The euphoria of the weekend evaporated the moment Scott, Chris's high-strung manager, marched into the mansion on Monday morning. He didn't knock; he simply navigated the sea of sleeping bodies and empty bottles in the foyer like a man on a mission. Dave was sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a coffee and trying to remember if he'd ever actually liked the taste of kale smoothies—one of the many things the house staff kept shoving in his face.
"Put the drink down, Breezy. We're live in six hours," Scott barked, slapping a thick itinerary onto the marble counter.
Dave blinked, his "Chris" voice still raspy from sleep. "Live? Live where?"
"The 'Unity in the City' Pop-Up. Don't play with me, man," Scott said, checking his watch. "The label leaked the location an hour ago. There are already five thousand people at the Santa Monica Pier. It's the first time the world sees you since the crash. It's the 'He's Alive' moment. You're doing three songs, full choreo, and then a quick mic-drop. No interviews. We keep the mystery high."
Dave felt his stomach drop. Recording a song in a dark booth was one thing—he could hide behind the engineer's talent. But the Santa Monica Pier? In front of five thousand people who had memorized every twitch of Chris Brown's muscles?
"I... I don't know if the legs are ready for full choreo, Scott," Dave said, trying to sound cool while his soul was screaming. "The crash, remember? I'm still a little stiff."
"You weren't too stiff for those twins on Saturday," Scott said with a dry, knowing smirk. "I sign the NDAs, Chris. I know you're mobile. Now get in the shower. The glam team is in the van."
The next four hours were a blur of sensory overload. A team of people treated Dave like a high-end sports car. They trimmed his hair, touched up the bleach, and applied just enough makeup to hide the fact that he'd spent the last forty-eight hours in a hedonistic bender. They dressed him in a custom leather tactical vest, oversized cargo pants, and boots that felt like they were made of solid lead.
As the motorcade moved toward the coast, Dave sat in the back of the SUV, staring at his hands. He began watching "Fine China" on YouTube, desperately trying to internalize the way Chris moved his shoulders. He felt like a student cramming for a final exam ten minutes before the test.
"Yo," Hood said, sitting across from him, cleaning a massive diamond-encrusted watch. "You look like you're about to vomit. Chill. It's just the fans, man. They love you. You could go out there and sneeze into the mic and they'd call it a Grammy performance."
"I just want it to be perfect," Dave lied.
The truth was, he was terrified. If he tripped, if he missed a beat, if he didn't have that "it" factor, the facade would crumble.
When they arrived at the pier, the sound was deafening. It wasn't just cheering; it was a physical wall of noise. Thousands of fans were packed against the barricades, chanting his name. The smell of salt air and sweat was thick.
Dave was ushered into a small, blacked-out tent behind the stage. Through the slit in the fabric, he could see the ocean and the massive crowd. His heart was hammering so hard he was worried it would show through the tactical vest.
"One minute!" a stagehand yelled.
Dave took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to channel the "Breezy" energy he'd felt during the weekend. He thought about the power he'd felt with Amara. He thought about the way the world bowed to him now. He wasn't David Burd. David Burd was a loser who worried about taxes. He was the King.
"Go!"
Dave stepped out onto the stage.
The explosion of noise was like nothing he had ever experienced. The bass of the intro to "Run It" kicked in, vibrating the very boards under his feet. The lights were blindingly bright, turning the crowd into a sea of glowing phone screens.
For the first ten seconds, he froze. But then, the music took over.
It was that same "muscle memory" he'd felt in the mansion. As the beat dropped, his body moved before his brain could give the command. He slid across the stage, his feet moving with a precision that was almost supernatural. He wasn't thinking about the steps; his muscles were just performing the program they'd been running for twenty years.
He grabbed the mic.
"Is Los Angeles ready?" he roared.
The crowd went insane. Dave started to sing. The voice was flawless—soulful, powerful, and soaring over the heavy production. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated ego. He was doing it. He was actually doing it.
During the second song, he caught the eye of a girl in the front row—a stunning, brunette who was looking at him with a gaze that was pure worship. She was reaching out, her fingers inches from his boots. Dave leaned down, his hand brushing against hers as he hit a high note. The look of pure ecstasy on her face gave him a jolt of adrenaline that made him feel like he could fly.
He started to get cocky. He did a spin, a sharp pop-and-lock move, and then a backflip. He landed it perfectly. He felt like he was floating.
But then, the third song started—a new, unreleased track with a complex, fast-paced bridge.
Dave was mid-stride, his body moving in a blur of motion, when he saw someone in the wings of the stage. A man in a suit, staring at him with a look of intense, cold calculation. It wasn't Scott. It was a man Dave didn't recognize, but the look on the man's face suggested he knew exactly what he was looking at.
Dave's focus wavered. His foot caught on a cable.
He didn't fall, but he stumbled—a noticeable, awkward lurch that was completely "un-Breezy." The music continued, the backing track carrying his voice, but for a split second, the illusion broke. The crowd let out a collective "Ooh," and the cameras caught the look of pure, David-Burd-level panic on his face.
He recovered quickly, turning the stumble into a low roll and coming up into a pose, but the damage was done.
He finished the set, his heart in his throat. He didn't wait for the encore. He dropped the mic and sprinted off stage, straight into the black SUV.
"What was that?" Scott demanded as soon as the door slammed. "The roll was a nice save, but that stumble... you looked like you saw a ghost, Chris."
"I just... I lost my footing. I told you I'm still stiff," Dave snapped, his adrenaline turning into a defensive rage.
"Whatever," Scott said, already scrolling through Twitter. "The fans are calling it a 'humanizing moment.' It's trending. But don't let it happen again. We have a meeting with the label heads tonight at the club. They want to discuss the world tour."
Dave leaned back, closing his eyes. He felt a cold dread settling in his gut. The more he "became" Chris, the more he had to lose.
He pulled out the gold iPhone. He wanted to see the video of the stumble. He wanted to see how bad it looked. But as he opened the browser, he saw a news alert that made his breath catch.
[NEWS: MIRACLE RECOVERY? SOURCES SAY RAPPER LIL DICKY IS SHOWING SIGNS OF BRAIN RE-PATTERNINIG. DOCTORS CALL IT A 'ONE IN A BILLION' PHENOMENON.]
Dave stared at the screen. The coma wasn't just a sleep. Something was changing.
He threw the phone onto the seat and looked out at the lights of the city. In the back of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about the man in the suit at the side of the stage. Who was he? And why did he look at Chris Brown like he was seeing a ghost?