81: Chapter 81 Fire Burns Deep Within

November 12, Late Night

Forty-eight hours before the master tape for "Truth on the Dance Floor" was completed, the lights were still on in the 37th-floor office of Universal Music's headquarters.

Marcus looked at the three serious faces on the video conference screen—Karen Mitchell, President of Universal Music Nashville; Robert Chen, Senior VP of Business Development; and Irene Waters, Legal Counsel. This was the most stressful meeting of his managerial career.

"Radioactive is currently ranked twenty-first on the Billboard Hot 100, eighth on the Digital Song Sales chart, and twelfth on the Streaming Songs chart," Robert Chen said, pushing up his glasses. "The data is beautiful, even staggering. But the problem is—" He pulled up a document. "Over the past seventy-two hours, we've received 'concerned inquiries' from the Defense Industry Association, aerospace lobbying groups, and three major advertising clients."

Karen Mitchell took over, her voice carrying the composure of a professional manager: "Marcus, we signed Alex because of his talent and potential. But the current situation... has exceeded the scope of conventional business. Northrop's lobbying team is exerting pressure in Washington, hinting that any music company collaborating with Alex might be re-evaluated for 'national security-related reviews'."

Marcus took a deep breath: "Karen, Alex's work is protected by the First Amendment of the Constitution. We are just releasing music, not participating in political struggles."

"But music has influence," Irene, the legal counsel, spoke. "And influence, in the eyes of some, is politics. More troublesome is—" She pulled up another document. "Northrop's legal team is exploring whether they can file a lawsuit under the Economic Espionage Act, accusing Alex of obtaining and disseminating trade secrets. If they succeed, Universal Music, as the publisher, could face joint liability."

The office fell into silence. The night view of Nashville outside the window was brilliant, but the air in the conference room was heavy.

"So, what is the company's stance?" Marcus finally asked.

Karen and Robert exchanged a look.

"We signed a contract, and we will fulfill it," Karen said. "Truth on the Dance Floor will be released on the 14th as planned, with full-channel promotion. However—" She paused. "We must also protect the overall interests of the company. Therefore, we need Alex to make some adjustments."

"What adjustments?"

"In the documentary and subsequent works, avoid direct references to specific data from Northrop's internal documents," Irene said. "Use metaphors, imagery, and artistic expression, but don't give Northrop a solid legal handle. This is so he can continue creating and so we can continue publishing."

Marcus thought about it. The request sounded reasonable, but it meant Alex would have to compromise on his artistic expression.

"I need to communicate with Alex," he said.

"Of course," Karen nodded. "Please tell him that Universal Music still believes in his talent. We signed a tiered royalty agreement. If he can land three consecutive songs in the Billboard top fifty, the third-tier royalty rate will increase from 18% to 22%. We are willing to invest in talented people, but only if... this person doesn't drag us into an uncontrollable legal war."

The meeting ended. Marcus turned off the video and leaned back in his chair, tiredly rubbing his temples.

Just then, his phone vibrated. It was a message from Alex: "Coming up to chat?"

---

What Alex's Spider-Sense captured was not just malice from the digital space, but also a more specific "color" of pressure from within the music industry. That feeling was like a dull knife scraping—not an immediate threat, but a persistent presence.

When Marcus entered, Alex was looking at the final evaluation data for "Truth on the Dance Floor" on the system interface: [Commercial Potential: 91%] [Artistic Value: 78%] [Virality Forecast: 94%].

"Did Universal apply pressure?" Alex asked without looking back.

Marcus was stunned for a moment: "How did you..."

"Pressure has texture." Alex turned around and pointed to his temple. "Universal's executives are weighing things—commercial interests on one side, political risks on the other. They're in a state of 'cautious support' right now, aren't they?"

Marcus sat down and recounted the contents of the meeting.

Alex listened, fell silent for a moment, and then smiled: "A 22% royalty rate... If they're really willing to give that much, it means the data for Radioactive is even better than what they're saying publicly."

"That's not the point," Marcus said. "The point is, they want you to avoid direct data citations in future works. That means adjustments to the documentary, the column articles, even future songs..."

"It means telling the truth in a smarter way," Alex interjected. "This isn't a compromise; it's an upgrade."

He pulled up the lyrics file for "Truth on the Dance Floor": "Look here, I didn't write 'bending strength decreased by 37%,' but 'the weight of promises makes the steel groan.' Which one is more powerful? Which one makes Northrop more uncomfortable?"

Marcus looked at the lyrics and understood. Artistic expression is sometimes more lethal than blunt data because it can't be refuted with fact-checking, yet it hits the emotional core directly.

"But as for Universal..."

"Tell them I accept the suggestion," Alex said. "But I also need a guarantee—if Northrop exerts pressure through legal means, Universal must fulfill its contractual obligations and cannot unilaterally suspend distribution."

"I can fight for that clause."

"And," Alex pulled up a document, "I need Universal to provide more radio promotion resources. The commercial potential of Truth on the Dance Floor is higher than Radioactive. I want it to break into at least the Billboard top forty in its first week of release."

Marcus calculated: "That would require an additional promotion budget..."

"Advance it from my royalties," Alex said decisively. "If this song can break into the top thirty, the money Universal makes will far exceed the promotion costs. Let them do the math."

This was what Alex had learned—in the business world, data is the best bargaining chip. If he could continue to produce works with commercial value, Universal would have to keep supporting him, even if they had to endure political pressure.

"One more thing." Marcus remembered something. "Taylor's team contacted us. Her next album contract negotiations have entered a critical stage. Universal wants to renew, but Taylor is using you as leverage—if Universal can't handle your situation properly, she might move to Warner."

Alex raised an eyebrow: "She's carving out space for us."

"A smart move," Marcus nodded. "Losing Taylor would be catastrophic for Universal. So, in a way, you've gained extra protection because of Taylor."

But this made Alex feel a bit uncomfortable. He didn't want to always stand behind Taylor.

"System," he asked in his consciousness, "can the creation of the next song achieve a higher balance between commerciality and artistry, allowing me to establish independent value within the music industry?"

The [Creative Master] ability responded, pulling up an analysis report: [Recommendation: Choose elements that fuse synth-pop with indie rock. This retains commercial appeal while showcasing creative depth. Recommended style reference: Foster the People's 'Pumped Up Kicks' but darker, or Arcade Fire's grand narrative but more pop-oriented.]

Alex noted this direction. He needed a song that could play on commercial radio but had enough artistic weight for critics to take seriously.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

"Alright, go back and get some rest," he said to Marcus. "We still have to deal with those ghostwriting allegations tomorrow."

"How do you plan to handle them?"

Alex checked the time—11:00 PM. "I'll host a livestream and write a song on the spot. Let them see what 'ghostwriting' actually looks like."

11:47 PM · Creative Livestream

Alex's YouTube channel suddenly went live. There was no announcement, and the title was simple: "Late Night Creative Studio."

On screen, he was sitting in front of a piano, with only a laptop, a simple recording device, and a desk lamp in front of him. The background showed the studio's bookshelves and scattered sheet music.

Three minutes into the broadcast, the number of online viewers exceeded fifty thousand—the core fans were still awake late at night.

"Good evening," Alex said to the camera. "I've seen some discussions about my songwriting ability recently. Some say my progress is 'unnatural,' and others say my songs are 'too professional.' Tonight, I want to share some of my creative process."

He opened the music software on his laptop and pulled up a blank project file.

"Usually, my creative process starts with a melody." His fingers played a few notes on the piano—not a complete song, just a random motif. "Like this... E-flat minor, with a slight variation in the blues scale."

He recorded this piano part in the software.

"Then I think, what emotion does this melody express?" Alex looked at the screen. "It sounds a bit... like an undercurrent. It's suitable for expressing an outburst after repression."

He began to write lyrics. It wasn't a one-take process, but involved repeated revisions—showing the real creative process on camera: writing a line, deleting it, rewriting, and adjusting the wording.

"The first line... 'The city is raining at midnight,' too blunt. Let's change it to 'Rain carves cracks into the neon lights,' that's better."

In fifteen minutes, he finished the first verse. The melody was simple but catchy, and the lyrics carried an imagery-filled melancholy.

"Now I need a chorus." Alex experimented with different chord progressions on the piano. "Ascending from the original key? Too generic. Parallel minor? Maybe, but it needs an altered chord..."

He played a few versions and finally settled on a progression with an augmented fourth—it had tension, but wasn't unpleasant to hear.

He wrote the lyrics for the chorus quickly, almost in one go:

"And I stand in the rain, counting all the lies... Each one flickering like a neon light, just as fake..."

When the stream reached forty-five minutes, the framework for a complete song was finished. It wasn't a complex production like "Radioactive," but a minimalist song with an indie folk feel.

"This song might never be officially released, but this is my creative process—starting from zero, step by step."

By the end of the stream, the number of online viewers reached 370,000. The comment section was flooded with exclamations of "witnessing the creative process with my own eyes."

Ghostwriting allegations? In the face of forty-five minutes of live creation, they seemed pale and weak.

But out of sight of the audience, in the office of Universal Music Nashville, Karen Mitchell and Robert Chen were also watching the livestream.

"Did he really write that on the spot?" Robert asked, disbelieving.

"Looking at the edit history, it was indeed created in real-time." Karen stared at the screen. "And the quality isn't low. The melodic line of this chorus has the potential to be a hit."

"So the ghostwriting allegations are false."

"But there are still doubts within the music industry." Karen pulled up another report. "Leo Sanchez—one of our best arrangers—is currently helping him with 'Truth on the Dance Floor.' This means Alex does have professional team support."

"But the core creation is his own." Robert pointed out the key difference. "Leo is responsible for turning a good song into a better production; this is the industry standard process. Just like Taylor has Max Director Martin."

Karen pondered. On the livestream screen, Alex was explaining his choices for the harmonic design, his language professional and confident.

"Notify the promotion department," she decided. "Increase the promotion budget for 'Truth on the Dance Floor' by 30%. We're going to take a gamble."

"Because of this livestream?"

"Because this livestream proved two things," Karen said. "First, he has genuine talent. Second, he knows how to communicate with the public. In this era, those two things combined are worth a fortune."

She paused. "Besides, Taylor is applying pressure with contract renewal issues. If we don't support Alex now, we might lose two valuable creators at the same time."

Business calculations ultimately pointed toward support.

The data after the livestream made Marcus ecstatic, but Alex was more focused on something else—his Spider-Sense had captured new "colors" again.

This time, it came from within the music industry, but it was more... positive. It was a supportive, investment-oriented kind of attention.

He opened the system interface. The popularity growth from the livestream was +86,000 points, bringing the total to 7,312,000 points.

But more importantly, Universal Music's shift meant he had gained a more solid business foundation. In the music industry, the level of support from a company directly determines how many listeners a song can reach.

And the more listeners he reached, the faster his popularity would grow.

"Marcus, contact Leo," Alex said. "After the master of 'Truth on the Dance Floor' is finished, I need him to make a professional arrangement analysis video, explaining in detail how we collaborated—emphasizing my core original work and his production enhancement."

"To counter the ghostwriting allegations?"

"To build professional credibility," Alex corrected. "Let the music industry see that I'm not just a 'trending topic,' but a true creator."

Marcus noted it down, then remembered something: "Taylor's 'Safe & Sound' charity project proposal has been sent. She wants your feedback tomorrow."

Alex opened the file. It was a very detailed plan: song release, cover version invitations, online concerts, a donation transparency system... Taylor wanted to make this an industry benchmark.

He replied: "Agreed. But I suggest adding one more step—invite music therapists and psychological experts to provide professional support to the families of the NT-7 victims. Let this project not just be about giving money, but about genuine care."

The reply was almost immediate: "Good idea. I'll have the team add it."

Alex closed his laptop and prepared to rest.

Northrop's smear campaign had failed, but they wouldn't give up. Universal Music supported him now, but this support was based on commercial interests and could change at any time. Taylor was a firm ally, but he couldn't rely on her forever.

He needed to build something more solid—not just a few hit songs, but a complete creative system, an independent distribution channel, and a loyal community of listeners.

And, most importantly, prove his value was irreplaceable through consistent, high-quality creation.

The system interface flickered one last time:

[Project Management Optimization (Beginner) in effect...]

[Voice of Truth platform progress: 74%]

[Truth on the Dance Floor release countdown: 38 hours]

[Next song creative direction determined]

Alex closed his eyes. Tomorrow, the master, platform testing, business negotiations, and creation would continue.

And the fire continued to burn deep within.