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The dim, buzzing light of Samuel Owen's modest office cast long shadows over the band as they huddled around a cluttered table. Printed contracts, a laptop, and half-finished coffees were scattered across the surface. The rock stars of tomorrow were, for now, four guys sitting in worn leather chairs trying to figure out if they were about to sell their souls—or seize their destiny.
Samuel adjusted his glasses. "Alright, let's go through this line by line. I've highlighted the parts you really need to care about."
He turned his laptop toward the group and pulled up the digital copy. "Clause one: Creative control. As we saw, you get full say on your music. They can advise, but can't override."
Kai leaned in. "That's... suspiciously respectful for a label."
Samuel smirked. "They're not saints, ironically. They're just desperate. You guys are hot. Viral. And they see fire in the scene for the first time in years. They don't want to smother it."
Ash flipped through the hard copy. "What about masters and rights?"
"First album, they retain the masters for five years. After that, there's a buy-back clause. If the album performs past a certain threshold, ownership can transfer."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "What threshold?"
"Half a million units. Not just streams—sales, merch bundles, vinyl, etc. Tough but doable."
Rex looked up from his own copy. "That's high, but not insane. If we go all in."
Samuel nodded. "Which brings us to the next section: Royalties. Digital, 60/40 in your favor. Physical, 50/50. Touring, 70/30 for you after cost recovery. And they cover tour support up to $250,000."
Ash let out a low whistle. "That's… a real budget."
Silas grinned. "I could finally afford cymbals that don't sound like trash cans."
Kai muttered, "Maybe even a proper bass amp, imagine that."
They all laughed.
Samuel leaned forward. "Look, I've read worse. Much worse. And I've seen young artists sign their freedom away for a Spotify playlist. But this? This is one of the fairest offers I've seen in twenty years."
The band looked around at each other.
Ash tapped the table. "We sign this… it's game on."
Kai nodded slowly. "It's not just YouTube anymore. This is real shows. Real tours."
Silas cracked his knuckles. "Real haters too. Which means we're finally doing something right."
Everyone turned to Rex.
He sat still for a moment, staring at the pages in his hands. His mind flicked back to a past life—stadiums packed, heads banging, people screaming words he hadn't written but had lived. Metallica, Slayer, Sabbath—legends, gone in this world. Now, he was the last echo of their power.
"We sign it," Rex finally said. "But we don't get comfortable. We don't slow down. We accelerate. We go louder, darker, realer. If this label wants to ride with us, they better hold on."
Ash grinned. "Hell yeah, that's our frontman."
Samuel pulled out a black fountain pen and clicked it with dramatic flair. "Then let's make it official."
Each of them signed in turn, the ink soaking into the paper like a ritual. No ceremony. No champagne. Just ink, breath, and purpose.
When it was done, Samuel neatly packed up the documents and emailed digital copies to Aaron Bay-Schuck's office. "They'll counter-sign by morning. You're officially in bed with the beast."
Silas leaned back. "I hope it snores."
Ash laughed.
Kai leaned toward Rex. "So what now, prophet?"
Rex's eyes narrowed with a familiar fire.
"We ride the momentum. Angel of Death goes into production next. And then, we make the loudest statement this industry's heard in decades."
Samuel tilted his head. "You're really pushing that track next?"
Rex nodded. "It's brutal. Uncompromising. Exactly what we need to remind them that we're not safe."
Silas grinned. "It's also ridiculously hard to play. I'm gonna hate you for the tempo, just so you know."
Kai chuckled. "At least it's not another eight-minute epic."
Ash raised a hand. "Don't jinx it."
Samuel looked thoughtful. "And when do we release it?"
Rex cracked his knuckles. "Two weeks. We record immediately. We drop a teaser in seven days. Give the fans something to chew on."
Ash smirked. "You sure we're not burning out?"
"No," Rex said. "We're setting the world on fire."
They all went quiet for a moment.
This was it. The start of something bigger than fame, louder than money, deeper than just music. It was revolution—disguised as a song.
Samuel raised his coffee cup. "To the Saints."
Rex raised his bottle of water. "To war."
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