I am very happy and honored to be part of the Sony ATV family.

Host: The studio was alive with sound — the low thrum of bass, the faint hum of an amplifier, and the heartbeat of a city that never slept. It was midnight, yet the air was thick with electricity, with that creative fever that made the world seem both infinite and immediate. Neon lights bled through the windows, turning the walls into canvases of shifting color — pink, violet, blue, all pulsing in rhythm with a dream that refused to die.

Jack sat behind the mixing console, his fingers drumming on the desk, his eyes fixed on the soundboard lights as though he were communing with them. Cables coiled at his feet like sleeping serpents, and the room smelled faintly of coffee, vinyl, and ambition. Jeeny stood by the booth window, her hair illuminated by the soft red glow of the “ON AIR” sign, her expression both gentle and curious.

Jeeny: “Maluma once said, ‘I am very happy and honored to be part of the Sony ATV family.’” She smiled faintly. “You’d probably roll your eyes at that, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: He chuckled dryly. “Oh, come on, Jeeny. You think that’s philosophy? That’s PR with a smile. It’s what people say when they’ve just signed the kind of contract most artists never get near. Gratitude dressed in press-release glitter.”

Host: The beat in the background shifted, the sound engineer’s screen glowing like a digital sunrise. Jack leaned back, his voice low, his tone sharp — not cruel, but measured, the way a man sounds when he’s seen too much of the machine behind the magic.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every artist says they’re ‘honored to join the family’ — until the family starts owning their songs, their image, their soul. Then they start talking about freedom and integrity. I’ve seen it too many times.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been burned.”

Jack: “Not burned — educated.” He sipped his coffee, eyes still fixed on the blinking lights. “The industry sells you the dream, but the fine print always belongs to someone else. They feed you fame, then send you the bill in ownership.”

Host: Jeeny crossed her arms, her reflection visible in the booth glass, superimposed over a microphone still warm from the last recording. Her voice softened, but it carried that fierce undercurrent — the one that made even skepticism sound like hope.

Jeeny: “You’re missing the heart of it, Jack. Maluma wasn’t talking about contracts. He was talking about belonging. About finding a place where his music, his heritage, his language finally felt seen and valued. That kind of joy isn’t corporate — it’s human.”

Jack: “Human?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a billion-dollar label, Jeeny. You don’t join Sony ATV for belonging — you join it for reach, for distribution, for power. They don’t sell family. They sell access.”

Jeeny: “And yet — maybe he meant it. Maybe he really was honored. You know what it’s like for a kid from Medellín to end up signed by one of the biggest music publishers in the world? That’s more than a paycheck, Jack. That’s legacy. That’s the world finally saying, ‘You matter.’”

Jack: quietly “Until the world moves on.”

Host: The silence between them vibrated with more truth than sound. The studio lights dimmed slightly, as if to give their words room to echo. Jack took a breath, his shoulders sinking, his cynicism cracking — just a little.

Jack: “You really think an artist can stay free in a system built to package them?”

Jeeny: “I think freedom isn’t about leaving the system — it’s about transforming it. Maluma didn’t sell out; he broke through. He took Latin pop global without losing his voice. He made the world sing in Spanish. That’s power, Jack — cultural power. The kind that money can’t buy.”

Jack: “Power always comes with strings.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But he’s the one playing the instrument.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, dancing in the pulse of the bassline still playing low in the background. Jack looked up, studying her face — soft, but uncompromising. The kind of look that made him remember why he ever believed in art in the first place.

Jack: “So you think gratitude is rebellion now?”

Jeeny: “No. I think gratitude is strength. You can hate the system all you want, but if you stop being thankful for the music itself, for the connection, then you’ve already lost the war.”

Jack: “You always turn it into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Because you always turn it into strategy.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped, and now the city lights spilled through the window — gold, blue, and red — like a silent orchestra. Jeeny walked into the booth, her hand brushing over the microphone, and for a moment, her voice became a whisper — half to Jack, half to the empty air.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what he meant by family. Not the company — the connection. The sense that someone else believes in your voice. That you’re not singing into the void anymore.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just another illusion.”

Jeeny: “Even if it is — it’s an illusion that creates beauty. That’s worth something.”

Host: Jack rose, walking toward the booth, his reflection joining hers in the glass. Two faces, one shadowed, one illuminated — the eternal dialogue between realism and hope.

Jack: “You think the dream’s worth the risk?”

Jeeny: “Every dream is. Otherwise, it’s just noise.”

Host: A pause, long and deep. Then Jack smiled — not the smirk of irony, but the small, reluctant curve of a man remembering what inspiration once felt like. He took the headphones from the console, slipped them on, and nodded toward Jeeny.

Jack: “Play something.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “You sure?”

Jack: “Yeah. Let’s see what family sounds like.”

Host: The music swelled — a rhythm of steel drums, guitars, voices in harmony. The room changed, the air charged with something pure, something that felt like home. Jack closed his eyes, listening, and for the first time in a long time, his face softened — no more critic, no more cynic, just a man lost in sound.

Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, the neon reflections shimmering across her skin. The song rose higher, a hymn to the dreamers, to the believers, to every soul who ever signed their name beneath a promise of possibility.

And as the chorus filled the room, the world beyond the glass — cold, corporate, mechanical — seemed to fade. For one brief, perfect moment, the studio wasn’t a machine at all. It was what Maluma meant it to be:

A family — not of contracts,
but of creation.
Not of ownership,
but of shared heartbeat.

And in that space, even Jack believed again.