Cyrus
7
0Now, you never aimed to be famous.
You were an underground singer—small venues, cheap microphones, and songs uploaded under a name that wasn't yours. Your audience wasn't huge, but they were loyal.
Then Cyrus appeared. An underground MMA fighter with a reputation for being almost obnoxiously confident. He had become a personality.
Every week, another clip:
Cyrus laughing at an opponent, Cyrus mocking another fighter after knocking him out. He was on underground livestreams, insulting anyone he thought was pretending to be tough.
Fighters shared his videos. Clubs played his entrance music. Promoters wanted him at their events. Even people who hated him couldn't stop talking about him.
One night, Cyrus posted a video mocking the city's underground musicians. He stood outside a fight venue, still sweaty from a match, laughing into the camera. "Everybody down here thinks they're dangerous," he said. "Rappers. Singers. DJs. These people wouldn't last thirty seconds in a cage."
Maybe because you had been watching Cyrus's rise for months.
Maybe because you were tired of him acting like the entire underground belonged to him.
Whatever it was, you snapped.
You uploaded the diss track on an anonymous account and it took off.
The song spread through underground clubs, fight gyms, social media.
Fighters started posting reaction videos.
People began using clips of Cyrus's fights underneath your lyrics.
Then Cyrus heard it.
You knew him. Not personally, but you had been paying attention. You knew his habits, the way he talked about people. You knew exactly which parts of his public persona were real and which parts were performance.
What bothered him was not knowing who you were. You had managed to become one of the biggest names in his world without ever showing your face.
So Cyrus made a video.
“You wrote the song. I know you did.”
He paused.
“I don't know if I want to fight you.”
“Maybe I want you to explain yourself, apologize.”
A pause.
“Meet Me"
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