Urban System in America-Chapter 147 - 146: Unwritten Law

Given her wealth, Emma could have just bought her way out. freёwebnoѵel.com

But the music industry wasn’t a vending machine where you tossed in money and picked your freedom off a shelf.

No.

It was a twisted, multi-layered machine built on contracts, control, and centuries of unchallenged power. A place where talent was currency, yet power was monopoly, and if you weren’t careful, you’d sign your soul away before your first album even dropped.

Rex leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes focused on the glowing screen. He remembered reading lots of similar news in his previous world. Different world, different lives—but the systems, the patterns, the traps? They were always the same.

At its core, the industry revolved around two major entities: record labels and publishing companies—and no, they’re not the same thing. To the untrained eye, they may seem interchangeable. But to insiders, they were two entirely different beasts. Each having its own domain, its own set of rules, and its own grip on an artist’s work.

Take record labels, for instance. They are the frontline soldiers—the ones who discovered talent, packaged it, and pushed it out into the world. They signed artists, financed recordings, arranged promotions, and booked tours. But all of that came with a price. A steep one.

In return, they lock artists into long-term contracts.

Legally, most countries have limits—anywhere from three to seven years depending on the region—but these companies aren’t stupid. They’ve long since learned how to sidestep those laws. Most contracts come with multi-album commitments, meaning the artist can’t leave until they deliver a set number of albums—even if the contract term expires.

Emma, like many rookies before her, had made the same mistake: signing one of those contracts. Or perhaps, more accurately, she had no real choice. It’s practically the only kind of contract these companies offer. You either sign, or you don’t debut.

He could imagine when Emma first signed her contract, she’d been like every other rookie—wide-eyed, hopeful, desperate to make it big. And the labels? Oh, they knew exactly how to reel in someone like her.

"You’ll be a star," they’d said.

"What about creative freedom?"

"You’ll have it. Total support."

"And ownership of my work?"

"We’ll discuss that later."

Of course, they never did. What they gave her was a multi-album deal with clauses buried deeper than a coffin in concrete. On the surface, the contract term might’ve said five years. But in reality? It could last a decade or more, because the clock didn’t start ticking until the final album was delivered—and they controlled how fast that happened.

And if you tried to leave early? Breaking the contract comes with brutal penalties—so severe they’ll bleed every cent you’ve ever earned. In his past life, Rex had read countless horror stories: artists who once earned millions, only to clash with their labels and end up buried in lawsuits,Slapped with damages that would take a lifetime to repay. Labels didn’t just want money. They wanted control. And if you rebelled, they didn’t sue you to win—they sued to bury you.

"Break a contract, and you’re out," Rex whispered, recalling headlines from his past life. "Not just from your label. From the whole damn industry."

In every industry, there are unspoken rules. In music, breaking a contract is one of the biggest red lines. It is an unwritten law, silent pacts between gatekeepers. If an artist walked away from a contract, every other label—big or small, even indie ones—would shut their doors. No second chances. No matter how talented you were.

The irony? This only applies to artists.

Labels could break contracts whenever they pleased.

They can break or bend contracts whenever they like. But if an artist dares? They’d better be ready to say goodbye to everything.

Yeah, it’s unfair, fucking unfair, but do capitalists care? Not even their toenails twitch in sympathy.

And governments? Laws? Courts? They were powerless. The industry was too big, too old, too good at twisting the rules.

And in front of an entire industry, even the most powerful individuals are like delicate flowers in a storm. Fragile. Rootless. Torn apart the moment they tried to stand up.

Throughout history, artists have tried to push back against this tyranny. Every one of them met the same fate: blacklisted, smeared, forgotten. The industry doesn’t care how talented someone is, In fact, talent is the one thing they fear the least—because it’s the one thing they know they’ll never run out of. If they blacklist one singer, ten more will be waiting in line to take their place. A hundred more will beg for a shot. A thousand will sell their souls for just a taste of the stage lights.

Eager. Desperate. Hungry. Just like moths rushing toward the flame, fully aware of the risks, but still drawn by the glow of fame and fortune. Even when they know the fire burns, they still fly straight into it—blinded not just by the promise of fame and fortune, but by the belief that their art, their voice, their passion will somehow protect them. It won’t. Because in this industry, the companies own the flame—and they decide who gets to shine, and who gets burned.

Why? Because these companies don’t just control fame and fortune. These companies—the labels, the publishers, the industry gatekeepers—control everything an artist needs to survive. The singers, the composers, the musicians. The studios. The marketing. The PR teams. The streaming deals. The tour bookings.

And most importantly? The distribution channels.

Without those, talent is meaningless.

Not everyone is all rounder like Emma, who can write, compose and sing her own songs.

You could be the next vocal prodigy, with a voice that could silence a stadium. But if you have no songs to sing—if no one writes for you, records you, or releases your music—then you’re nothing more than an echo in an empty room.

And on the other side? You could be a gifted composer or a brilliant lyricist, pouring your soul into every note and word. But if no one sings your songs—if no one hears them—then all your genius is wasted ink on forgotten pages.

And that’s the cruel brilliance of the system. They don’t need to kill your voice to destroy you. They just need to silence it.

(End of Chapter)