Elijah stepped out of the alley and into a world that pulsed like a living mixtape.
The city around him was massive—skyscrapers stitched with neon, speakers embedded in walls, drones humming overhead playing rhythm loops. Every corner had rhythm. Every surface hummed with beat-reactive lights. Street signs glitched to the tempo of passing songs. It was music made manifest.
This wasn't Earth. This wasn't his old world.
This was Rhymecity.
As he walked through the crowd, no one looked twice. Just another kid in ragged clothes, lost in the current. Speakers on every street played different flows, competing for space. A hologram of a rapper ten stories high battled a rival on the side of a building, their verses sending sonic shockwaves that shook the street.
Elijah's stomach growled.
He checked his pockets. A single chip—thin, silver, and glowing with faint blue text: "RHYTHM: LVL 0.00"
"What the hell is this?"
Before he could figure it out, a hand snatched the chip from his fingers.
"Thanks, rookie."
Elijah turned fast. A kid with spiked headphones and a cocky smirk stood there. Behind him were two more, laughing.
"Yo," Elijah said, stepping forward. "Give it back."
The punk twirled the chip on his finger. "What, this? Nah. You gotta earn your Rhythm in this city, newbie."
He turned to leave.
> "Yo."
They stopped. Elijah's voice came out calm but cold.
> "How 'bout we battle for it?"
The punks laughed. "You wanna rap battle? You don't even have Rhythm level."
"I don't need numbers to kill you with bars."
That got their attention. The leader raised an eyebrow. "Alright then. Spit first, rookie."
A circle formed fast. People loved drama in Rhymecity. A battle in the slums was better than TV.
Elijah took a breath.
And then the beat dropped.
The city gave it to him—just like that. A slow, grimy rhythm pumping from a nearby street pole.
He stepped into it like stepping into his skin.
> "I woke up in fire, reborn through the storm,
In a world made of rhythm where the real ones are torn—
Between silence and noise, the fake and the flame,
You want my chip? I'll etch my name into your brain."
People reacted. Loud.
The punk smirked. His turn.
> "Nice rhyme, kid—but your flow's from the past,
This ain't your world, so you won't ever last—
You spit like a ghost, tryna come back from the grave,
But this city's for the living—get back in your cave."
Elijah grinned. He felt it.
That old fire.
> "Your bars are basic, weak like a whisper,
I spit truth that cuts like a scissor,
You think you're loud? I'm a lyrical quake,
You stole my chip, now watch what I take—
Your pride, your name, and your little facade,
I baptize you in rhythm, now bow to your god."
Silence.
Then—explosion. Cheers, gasps, hands in the air.
The punk's face twisted.
But the system had already decided. Above them, a glowing bar appeared:
[BATTLE RESULT: VICTORY — E. KANE | RHYTHM +0.08]
The chip floated back into Elijah's palm.
The punk growled. "This isn't over."
Elijah stepped forward, face inches from his. "No. It's just starting."
---
That night, Elijah found a place to crash—an abandoned studio deep in the Lower Beats. Dusty, but filled with ancient equipment. He powered up an old beatbox, grabbed a mic, and stood in front of the cracked mirror.
He didn't know where this journey was going.
But something in him whispered it was bigger than just music.
> This city ran on bars.
> And he had an infinite amount of them.
Night came fast in Rhymecity. The sky above was covered in thick clouds shaped like soundwaves, reflecting the pulse of whatever beat was strongest in that district. Streetlights didn't hum—they beatbox. Speakers embedded in every street corner played loops, and the higher your rhythm level, the clearer your personal frequency became. Elijah was already noticing things.
Certain doors didn't open for him.
Screens ignored him.
Even vending machines played static when he came close.
He was a zero here. No Rhythm, no credits, no record. Just a soul dropped into a world where words were currency, and flow was power.
But he had something this world didn't expect:
Real bars.
---
He stayed low, weaving through alleys lit by glowing graffiti. The walls seemed alive—tagged lyrics danced when you walked past, some whispered old verses if you stood still long enough. He passed a mural of a woman with gold eyes and a microphone for a heart. Beneath her was etched:
> "Truth lives in silence. But kings are crowned in sound."
He memorized that.
Finally, after hours of wandering, he reached a building shaped like a cracked boombox. Its windows were shattered, and vines wrapped around the walls like headphone cords. On the door was a rusted metal plate:
STUDIO 404 — LOST, NOT FORGOTTEN
He pushed it open.
Inside was chaos. Broken speakers, shattered vinyl, dust-covered soundboards. But it smelled like music. Old music. Real music. That scent of memories burned onto tape. He felt something warm move in his chest—nostalgia from a life that technically wasn't his anymore.
He stepped into what used to be a booth. The mic was tilted, cord frayed, but still there. It felt like a shrine.
> "This'll do."
He scavenged what he could—used wire to make a lamp, found a blanket in a forgotten crate, even managed to clean up the booth enough to sit and think.
His stomach growled again.
He glanced out the broken window. Somewhere out there, people were eating, living, rising. But this was survival now. Fame was a distant echo. He had to build himself again from nothing.
---
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Elijah tensed.
A silhouette entered. Small. Slender. Hooded.
"Yo," the voice said, soft and sharp. "You live here?"
Elijah stood. "Not yet. Why?"
The figure pulled back her hood. She was young—maybe seventeen—with fire-red dreadlocks and sharp copper eyes that scanned him like an algorithm. She wore headphones like a crown and had a satchel full of battered vinyls.
"Name's Jinx," she said, offering a half-nod. "I record here sometimes. Not many know this place still breathes."
Elijah stayed quiet. Something about her felt... real.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're new."
"Yeah."
"No Rhythm level."
"Barely."
"You beat Rico in public."
Elijah blinked. "You saw that?"
She smirked. "Everyone saw that. Battle scores are public, rookie. You shook the Lower Beats."
Elijah folded his arms. "He had it coming."
Jinx tilted her head. "You got bars. But that's not enough. Not here."
"I'll earn my place."
She raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because tomorrow's the First Drop Trials."
"What's that?"
"A tournament. Street-certified. Winner gets instant rep, Rhythm boost, and access to the Loop Network."
"And the losers?"
"They disappear. Nobody cares."
---
She dropped her bag and pulled out a small chip player.
"Studio's yours tonight. But come sunrise—if you're serious—you meet me at Crossfade Station. We head to the Trials."
Elijah nodded. "Deal."
She looked him over one more time. "You've got energy. That fire-in-the-voice thing. Just… don't waste it trying to impress this city."
"Why not?"
She shrugged, almost sad.
"Because this city eats rappers."
Then she was gone.
---
The silence after she left was heavy, but not empty. Elijah turned to the beatbox and powered it up. Static filled the room, then a hum, then a beat—faint and distorted, like something ancient trying to wake up.
He stood in front of the mic and closed his eyes.
> "One shot, one spark, I came from the end,
Reborn through rhythm with verses to send—
This city don't love you, it tests what you got,
But I'm flame in the booth, and I spit while it's hot."
> "No chain, no fame, just hunger and pain,
But bars are my bullets, and truth is my aim—
So watch how I climb from the dirt to the stars,
A god with a mic and a memory of scars."
The beat looped.
He kept going.
Line after line. Verse after verse.
By the time his voice cracked, the sun was rising—bleeding gold across the broken booth window. His breath fogged in the morning air, but his chest was warm.
He looked at his Rhythm chip.
It blinked.
[RHYTHM LEVEL: 0.20]
He smiled.
Tomorrow, he'd take the Trials.
And from there?
He'd take the city.