From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

84: Chapter 84 ”Safety and Sound” in the BluesMorning light streamed in through the high windows of the recording studio, cutting bright spots onto the dark wooden floor.

There was a quiet tension in the air—not the urgency of crisis, but the focused anticipation before creation.

Alex sat on a high stool in front of the console, his fingertips tapping unconsciously against his knees.

Spread out on the music stand in front of him were several handwritten pages, the handwriting scrawled yet full of energy; they were the melody lines and lyric fragments he and Taylor had sketched out synchronously during their video call last night.

Taylor’s flight would land in half an hour, but he had arrived two hours early—not out of anxiety, but because that long-lost, pure creative impulse was awakening.

Hank leaned against the wall by the door, his gaze sweeping the outer corridor through the one-way glass.

This recording studio belonged to a retired country music producer who had old ties to the Taylor family, and its security had been reinforced by Rex’s team.

Marcus was on the phone in the next room, his voice faintly audible: ”...Yes, the Child Safety Foundation... No, we do not accept associated donations from military-industrial enterprises... Send the legal documents to me before three o’clock this afternoon...”

Alex summoned the system interface.

A pale blue light screen unfolded on his retina.

【Current Popularity: 7,588,200 points】 (Slight increase from yesterday, stemming from the continued spread of ”Truth on the Dance Floor” and sporadic media reports)

【Ability Fusion Progress: Creative Master (Beginner, 68%)】 (Slowly increasing with continuous use)

【Spider-Sense (Intermediate): Threat perception radius stable, no abnormal readings】

”Data is normal.” He whispered to himself and closed the interface.

He didn’t want to stare at numbers today—he wanted to listen to music.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, not the vigilant pace of Hank or Marcus, but a light, familiar rhythm.

Then the door was pushed open, and Taylor Swift walked in, bringing with her the chill of the outdoors and a kind of... bright exhaustion.

She wore no makeup, her blonde hair tied simply into a ponytail, dressed in a loose grey hoodie and jeans, and carrying a guitar case that looked heavy.

But her eyes were bright.

”You’re early.” Alex stood up.

”The plane chased the sunrise; I didn’t want to waste the light.” Taylor leaned the guitar case against the wall and looked around the recording studio.

”This place is nice. Old-school vibes.”

”You recommended it.”

”A friend of my father’s.” Taylor walked to the console, her fingers brushing over the faders of the mixing board.

”He recorded albums here in the sixties and said the acoustics of this room were ’tuned with ears and intuition, not calculated by computers.’”

She turned to look at Alex.

”You look better than yesterday. Like a human who has actually slept.”

”Slept for nine hours.”

”Good boy.” Taylor smiled and took a kraft paper folder out of her bag.

”Look at this first, then play.”

Alex took the folder.

Inside were printed emails and memos—from the Universal legal department, marked ”Confidential” and ”Urgent.”

”The derivative impact of the shareholder lawsuit.” Taylor sat down beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

”Universal is now split into two factions.

One side thinks you are a ’high-risk asset’ and should be cut loose as soon as possible, or at least have all funding for new projects suspended.

The other side—mainly A&R and the marketing department—believes you are a ’phenomenal newcomer,’ and the data proves the public is buying in.”

Alex flipped through the documents quickly.

The core content was clear: Northrop, through several affiliated funds, was pressuring Universal’s major shareholders to re-evaluate whether their contract with him was ”in the long-term interest of the company.”

More specifically, they were pushing a motion: if Alex’s next single failed to enter the Billboard Top 10, Universal would have the right to unilaterally suspend the contract for six months.

”An upgraded version of a valuation adjustment mechanism.” Alex closed the folder.

”And it’s a legal business clause.” Taylor’s voice was calm but carried a chill.

”Their lawyers are smart; they didn’t mention NT-7 or military contracts, only saying ’in view of the controversies recently caused by the artist, which may affect the value of brand partnerships’... High-sounding nonsense.”

”What is your stance?”

Taylor tilted her head to look at him: ”I had dinner with some people from Warner last night.”

The air was silent for a second.

Then Alex nodded: ”Independent distribution?”

”Still considering it.” Taylor stood up and walked to the center of the recording studio, where an old-fashioned grand piano stood.

She lifted the lid and gently pressed a C chord, the notes spreading warmly through the room.

”But I need Universal to understand: if they take a step back on this, I will step back even further.”

She turned around, leaning her back against the piano: ”The ’Safe & Sound’ charity project, I will launch in my own studio’s name, without using any Universal resources.

As for distribution channels... let’s try your ’Voice of Truth’ platform, along with my official website.

All royalties will be donated to the Child Safety Foundation’s support program for NT-7 victim families.”

She paused.

”Universal only has one choice: either support it and get a ’social responsibility’ bonus, or oppose it and look like cold-blooded jerks.”

Alex looked at her silhouette in the morning light.

This was not the radiant pop superstar on stage, but a shrewd, determined creator betting with all her chips.

”The risk is huge.” He said.

”That’s why it’s ’Safe & Sound.’” Taylor smiled, a sharp edge in her expression.

”Safety is for those who need protection. Sound is what we must make. Understand?”

Alex understood.

He walked to the piano and looked at the handwritten lyrics on the music stand.

Below the title, Taylor had written a line in pencil: ”For those waiting for dawn in the darkness.”

”Then,” he said, ”let’s begin.”

--- The creative process was like a slow walk.

For the first half hour, they barely spoke.

Taylor played the guitar, trying different chord progressions; Alex sat at the console, using a MIDI keyboard to layer a simple piano melody.

The sounds intertwined, collided, and searched for each other’s shapes in the room.

System prompts quietly appeared:

【Ability Triggered: Emotional Resonance Field (Beginner)】

【Deep emotional investment from co-creator detected, resonance intensity increasing...】

【Creative Master (Beginner) proficiency increased to 69%】

Alex didn’t deliberately guide it; he just let that feeling flow.

He remembered the girl at Ridley Lake Park, remembered her saying ”My brother almost...”, and remembered the stories in the backstage comments about loved ones, about fear, about waiting.

These fragments swirled in his consciousness, then settled into the texture of the melody.

Taylor’s guitar shifted from G major to D minor, the force of her strumming becoming gentle, like a soothing caress.

”Try this.” She sang a melody, no lyrics, just an ”ah” sound, but it held a swaying, lullaby-like peace.

Alex closed his eyes, his fingers responding on the keyboard.

The piano notes fell like raindrops onto the web woven by the guitar, clear and restrained.

Then he added a simple synthesizer pad—not the flashy kind found in electronic music, but like the glimmer on a distant horizon, continuous, stable, and full of hope.

”Lyrics.” Taylor stopped playing the guitar.

”The version we discussed yesterday... I think it’s too direct.”

Alex nodded.

Their initial idea was to write a song about ”coming home after the war ends,” but in this moment, amidst the morning light and piano notes, that expression felt too polished, lacking the texture of real scars.

”Change it to waiting.” Alex said.

”Not the safety of the war being over, but... while the war is still ongoing, still believing that somewhere, someone, some kind of sound is safe.”

Taylor was silent for a few seconds, then picked up her pencil and wrote quickly on the staff paper.

Alex looked at the focused lines of her profile and suddenly realized—she was also drawing from her own experience.

The media scrutiny, the public attacks, the pressure to maintain a ”perfect image”... she knew just as much about ”not being safe” as anyone else.

The sound of the pencil scratching against paper stopped.

Taylor looked up, her eyes clear:

”I remember tears streaming down your face / When I said, I’ll never let you go...”

She sang the first line softly.

The melody was as simple as a nursery rhyme, but the imagery in the lyrics unfolded instantly: a crying face, tightly clasped hands, a promise.

Alex’s fingers found the corresponding chords on the keys.

The piano sound joined in, supporting the vocals.

”When all those shadows almost killed your light...” Taylor continued, her voice rising slightly, carrying a gentle determination, ”I remember you said, don’t leave me here alone...”

The air in the room changed.

Hank peeked in from the door, then gently closed it.

Marcus stopped his phone call.

Even the sound of traffic on the distant street seemed to quiet down.

Alex added harmony in the second verse.

Their voices blended together—Taylor’s clarity had a raspy texture, and Alex’s bass was steady and embracing.

When they reached the chorus, they both looked up at the same time and exchanged a glance.

”Just close your eyes, the sun is going down...”

”You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now...”

It wasn’t ”the war is over,” but ”close your eyes, pretend it’s safe for now.”

It was fragile courage.

They repeated the chorus over and over, trying different harmonic arrangements.

Alex’s system interface continued to flash with subtle data streams—not popularity growth, but something more abstract:

【Emotional Transmission Efficiency: 87%】

【Narrative Resonance Depth: Exceeded conventional creative threshold】

【Suggestion: Maintain current state of emotional investment, estimated social impact of final product increased by 23%】

But he ignored the data again.

What mattered in this moment was the slight curve of Taylor’s lips, the slight tremor in the force of her fingers as she strummed, and how the line in the lyrics, ”Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe and sound...” gradually turned from a question into a certainty.

By noon, they had a complete demo: three verses and choruses, a bridge, and a short instrumental outro.

The song was three minutes and forty-two seconds long—not long, but every note was like a carefully polished pebble, smooth and heavy.

Taylor Swift pressed the stop button on the recording equipment. The room suddenly went quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner.

”I’m hungry,” she said.

Alex only then realized that four hours had passed. His fingers were a bit stiff, but his heart felt full—the satisfaction of creating something real was more solid than any jump in popularity.

Marcus pushed the door open at the right moment, carrying a paper bag: ”Burritos, and coffee.”

They ate on the worn-out sofa in front of the console. Taylor Swift held her guitar in her arms, unconsciously strumming the strings and humming the bridge melody they had just written.

”What about the release date?” Alex asked.

”A week before Thanksgiving,” Marcus said, his mouth full of food, speaking indistinctly. ”The Child Safety Foundation has already coordinated everything. The draft of the press release is here—” He handed over the tablet, ”Highlighting ’all proceeds donated’ and ’supporting military family mental health’.”

Alex browsed the copy. It was professional; it pointed out the connection between the song and the NT-7 incident without being overly political, preserving the purity of a ”charity song.”

”How will Northrop react?” he asked.

Marcus and Taylor Swift exchanged a look.

”They’ll try to downplay it,” Marcus put down his burrito. ”They’ll issue a press release saying they ’support all charitable actions’ while secretly pressuring media to reduce coverage. They might also find a few ’veteran organizations’ to come out and criticize us, saying we are ’using military families to garner sympathy’.”

”But the data will speak for itself,” Taylor Swift interjected. ”If the song charts, if the donation figures are made public, if they can’t suppress the spontaneous spread on social media...” She shrugged, ”The more they suppress it, the greater the rebound.”

Alex recalled the data in the system about the ”Deep Resonance Conversion Efficiency 3.2x.” Real stories and real emotions were indeed more powerful than any marketing strategy.

After lunch, they returned to the studio to start producing the official version. Taylor Swift insisted on the simplest arrangement: a guitar, a piano, a light string backing, and their two voices. The producer role was shared between the two—Alex was responsible for structure and technical details, while Taylor Swift controlled the emotional expression and vocal details.

During the process, the system abilities integrated naturally:

[Omnimedia Director Vision] helped Alex construct the visual image of the song in his mind—not an MV, but abstract color flows and emotional curves, which in turn influenced his judgment on the mix balance.

[Inspiration Burst] triggered during the bridge section, and Alex suggested adding a distant, radio-like bugle sample (processed to be soft), symbolizing memory and distance.

[Emotional Resonance Field] acted continuously, keeping their singing at that delicate balance: sad but not desperate, gentle but powerful.

At four in the afternoon, the final mix was completed. As the last note faded in the monitors, the room fell back into that full, post-creation silence.

Taylor Swift leaned back into the sofa, closing her eyes: ”I’m tired.”

”So tired,” Alex agreed, but with a smile in his voice.

Marcus played the full version. Over four minutes of music flowed out. This time, they weren’t creators, but listeners. Alex listened to his own harmonies intertwining with Taylor Swift’s lead vocals, listening to the imagery in the lyrics about darkness, dawn, and clasped hands, and suddenly realized—this might be their most intimate song yet.

It wasn’t the angry scream of ”Radioactive,” not the flashy counterattack of ”Truth on the Dance Floor,” but a quiet, reaching gesture.

The song ended. Marcus was silent for a long time, then said: ”This will... touch a lot of people.”

His voice was a bit hoarse.

Just then, Alex’s personal phone vibrated. Not the work line, but the encrypted one that only a very few people knew.

Caller ID: Agent Miller.

Alex walked to the vocal booth to answer: ”Agent Miller.”

”Briefing,” Agent Miller’s voice sounded tighter than usual. ”The Northrop board held an emergency meeting this afternoon. The content is confidential, but our informant heard two keywords: ’Final Solution’ and ’Media Saturation Attack’.”

”Specifics?”

”They might give up on defeating you directly in law and business,” Agent Miller paused, ”and switch to... making you ’lose the moral high ground’ in the eyes of the public.”

Alex frowned: ”How?”

”We are still investigating. But signs show they are mobilizing massive resources, preparing to release a series of... investigative reports on your background through multiple media channels simultaneously within the next two weeks.” Agent Miller’s voice lowered. ”Not rumors, but selective presentation of facts. Your father’s work record in the aerospace industry, your mother’s family’s ties to Chinese academic institutions, your own ’psychological assessment records’ from high school... These things will be packaged as ’the truth the public has a right to know’.”

Alex felt a faint sting from his Spider-Sense—not an immediate threat, but a premonition that some large net was being cast.

”Timing?”

”Likely around the release of ’Safe & Sound’,” Agent Miller said. ”Framing the charitable act as an ’atonement performance’ or ’distraction’. This is their area of expertise, Alex. They are good at this.”

After the call ended, Alex returned to the main room. Taylor Swift looked at him: ”Bad news?”

”Expected bad news.” Alex briefly summarized Agent Miller’s warning.

Marcus had already started typing on his laptop: ”We need to prepare rebuttal materials in advance. Your father’s public work record is clean, the psychological assessment—wait, do you really have a psychological assessment record?”

”From when I was in school,” Alex said calmly. ”After my parents’ plane crash, the school required it. The report concluded ’post-traumatic stress reaction, but within normal adjustment range’.”

”They will cut that part out and only leave ’post-traumatic stress’ and ’needs observation’.” Marcus’s fingers moved rapidly. ”Damn it, this is really hard to defend against. Because they are using real documents, just... cropped.”

Taylor Swift stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Nashville’s evening was descending, and the city lights were turning on one by one.

”Then let them release it,” she turned, a calm fire on her face. ”We have ’Safe & Sound’. We have those hundreds of thousands of real messages on the Voice of Truth platform. We have...” She looked at Alex, ”You standing here, alive, still creating, still fighting.”

She walked back, picked up the guitar, and strummed a bright chord.

”Music is truer than documents,” she said. ”Hearts are smarter than conspiracies.”

Alex looked at her, suddenly remembering the unfinished ability in the system: [Creative Master]. If this ability continued to evolve, if he could truly master that narrative power that reached straight into people’s hearts... then Northrop’s ”media saturation attack” might instead become fuel.

”Marcus,” he said. ”Contact Organization D. Ask if they can help us build a real-time response system for ’fact-checking’, integrated into the Voice of Truth platform. Any false report about me appears, and within ten minutes, our version goes live, with original file links attached.”

”Technically feasible, but the workload—”

”Use AI for initial screening, human review for key points.” Alex had already opened his own laptop. ”I will participate in the review myself. I have [Information Tracing] and [Legal Boundary Insight], and can quickly identify which ’crops’ constitute substantial misleading.”

Work mode restarted. But this time, it felt different—not defensive, but building a more solid position.

Taylor Swift watched him typing rapidly and smiled: ”Day off over?”

”Creative day isn’t over yet.” Alex didn’t even look up. ” ’Safe & Sound’ is just the first song. The Renaissance Project needs a second, a third... I want to release another one before Thanksgiving.”

”What direction?”

Alex stopped his fingers and looked up: ”About memory. About the things they try to erase, but we choose to remember.”

Taylor Swift’s eyes lit up. She sat back at the piano, her fingers wandering over the keys, and the embryonic form of a new melody with a nostalgic luster emerged.

Marcus sighed, but started making calls: ”Okay, the new sprint begins. I’m going to coordinate the production team’s schedule...”

Hank poked his head in from outside: ”Need to extend security shifts?”

”Yes,” Alex said. ”And notify Rex, check the communication equipment in all our backup safe houses. We may need to move frequently over the next two weeks.”

”Received.”

The team’s Gears meshed and turned again. But this time, the center of the Gear wasn’t fear, but a clear, forward-moving determination.

At seven in the evening, when Alex finally left the recording studio, the system interface popped up automatically:

[Today’s Creative Output: ”Safe & Sound” Full Production Version (Estimated Social Impact: High)]

[Popularity Natural Growth: +32,000 points (Topics derived from the creation process)]

[Current Popularity: 7,620,000 points]

[Ability Growth: Creative Master (Beginner, 71%); Emotional Resonance Field (Beginner, proficiency increased)]

[Warning: Increased multi-source media monitoring activity detected, threat level being assessed...]

Alex closed the interface and walked into the Nashville night.

The city was still there, brightly lit, bustling with noise. But at this moment, what he saw wasn’t just buildings and streets, but a huge, complex battlefield—law, business, public opinion, human hearts, every dimension was having a silent confrontation.

And his weapons were a piano, a microphone, a system, and a group of people willing to believe that some things were worth protecting.

His phone vibrated. Taylor Swift sent a message: ”That harmony in the bridge, I want to change one note. Come early tomorrow?”

Alex replied: ”Seven?”

”Six-thirty. Bring breakfast.”

He smiled. Then he looked up at the distant sky.

A media storm. A song about memory.

The path to godhood under the spotlight was cutting through the thickest shadows, continuing to extend forward.