Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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”We are stripping everything away,” Max announced, his genius fully ignited. ”No backing tracks. No heavy production. Just ambient reverb and perfect equalization. Your throat, Marvin... your vocal cords are the absolute best instruments on the face of this planet. We are going to build an entire EP on nothing but the raw power of your voice.”

As he declared this, Max leaned over the massive mixing console, looking at the boy behind the vocal booth glass with a look of profound, almost religious amazement. It was as if the Swedish producer had spent his entire life digging in the dirt for silver, only to stumble upon the most precious, flawless diamond artifact in the history of the world.

”There is absolutely no need to use heavy synthesizers or a full orchestra to accompany this,” Max continued, pacing back and forth in the tight space of the control room. ”That would only ruin the primal, pure emotional frequency you are conveying with your raw voice. There’s an old Eastern saying I read once... something about drawing a snake and then ruining it by drawing legs on it, isn’t there?”

”Huà shé tiān zú,” Marvin suddenly blurted out smoothly.

Max froze, blinking in confusion. ”What was that?”

”It is Mandarin,” Marvin explained, his flawless pronunciation echoing perfectly through the studio monitors. ”It is the original text of the idiom you just referenced. Literally translated: ’To draw a snake and add feet to it.’ Meaning, to ruin the effect by adding something entirely superfluous.”

”Wow,” Max breathed, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. ”Marvin, you speak fluent Mandarin as well? That’s incredible.”

After offering the sincere compliment, Max forced his manic, creative brain back to the immediate logistics. He looked at the studio clock. ”Marvin, singing with that level of raw, unbridled emotion is physically devastating on the human body. Do you need to take a break, drink some warm tea, or shall we start mapping out the recording tracks now?”

”Let’s get started immediately,” Marvin replied through the microphone, his posture completely relaxed. ”We have five instrumental compositions to lay down in total. Let’s record all of them today.”

If literally any other singer on earth had suggested recording five highly complex, vocally demanding tracks in a single afternoon, Max would have scoffed and kicked them out of his studio for not respecting the limits of human biology.

But Marvin’s breathtaking performance of Hometown Scenery had completely, utterly conquered him.

The kid’s chanting for over five minutes had been mathematically and emotionally flawless; there was absolutely no need for rests, punch-ins, or pitch corrections. ’If Marvin could maintain even eighty percent of that level of performance, a single afternoon would be more than enough.’

Could Marvin maintain this level of performance?

Of course he could.

Although the biological vocal cords of the eleven-year-old human body he inhabited were not yet fully developed, and his voice had not yet dropped to its ultimate, resonant adult depth, his physical form was practically saturated with Incubus magic.

He could easily handle chanting a mere five songs by continually channeling his magical power to coat and protect his throat, ensuring absolutely zero damage to his vocal cords.

What followed was a masterclass in efficiency that would haunt Max’s dreams for decades.

It went incredibly, frighteningly smoothly. Marvin stood in the booth and delivered track after track of ethereal, heart-stopping vocalizations.

He hit impossible high notes on the first take. He plunged into sorrowful, resonant depths on the second. Max barely had to touch the equalization board; the boy was naturally mixing his own frequencies in real-time.

Max sat in his leather chair, profoundly humbled. He even began to deeply believe that, compared to the sheer artistry Marvin possessed, his current clients—the Backstreet Boys—simply ”didn’t understand” music at all.

The five songs were recorded with blistering speed. They were completely done in half an hour.

”Let’s take this to the office,” Max said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. He looked completely exhausted, having experienced more emotional highs and lows in thirty minutes than he had in the past five years.

The group migrated from the dark, heavily soundproofed recording studio down the hall to Max’s private office. It was a modest, cluttered room filled with platinum records leaning against the walls, stacks of sheet music, and a worn-out leather sofa.

Amy instantly shifted into high gear. While Max slumped behind his desk, Amy took charge of the room’s hospitality, seamlessly ordering a tray of fresh juices, bottled water, and black coffee from the studio assistants.

As she handed Marvin a glass of fresh orange juice, Amy took a moment to observe her boss.

The little man didn’t look tired in the slightest. His ocean-blue eyes were incredibly bright, his posture immaculate. Amy pulled her legal pad onto her lap, her pen poised. She had spent the morning shielding him from the paparazzi, but now, she knew, the real bloodsport was about to begin. The business negotiation.

Marvin took a slow, elegant sip of his juice. He crossed his legs, looking across the desk at the Swedish producer.

”So,” Marvin asked, his tone light but laced with an undeniable, heavy gravity. ”How were the songs, Max?”

Max let out a bark of incredulous laughter, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk.

”Marvin, it is 1997,” Max began, his eyes wide, gesturing wildly with his hands. ”The compact disc market is exploding globally. I am currently producing tracks that I know will be massive radio hits. But what you just did in that booth? That isn’t a radio hit. That is a cultural phenomenon.”

Max praised the five tracks to no end. He swore on his life that if these songs were pressed and distributed properly, securing millions in physical sales within the first six months was not a pipe dream—it was a mathematical certainty.

”They will absolutely debut in the Billboard Hot 100,” Max insisted, his Swedish accent thickening with passion. ”They will be certified Platinum before the year is out. The cinematic, instrumental quality combined with that haunting vocal... it crosses all language barriers. It is global.”

Then, the manic energy in Max’s eyes dimmed, replaced by a heavy, profound frustration. He slumped back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

Max slumped back into his worn-out leather sofa, rubbing his eyes. It was January 1997. In the broader music industry, Max was still largely viewed as a rising commodity, a talented Swedish songwriter working under the umbrella of Denniz Pop’s Cheiron Studios. He had recently tasted the intoxicating rush of global success, helping engineer the breakout hits for the Backstreet Boys and Robyn, but he was still ultimately a hired gun. He was a piece of the machine, not the owner of it.

And sitting across from him, sipping a glass of fresh orange juice with the serene, untouchable grace of a monarch, was an eleven-year-old boy who had just shattered his entire understanding of acoustics.

”If I had the corporate reach,” Max admitted, his voice dropping to a bitter, exhausted whisper, staring at the ceiling. ”I would not hesitate to sign you to an exclusive contract this exact second. I would do it no matter the deal. Even if I didn’t earn a single penny from the royalties... just to have my name attached to this art. But the sad, brutal reality, Marvin, is that neither I nor this current studio setup possess the vast corporate resources, the liquid capital, or the political power to share your great music with the world and push it into international stores.”

The office fell into a heavy silence. Nancy watched her nephew, waiting to see how the prodigy would handle the devastating reality of distribution logistics.

Marvin didn’t look disappointed. In fact, a slow, breathtakingly handsome smile spread across his perfect features. It was the smile of a predator who had just watched the final piece of his trap snap perfectly into place.

”Which you do not currently have,” Marvin agreed smoothly, setting his juice glass down on the cluttered desk. ”So, Max, I must ask a very simple question: Why can’t we just create one?”

Max blinked, pulling his gaze down from the ceiling. ”Create what?”

”A global powerhouse,” Marvin stated, his voice dropping into a resonant, hypnotic cadence. He leaned forward, locking his ancient, ocean-blue eyes onto the producer.

”Let me be entirely transparent with you, Max,” Marvin said, his Incubus charm radiating through the room, making the air feel suddenly dense, electric, and inescapably heavy. ”I despise the concept of other people owning my work. I loathe corporate executives holding the rights to my creativity, my intellectual property, and my image. If I possessed the infrastructure, I would have financed and launched my upcoming film from my own private studio, completely bypassing Disney. Sadly, Hollywood is a closed ecosystem, and that is not possible... at least, not yet.”

Marvin paused, letting the terrifying magnitude of his ambition hang in the air.

”But the music industry?” Marvin continued softly. ”That is currently a fragmented frontier. And I fully intend to own my music. Every single master recording. So, here is my proposition.”

Beside him, Amy straightened her spine. Her pen hit the yellow legal pad, transcribing every word with flawless, rapid precision. She wasn’t just an assistant fetching coffee anymore; she was recording the genesis of a corporate monolith.

”I will provide a direct capital injection of ten million dollars,” Marvin announced, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the London weather.

Max’s jaw literally dropped. Nancy choked slightly on her coffee, coughing into a napkin.

”We will take this rented facility, and we will completely restructure your current operation—pulling you out of the shadows of your current employers—into a proper, formalized global production house,”

Marvin outlined his strategic mind operating years ahead of everyone in the room. He knew exactly what the timeline demanded. He knew Maratone existed in a loose, studio-linked form but wasn’t yet a fully structured global company, while MXM didn’t exist as a formal business entity at all in this era. ”Let us call the new parent company Maratone. I will retain ninety percent ownership of the studio and its intellectual property portfolio. You will receive ten percent equity.”

Max opened his mouth, his pride flaring, ready to protest the seemingly lopsided 90/10 split. But Marvin smoothly cut him off before a single syllable could escape.

”Before your ego objects, Max, consider the scale,” Marvin purred, his charm actively neutralizing the producer’s hesitation, coating the bitter pill in sweet, irresistible logic. ”Ten percent of a future multi-billion-dollar global empire is infinitely more lucrative than one hundred percent of a rented brick building in the suburbs of Sweden. I am offering to make you a titan. Yes, the old proverb says a skinny camel is bigger than a horse, and it is always better to be your own boss than work for someone else. But let’s not forget... my horse is an Arabian beast.”

Marvin smiled, an impossibly dashing, confident expression. ”I am not only giving you the lion’s share of industry power, but also total creative control. I will give you stars, and you will make them superstars.”

Max swallowed hard, his mind racing at a million miles an hour.

”You retain rights to your compositions and your production identity,” Marvin continued, outlining the ironclad terms. ”No one touches your creative process. I don’t interfere with your sound.”

A brief, heavy pause filled the room.

”I build the engine around you.”

Max leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped tightly together. ”...And the rest?”

Marvin casually flipped a page in his own mental ledger.

”We don’t stop at one studio.”

His tone sharpened, just a little, transforming from a charming artist into a ruthless CEO. ”We build the next one—properly this time. In the U.S.” He let the name land deliberately, pulling it directly from the timeline of his past life. ”Wolf Cousins.”

Marvin leaned back, crossing his arms. ”Additionally, I will provide a separate ten million dollar capital fund to immediately acquire real estate and establish a state-of-the-art sister studio in Los Angeles. We will name it Wolf Cousins. You will be installed as the Head of Creative for both facilities, and I will grant you a five percent equity stake in the LA expansion. You will have unlimited budgets, the finest acoustic architecture money can buy, and absolute creative control over the artists we sign. How does that sound?”

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