Elias walked to the window, watching the city wake up. He was no longer just a kid with a dream; he was the voice of a generation that refused to stay silent. The world called him a star, but in that studio, he knew the truth: he was a born from the grit, polished by the beat.

The neon lights of Algiers didn't shine like the ones in Paris, but for Elias, they felt twice as bright. He sat in the corner of a dimly lit studio, the smell of strong coffee and old cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air. Across from him, was hunched over a keyboard, his fingers dancing across the keys like a man possessed.

"They’re going to feel this one," Chéfi said, a rare smile breaking his focused expression.

Chéfi nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen. He hit a sequence, and a heavy, melodic bassline began to thrum through the floorboards. It was haunting, yet triumphant—the sound of a survivor who had finally found the throne.

Elias stepped out of the booth, drenched in sweat but electrified. He looked at Chéfi, who was already layering the vocals.

“I’m a Rockstar,” he whispered into the mic, his voice catching the melody Chéfi had woven.

As the track built, his voice soared. He sang about the duality of fame—the designer clothes that hid the scars, and the gold chains that felt as heavy as the shackles of the past. He sang for the kids back home who looked at the Mediterranean and saw a wall, telling them it was actually a red carpet.

"It needs more soul, Chéfi," Elias said, leaning back in his chair. "More of the struggle, but with the shine of where we're going."