Abby circled the date on her calendar three times with a pink marker. Six weeks until the Underground Crown battle. Six weeks to face Vex, the producer who'd stolen her beats and called her washed up on every platform that mattered. She pressed play on her phone and let the bass shake her kitchen table. Her lips moved, testing new rhymes about betrayal and comebacks. The words felt sharp. Ready. She'd been writing verses in her head while making lunches, dropping bars in the shower, perfecting her flow during every quiet moment. This battle would prove she never lost it. Her old brick phone sat on the counter, thick and gray like a relic from another life. The thing weighed a pound but it still worked. She picked it up and scrolled through her contacts, looking for people who knew about underground battles. Three names stood out. She texted each one the same message: "Need stage time. Need crowds. Six weeks to get sharp." The responses came back fast. One name, one location, one chance to practice where it counted. The market kiosk appeared two days later during her morning run. Wooden beams, bright flowers spilling over the sides, and a small stage built into the back. A hand-painted sign read "All Buttered Up." Crowds gathered around it for coffee and pastries. But at night, someone had told her, it transformed. The Neon Reverie Sound Stage took over after dark, pulsating lights replacing the flowers, speakers pumping music into the street. Open mic every Thursday. Real crowds. Real feedback. She needed both. Abby stood in front of the kiosk that Thursday night, watching the lights pulse in pink and blue. Her turn came up. She grabbed the mic and let her first verse fly. The crowd nodded, some recording on their phones. Her voice cut through the music, sharp and clear. When she finished, applause erupted. She stepped off the stage with sweat on her face and fire in her chest. Vex wouldn't know what hit him.