The adrenaline from the pier was still vibrating in Dave's marrow as the motorcade cut through the neon-soaked streets toward Poppy. He was slumped in the back of the Escalade, feeling like he'd just run a marathon while carrying a piano. His tactical vest felt three sizes too small, and his heart wouldn't stop doing a weird, syncopated tap-dance against his ribs.
"Yo, you see that girl in the front row?" Hood was shouting over the music, practically vibrating with excitement. "She was ready to jump the barrier and risk it all! You still got that magnetism, Breezy. Even with that little stumble-roll move. People on Twitter are already calling it the 'Breezy Somersault.' They think you did that on purpose!"
Dave let out a dry, hysterical chuckle. "The Breezy Somersault? Yeah. Totally intentional. I was just... checking the structural integrity of the stage floor with my shoulder. You know, for safety."
Hood stared at him for a second. "Structural integrity? Why you talkin' like a damn architect, man? You hit your head way harder than I thought."
Dave winced, realizing he'd slipped back into his "David Burd" vocabulary. "I mean... I was just making sure the floor was solid, you know? Can't have the King falling through the wood. That's bad for the brand."
"Right," Hood said, though he still looked suspicious. "Anyway, the label bosses are at the club. They got the papers for the 'Indigo Summer' tour. Fifty cities, Dave. Fifty cities of pure fire. You sign that tonight, and you're looking at a nine-figure payout."
Nine figures. Dave's brain did the math faster than his "Chris" persona would have liked. That was enough money to buy his old neighborhood in Philly and turn it into a private park for neurotic dogs. But it also meant he was locked in. If he signed that, he wasn't just David Burd in a costume anymore; he was a corporate asset with a schedule that didn't leave room for a "soul swap" reversal.
When they pulled up to the club, the scene was pure anarchy. The red carpet was a gauntlet of screaming fans and blinding flashes. Dave stepped out, putting on his best "moody superstar" face. He felt the weight of the moment, the sheer scale of the life he had hijacked. But as he started to walk toward the entrance, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck—the same feeling he'd had on stage.
He scanned the crowd, his eyes darting behind his designer shades. And there he was again.
The man from the pier. He wasn't screaming. He wasn't holding a phone. He was standing near a black town car, wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey suit. He had a scarred jawline and eyes that looked like they were made of cold flint. He wasn't a fan. He was looking at Dave with a focused, professional hatred that made the "Dave" inside him want to hide under a bed.
"Who's that guy?" Dave whispered to Hood, nodding toward the car.
Hood glanced over, his expression darkening instantly. "Shit. That's 'Silas.' He's a middleman for some people you owed a lot of money to before the crash. Gambling debts, man. Real heavy shit. I thought Scott handled that."
"Owed money?" Dave's voice went up an octave. "How much money?"
"Millions, Chris. Don't act like you forgot. You told them to kick rocks the night of the accident. Guess they didn't appreciate the attitude."
Dave felt the air leave his lungs. Not only was he living someone else's life, he was inheriting someone else's hitmen. He tried to walk faster, his boots clacking nervously on the pavement. He practically dove into the VIP entrance, his heart hammering against his chest.
Inside, the club was a sensory nightmare. The bass was so loud it felt like it was rearranging his internal organs. He was led to the "King's Table," a sprawling leather U-shape in the center of the VIP loft. Sitting there were four men in suits that cost more than Dave's first three music videos. The label heads.
"The man of the hour!" the oldest one said, standing up. "That pier show was legendary, Chris. The stumble? Iconic. It's all over the news. You look human, you look vulnerable, and you look like a superstar."
"Yeah, well, I aim to please," Dave said, sliding into the booth.
Almost immediately, a girl in a dress made of sequins and prayer appeared at his side. She didn't ask; she just slid onto his lap, her arm draping over his shoulder. She smelled like expensive gin and strawberries.
"You were amazing today," she whispered, her tongue grazing his ear.
Dave felt the "Dave" anxiety flare up. He was sitting in a room with the most powerful men in music, a hitman was waiting for him outside, and a beautiful woman was currently trying to explore his ear canal with her tongue. It was too much.
"Can I just... can I get a sparkling water?" Dave asked the waitress.
The table went silent. The label heads looked at each other. Hood coughed loudly.
"Sparkling water?" the lead executive asked. "Chris, you usually start with three bottles of Ace and a bowl of whatever is strongest. You okay?"
Dave realized his mistake. "I mean... I'm on a new regimen. For the voice. Can't have the vocal cords getting dehydrated during the contract negotiations. It's about the... the longevity of the instrument."
"The instrument?" The executive laughed. "I love it! He's getting serious! He's thinking like a businessman!"
He pushed a thick leather folder across the table. "Fifty cities, Chris. Twenty million upfront. The rest is back-end. You sign this, and we start the promo tomorrow."
Dave looked at the pen. It was a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen. He felt like he was signing his own death warrant. If he signed as Chris Brown, he was effectively erasing David Burd forever. But if he didn't, the facade would break right here.
He looked up and saw Silas, the man in the suit, standing at the edge of the VIP railing, staring straight at him. Silas raised a hand and made a slow, chilling gesture—a finger drawing a line across his throat.
Dave didn't think. He grabbed the pen. His hand was shaking, but the "Chris" muscle memory took over. He scrawled the name—Christopher Maurice Brown—in a sharp, aggressive script.
"Done," Dave said, his voice cracking.
The table erupted in cheers. Bottles of champagne were opened, spraying the air with expensive mist. The girl on his lap began to kiss his neck with a newfound ferocity, her hands wandering under his tactical vest.
"Let's celebrate, King," she whispered, her voice husky.
She pulled him toward the private "Green Room" behind the booth. Dave followed her like a man in a trance. He needed to escape the noise, the executives, and the cold stare of the man in the suit.
Inside the small, velvet-lined room, she didn't waste time. She pushed him against the wall, her hands immediately going for his belt. She was aggressive, a "Rated 18" whirlwind of silk and skin. She bit his lip, her hands roaming over the muscles of his back, her movements demanding a response that Dave's body was more than happy to give.
But as she dropped to her knees, her mouth hot and eager, Dave found himself looking at the small security monitor in the corner of the room. It showed the hallway outside.
Silas was walking toward the door. He had a hand inside his jacket.
"Wait, wait," Dave gasped, pulling back.
"What's wrong?" the girl asked, looking up with a confused, pouty expression. "Am I not doing it right?"
"No, you're... you're doing it perfectly. It's an A-plus performance. Truly. But I think I left my... my soul in the other room. I'll be right back."
He zipped up his pants and bolted out the side exit before she could respond. He ran through the kitchen, past the startled chefs, and out into the alleyway. The cold night air hit him like a bucket of ice water.
He was standing in the dark, breathing hard, when a car door slammed.
"Running doesn't cancel the debt, Chris," a voice rasped.
Dave turned. Silas was standing ten feet away, a suppressed pistol held loosely at his side.
"Look, man," Dave said, his hands in the air, his "Dave" voice coming out in a high-pitched squeak. "I think there's been a huge misunderstanding. I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am, but I'm having a very complicated week! Can we just talk about a payment plan? I'm very good with spreadsheets!"
Silas paused, his brow furrowing. "Spreadsheets? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I've changed! I'm into fiscal responsibility now! I've joined a credit union!"
Silas raised the gun. "I don't care about your credit score. My bosses want their money, or they want your head."
Just as he was about to level the weapon, a massive black SUV screeched into the alley, tires smoking. The door flew open, and Hood jumped out, holding a chrome-plated handgun.
"Back off, Silas!" Hood roared. "He just signed a nine-figure deal! You'll get your money on Monday! Touch him again and I'll turn this alley into a graveyard!"
Silas stared at Hood, then at Dave. He slowly lowered the gun. "Monday. If the wire doesn't hit by noon, the deal is off. And I don't care how many backflips you can do, Chris. You can't outrun a bullet."
He stepped back into the shadows and disappeared.
Dave collapsed against the brick wall, his legs shaking so hard he had to slide down to the ground. Hood walked over and offered him a hand.
"You okay, man? You look like you just saw God."
"I did," Dave whispered, his voice trembling. "And he told me I really need to check my bank balance more often."
Hood laughed, pulling him up. "Welcome to the top, Breezy. It's a long way down."
As they walked back toward the cars, Dave looked at his hands. He was rich. He was famous. He was a god. And he was officially a target.
He didn't want to think about the hospital anymore. He didn't want to think about David Burd. He just wanted to get home and hide under the silk sheets.
But as the SUV pulled away, he couldn't stop the thought from creeping into his mind: I'm not just David Burd anymore. I'm Chris Brown. And Chris Brown has a lot of people who want him dead.