something like that," Brandon chuckled. "What brings you by?"

Devon's demeanor suddenly shifted, his usual bravado melting away.

"Look, B, I need your help. You know I've been tryin' to make it as a rapper, right? But these industry fools ain't givin' me a chance."

Brandon raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Oh yeah?"

"For real, dawg. You know how my brothers despise me, no way I'm getting the green light at Sinclair Records," Devon's voice took on a pleading tone.

" I know I got the skills. I just need a break, man."

Brandon watched as Devon paced the room.

Devon's voice cracked, his carefully constructed gangster facade crumbling.

"B, man, you gotta help me blow up," he pleaded, his eyes shining with a mix of desperation and hope.

"This ain't just some game to me, it's my whole life. My dream, you feel me? I can't let the haters win, can't let them be right about me being nothing but a charity case."

Brandon studied Devon's earnest face, his mind racing with possibilities.

The wannabe gangster rapper facade had crumbled, revealing a desperate young man chasing his dreams. Brandon's thoughts whirled as he considered the situation.

'I'm gettin' rid of all my signed acts anyway. And I've got a whole arsenal of hip-hop songs just waiting to be used. Maybe... maybe I can give Dev a shot?'

He glanced at Gordon, who remained impassive, then back to Devon. The guy clearly had passion, even if his style was a bit over-the-top.

'It could be a win-win. I need fresh talent, and Dev needs a break. Plus, it'd be nice to help out a friend, gain a true loyal ally, even if he's only half a Sinclair.'

Brandon nodded, his curiosity piqued.

"Alright, Dev. Let's hear what you've got. Spit a quick eight bars for me."

Devon's face lit up, his chest puffing out with newfound confidence. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and began:

"From the streets where the shadows whisper,

Dad held it down, made the hard days crisper.

Dawg saved a life, didn't think twice,

A rich man's breath all we got from the sacrifice.

Now I'm adopted, moved from the block,

But even in a mansion the struggles don't stop.

Got the hustle, got the fight,

Give me a chance to bring it to my ops."

As Devon finished, a proud grin spread across his face.

He looked expectantly at Brandon, clearly waiting for praise.

Brandon maintained a neutral expression, but his mind raced.

'Well, the rhyme scheme's basic, a lil cringe but at least he rhymes and knows to rap from within him. He still has a long way to go, though.'

He considered Devon's performance, noting the raw emotion behind the lyrics and the quality of his voice.

Brandon's expression turned serious as he faced Devon.

"Look, I'm not saying I won't help, but I need you to really consider this seriously. This rap phase of yours can't be some fleeting hobby. I haven't got the time to waste."

Devon's eyes widened, his face earnest.

"B, I swear this ain't no phase. This is my life, my passion. I'll do whatever it takes, man. Just give me a shot."

Brandon sighed, shaking his head.

"Hard work isn't enough to make it in this game, Dev."

He turned to the mixing board, fingers flying over the controls in a blur of practiced precision.

Brandon's expertise as a producer shone as he crafted a beat on the spot.

He adjusted the 808s, layered in a haunting melody, and fine-tuned the hi-hats.

Within minutes, a professional-grade instrumental emerged, its dark, gritty tone echoing through the studio like a haunting heartbeat.

Satisfied, Brandon hit record and strode into the booth.

He positioned himself in front of the mic, headphones on, ready to spit.

Just then, Andre walked in, surprise etched on his face at the scene before him.

His eyes widened as he spotted Brandon in the booth.