"I got the soul, Khaled," Usher said softly. "But soul hurts. You want me to tell them how it feels to have everything and still feel like you're losing? You want me to tell them about the sleepless nights in the penthouse?"
Outside the booth, Drake was nodding, his thumb stopped on his phone. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. The competitive fire was lit. He stepped up to the second mic station, ready to prove he belonged among these giants. "I got the soul, Khaled," Usher said softly
"The wind is blowing south tonight, Khaled," Ross rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "The ships are in the harbor. The cargo is heavy." "It's too heavy," a new voice cut through. You want me to tell them about the
Across from him, draped over a leather sofa, sat Rick Ross. The Boss was a mountain of calm. He struck a match against the heel of his alligator leather boot, lighting a cigar that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The flame illuminated his dark sunglasses. He took a slow drag and let the smoke billow out like a storm cloud. He stepped up to the second mic station,
Usher stood up from the piano, walked calmly into the vocal booth, and closed the heavy glass door. He put on the gold-plated headphones, closed his eyes, and leaned into the microphone.
"I'm looking at the numbers, Khaled," Drake said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm looking at the city. Everyone wants a piece of this. I’m tired of playing nice. I’m tired of smiling for the cameras when I know what they say when I leave the room. I’m just… I’m fed up." "Then put that pain in the microphone, boy!"
"We are at the gates of history," Khaled said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to shake the ice in the crystal tumblers scattered around the console. "They didn't believe in us. They wanted us to stay in the corner. But we took the corner. We bought the block. And now, we feed the world."