The World Only Easter Egg

The first thing I noticed when we stepped into Mariah Kari’s private recording studio wasn’t the air-conditioning or the faint scent of expensive perfume — it was the quiet hum of money.

You could practically hear the cash.

The room was buried deep in her mansion, soundproofed and sealed like some kind of holy shrine. Every inch of it screamed wealth — from the velvet acoustic walls to the crystal-smooth glass panels that looked polished by angels. Racks of microphones lined the back wall like a museum exhibit, each one worth more than the car I used to drive back on Earth.

I swear, even the console lights glowed like they knew how rich they were.

I stood there for a moment, hands in my pockets, taking it all in. “Every knob in here probably costs more than my first computer,” I muttered under my breath.

Mariah, standing beside me with oversized sunglasses indoors, spread her arms dramatically. “Welcome to my temple,” she said with a grin that was pure diva — equal parts charm and challenge.

Her manager, Monica, hovered nearby. She was a sharp woman in her forties, blazer pressed so straight it could cut paper. Her eyes flicked between us like she was already predicting disaster.

I gave her a polite nod, the kind that says, don’t worry, I won’t burn down your temple. Probably.

The staff — sound engineers, assistants, even a guy holding a coffee tray — all turned toward us like soldiers waiting for a general’s command. The air was tense. They probably expected Mariah to lead the session, but nope.

Without saying a word, I slid into the producer’s chair like it was mine. My fingers found the console instinctively, muscle memory from a hundred lifetimes of mixing tracks. The staff looked confused.

“Ahem~” Mariah cleared her throat and hummed a few warm-up notes, her voice soft but still undeniably powerful.

“Skip that,” I said gently, eyes still on the screen. “Let’s make something real... Just for you…”

There was a brief silence. Monica raised a brow, clearly not used to people cutting off Mariah Kari, of all people. But to her credit, Mariah didn’t look offended — just intrigued.

I plugged my phone into the studio’s main system. The monitor above the console flickered to life, displaying a chaotic web of folders — hundreds of them, each named something vague like Untitled_62 or Draft_v3_finalFINAL2.

Mariah tilted her head. “Are those… all yours?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah…” I glanced at her.

“Composed, arranged, mixed them all, myself…. Some of them were finished, some still in progress.” I said, shrugging.

Monica leaned toward one of the engineers, whispering, “Is this kid crazy or Mozart?”

I grinned without looking up. “I heard that,”

“Hahaha” That earned a quiet laugh from Mariah.

I scrolled through the files until I found one, I’d been saving — something lush, clean, with emotional depth that could carry her range, basically it was Her’s just from my origin earth, one of the many certified platinum song.

“Click!” One Click, and the room came alive.

“Ha~ Boom! Boom! Hah~”

The first few seconds hit like silk and thunder — layered harmonies rising into ethereal synths, strings swelling under subtle percussion.

“I feel good…I feel nice”

Every note seemed to shimmer, almost breathe.

“Oh my….” Mariah’s jaw literally dropped.

Monica, who’d been ready to roll her eyes, instead fumbled for her tablet and hit record. The engineers just stood there, frozen, like they were watching a magician pull doves out of thin air.

“It’s like…” Mariah whispered, stepping closer to the speakers, “…you already know my voice.”

“Yep….,” I said, adjusting a few dials.

“I tuned it to your range... and basically made it based on you…”

She blinked. “You did that before I even sang?”

“Yeah,” I replied, twisting the EQ knobs until the low frequencies hugged the room just right.

“Predictive tuning…. You’ve got a tone that sits between silk and fire — it’s just about balance… it was kinda my hobby, creating songs based on people…”

Mariah’s lips parted, but she didn’t say anything.

Monica leaned closer to her, whispering again, “that is amazing, Sael….”

I shot her a small smirk. “Thanks….”

“Mariah…” I gestured toward the booth. “Go ahead. Let’s try it.”

Mariah hesitated for a heartbeat — a diva unused to taking direction — then smiled and slid her sunglasses up onto her head. She stepped into the booth, hair catching the warm studio light, and put on her headphones.

The music looped softly in the background, waiting.

“You've got me feeling emotions…Deeper than I've ever dreamed of…”.

She sang one line — just one.

And the playback made even her go still.

Her voice, processed through the live mix, came out like honey poured through crystal — smoother, sharper, younger.

Monica’s mouth actually dropped open. “Holy hell,” she muttered. “She sounds perfect!”

I didn’t even flinch. “That’s the point.”

For a moment, no one said anything. The entire room just… listened. The diva who usually commanded every inch of attention was silent, staring through the glass at me like she was seeing her reflection ten years ago.

Then she smiled — slow, delighted, dangerous.

I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms. “So,” I said casually, “shall we record for real this time?”

“You tell me, maestro.” Mariah pulled her mic closer and grinned. And just like that, the air shifted.

After about an hour of working with Mariah, the studio air had shifted from polite tension to a kind of reverent silence. The staff who’d been whispering earlier now barely dared to breathe. It was almost funny. I hadn’t even done anything crazy — just fixed a few EQs, rearranged some vocal layers, and told a diva how to breathe properly. But in their eyes? It might as well have been divine intervention.

I leaned back in the chair, scrolling through the endless sea of folders on my phone, every one of them brimming with songs — some finished, others half-born sketches that still hummed with potential. There were too many.

Too much brilliance, honestly.

That’s not me being arrogant; it’s simple logistics. I could drop ten chart-toppers right now, flood the world overnight with hit after hit. But then what? People would grow numb to it. They’d take the miracles for granted. And worse — they’d start tearing them apart, demanding more before they even finished celebrating the last one.

‘No… I can’t feed them everything at once. Even gods ration lightning’. I sighed, rubbing my chin

Mariah was still inside the booth, sipping water, watching me like I was trying to conjure another universe out of thin air. I turned the screen toward her.

“You’ll have these two,” I said, tapping the files. “That’s enough.”

Her eyes glimmered as she repeated the titles softly, almost like reciting a prayer.

“Emotion... and Fantasy.”

I nodded. “Two songs…. That’s all you need, just as we already promised….”

She tilted her head, curious but respectful, that quiet awe in her gaze still fresh from earlier. I could tell she wanted to ask why only two — but she knew better than to question the man who just made her sound ten years younger in thirty minutes.

“Too many hits too soon ruin people... You release one, they’ll demand ten. Then fifty. Then when you give them fifty, they’ll still ask why it doesn’t sound like the first one.” I saved her the trouble anyway

Mariah smirked, leaning against the booth wall. “Spoken like someone who’s already tired of success.”

“Spoken like someone who’s seen what fame does to fools, and besides, more than this 2… will cost you a lot…” I replied.

She laughed quietly. “Touché.”

The first song I queued up was Emotion. The one that she already recorded the guide and got the feels for it before. The opening chords shimmered through the room — soft piano arpeggios rising gently, supported by a pulsing beat that felt like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The bass slid in smooth and alive, followed by gentle choral hums that made the air itself seem to vibrate.

Mariah froze again. Even Monica, the immovable manager statue, blinked rapidly as if trying to process what her ears were hearing.

The first verse hit, and even though it was just my demo vocals layered with synth placeholders, the emotional resonance was undeniable.

Mariah’s lips parted. “It’s… it’s so alive.”

Monica clutched at her chest dramatically. “That’s— That’s a hit, Mariah... I can feel it.”

“It is, this one suited you quite good” I adjusted a few sliders on the console, dialing the frequencies just right.

“I built it to move like a heartbeat,” I explained, my tone casual but focused.

“It’s not about the melody — it’s about the rise and fall…. The song is about surrendering to what you feel. The highs, the lows, everything in between. It’s a confession disguised as a groove.”

Mariah murmured a single line, her voice quiet but clear:

“You got me feeling emotions…”

She paused mid-sentence, eyes glassy, like she could already feel the song burrowing into her.

I smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

She sat back down slowly, still humming to herself, repeating the words like she was imprinting them onto her soul.

When I faded the track out, the silence it left behind was electric. Even the sound engineers looked moved — a rare feat for people who spend their lives listening to perfection.

Monica finally broke the spell. “You just… made a classic,” she said in disbelief. “In one take.”

“We’ll see. Art’s only as timeless as the feeling behind it.” I shrugged. I didn’t give them time to recover.

“Up Next,” I said, and opened the second file.

The moment Fantasy started, the entire atmosphere changed. Where Emotion had been tender, Fantasy was all sunshine and mischief — bright keys, a funky bassline, and playful sampling that made your foot tap without permission.

Mariah laughed out loud, covering her mouth. “Oh, this one’s flirty!”

“Exactly,” I said, letting the beat loop as I leaned forward on the console.

“It’s about obsession. The kind of love that sneaks up on you — where every time you see the person, your brain just starts writing fanfiction without your permission.”

She grinned wide, eyes sparkling. “That’s dangerously accurate.”

“Aren’t Love always is,” I said, and the words came out almost too easily.

Monica, still reeling from the last song, just stood there blinking. “Wait, you made both of these?”

“Again… yes,” I raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m sitting here downloading mixtapes? You ladies really need to stop being shocked with everything that I do…”.

“Two perfect songs. In under an hour. You— you make it look easy.” She made a strangled noise halfway between laughter and panic.

“Because it is,” I said simply, tweaking the equalizer again. “For me…. that is,”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Mariah’s laughter filled the studio again, smooth and melodic. “You know, most people would sound like assholes saying that,” she teased.

“Most people don’t deliver results, but me? I always do,” I said, deadpan.

Mariah spent the next twenty minutes experimenting with lines from both songs, humming verses, scribbling notes on the printed lyrics I’d prepped. Every time she sang a new variation, I adjusted something — a note here, a filter there — until her tone fit the song like silk tailored to her skin.

Monica stood to the side, phone in hand, recording clips for “documentation.” But I knew she’d play them later just to remind herself it really happened.

“Hah~” Finally, Mariah leaned back on the booth chair, fanning herself with the lyric sheet.

“You’re holding galaxies in that phone of yours,” she said, half-joking, half-serious.

“Probably… but to me, Only the ones I’m willing to share, will ever get to see what is in this phone of mine…” I replied, sipping from the untouched bottle of water beside me.

She studied me for a long second. There was amusement in her eyes, but something sharper underneath — curiosity, maybe even a hint of fear.

“These two alone…” she said slowly, “could go platinum before they even drop.”

I didn’t flinch. “They will.”

That earned me a raised brow from Monica. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“I don’t do ‘maybe,’” I said, setting the bottle down.

“But timing matters…. You drop too many diamonds at once; people stop seeing them shine. Let the world breathe between each hit…. You can also put some of your already made track… that way you can have 2 albums, with 2 guaranteed hits on each album…”

Mariah chuckled low. “You talk like a pro, Sael….”

“I talk like someone who’s seen too many geniuses burn out… I know how this business goes, so proper planning wouldn’t hurt….”

“I guess so,” That shut her up for a moment. The air grew still again, the faint hum of the console filling the silence like white noise in a church.

Inside, my thoughts drifted somewhere darker. Genius draws light. And light attracts predators. The moment I burn too bright, every parasite in this world will crawl out of the shadows, trying to feed. That’s the nature of fame — it loves you until it owns you. So, I’ll pace myself. Build slowly. Let them think I’m human a little longer.

When I looked back up, Mariah was watching me — head tilted, smile curling like she’d just read my mind.

“You’re terrifyingly good, Sael,” she said finally.

I laughed softly. “I know… hiding it is useless either...”

“Hahaha… damn you’re very confident,” She laughed too, shaking her head, and for a moment the diva veneer cracked just enough to show the woman underneath — ambitious, curious, maybe even a little smitten by the mystery in front of her.

Monica crossed her arms, muttering something about “geniuses being bad for her blood pressure.”

I leaned back again, stretching my arms above my head. “Well, that’s enough smooth talk for today. You’ve got your songs. Let’s make them shine.”

Mariah stood, still holding the lyric sheets close to her chest like they were holy relics. “You realize these two could define my next decade, right?”

“I’m counting on it,” I said with a grin. “Just don’t mess them up.”

She gasped theatrically. “You doubt me?”

“I doubt everyone,” I replied. “That’s just how I work… even Diva can fall...”

That made her laugh again — a full, rich laugh that bounced around the studio walls like applause.

As I watched her glow under the golden lights, hugging those two songs to her chest, I couldn’t help but smile. I knew what these tracks would do. They weren’t just music — they were history waiting to happen. And in that quiet moment, with Mariah laughing, Monica muttering, and the console humming beneath my fingertips, I felt it again — that strange mix of pride and restraint.

Mariah was practically vibrating. One second, she was listening to the final playback, the next she was spinning around the studio like a kid who just got a lifetime supply of chocolate and praise. Her laughter echoed off the padded walls, bright and wild, like the sound itself was dancing.

I watched her whirl in circles with that lyric sheet clutched to her chest, her heels clicking against the studio floor. For someone with “diva” as her unofficial title, she suddenly looked more like a fan who’d just won a meet-and-greet with herself.

Then she stopped mid-spin, eyes shining, and before I could even say don’t trip, she threw her arms around me.

“Whoa,” I muttered, half-laughing, as she pressed herself against me like gratitude incarnate. “Careful, I still need to breathe. Artists can’t make more hits if they’re dead.”

She just laughed, muffled against my shoulder. “You just gave me gold. You don’t get to complain.”

I opened my mouth to fire back something snarky—maybe I hand out gold all the time—but she pulled back suddenly and before I could react, she kissed me.

It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t even calculated. It was long, warm, and surprisingly soft. A thank-you written in the language of impulse.

When she finally pulled away, she was grinning, cheeks flushed, hair slightly disheveled. I just blinked once, processing, and exhaled. “…Right. So that’s how divas say thanks.”

From the corner, Monica cleared her throat with all the force of an incoming thunderstorm. “Ahem. Professional boundaries?”

Mariah waved her off with one hand, still laughing. “Relax, Monica! You just witnessed history.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from my shirt. “And HR violations, apparently.”

Mariah smirked. “I don’t have an HR department.”

“Convenient.”

She winked. “Isn’t it?”

A comfortable silence settled among us. Mariah was still processing, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of her lyric sheet. The studio lights dimmed to a golden hue, the glow from the console and monitors painting our faces in soft blue and amber.

The two titles — Emotion and Fantasy — glowed quietly on the screen like twin stars.

Mariah broke the silence first, her voice somewhere between a joke and a confession. “You just saved my career, didn’t you?”

I chuckled. “No. You’ll save it yourself. I just gave you the tools.”

She looked down, smiling in that small, unguarded way that divas rarely do. For a moment, she didn’t look like a superstar, or an icon, or the woman whose voice had probably fueled a generation’s heartbreaks. She just looked… grateful.

Monica closed her tablet with a soft clap, exhaling slowly. “When these drop,” she said with certainty, “the industry’s going to lose its damn mind.”

I stood, stretching my back. “Good,” I said with a grin. “Let them. Just make sure they spell my name right.”

That got another laugh from Mariah — warm and genuine. Monica just shook her head like she’d accepted that my confidence was a permanent fixture of the universe.

I took one last look around the room — the pristine studio, the silent awe still lingering in the air, the soft hum of the machines that had just birthed two future classics.

Another seed planted. Another empire ready to rise.

I didn’t need to say it out loud. The thought alone made my pulse steady, the familiar satisfaction settling in my chest.

This was how I built — quietly, deliberately, brick by gold-plated brick.

As I gathered my things, Mariah replayed Emotion once more. The room filled with her voice — still raw, still trembling slightly from the earlier takes.

She stood near the mic again, eyes closed, whispering along with the melody:

“You got me feeling emotions…”

Her voice cracked a little, not from effort, but from something real.

By the time the song faded out, she was standing there with tears threatening to fall. She smiled through them and looked at me.

“This one’s going to change everything,” she said softly.

I smiled back. “That’s the plan.”

And as she hit replay again, lost in her own song, I stepped out of the booth, thinking to myself — not for the first time — that sometimes creation isn’t about the noise you make. Somehow right now we are only reviewing the track that she would get from me, and they cannot help but gawk at what I showed them.