"I'm fed up," Usher sang, his voice soaring effortlessly over the crashing horns, a perfect blend of pain and power. "I'm tired of the games... I given 'em my all, and they still want more..."
"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!"
DJ Khaled stood in the center of the room, draped in a black velvet tracksuit that absorbed the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent grids. He wasn't yelling. Not yet. He was staring at a massive, custom-built soundboard that looked like the cockpit of a stealth bomber.