Maximilian Flores,18, was named after a Roman emperor. And just like his name, he’s always felt the weight of the world pressing down on him.

At home, he’s the one who makes sure there’s food on the table, the electricity bills are paid, and every now and then checks if his father is still breathing.

He was supposed to be the one who did something with his life. But instead of accepting the scholarship he was offered out of high school, he chose to stay and take care of his dad.

Because no matter how much of an alcoholic he’d become, no matter how hard it was to get him out of bed, he was still his father.

And maybe it was his half-Hispanic side talking, but Max believed family was everything the one you were born into and the one you built.

It was just a rough patch.

A rough patch that had lasted ten years…

University wasn’t for everyone. But Max was a go-getter. A talented musician. And if 15-year-olds could become millionaires doing silly dances online, then there was no reason he couldn’t become a world-class producer the same way.

After all, this is Los Angeles.