The hallway erupted into a symphony of controlled chaos. Blue scrubs blurred past Dave as the medical team swarmed Room 408. Through the narrow glass slit in the door, Dave watched as they pressed a light into his own pupils—his old pupils.
"He's reacting!" a doctor shouted. "Vitals are stabilizing. It's not a flatline anymore, but he's not coming all the way back. He's locked in."
Locked in. The words hit Dave like a physical punch. Chris Brown, the man who lived for movement, was trapped in a body that was currently a broken shell.
"Breezy! What the hell are you doing in the East Wing?"
Dave spun around. Standing there was a man who looked like he hadn't slept since the late nineties. This was Scott, the high-level management "fixer." He was holding three different phones and looked ready to tackle Dave back toward the VIP exit.
"I just... I heard he was in trouble," Dave said, trying to keep his cool. "We did that song together. It felt wrong not to check."
"It's a PR disaster, that's what it is," Scott hissed, grabbing Dave by the arm. His grip was surprisingly firm. "The press is already claiming you were drag racing him. If a photo gets out of you standing over his 'deathbed,' the narrative turns into 'The Star vs. The Victim.' We're leaving. Now."
"Wait! I need to—"
"You need to get to the house," Scott interrupted, signaling to the two massive security guards. "We have a billion-dollar brand to protect, Chris. You just cheated death. We need you looking like a king, not a mourner."
The Near-Contact
Before they could pull him away, the door to Room 408 swung open as a nurse rushed out to grab a ventilator attachment. For three seconds, the path was clear.
Dave lunged.
He dodged Scott's arm and slipped into the room. The smell of ozone and antiseptic was deafening. He reached the side of the bed where his old body lay. He looked at his own pale, thin hand, hooked up to an IV.
"Chris?" Dave whispered, leaning close to the ear of the man in the coma. "I know you're in there. I'm Dave. I'm in... I'm in your body. I don't know how this happened, but don't give up. Don't let them pull the plug."
The body on the bed didn't move, but the heart monitor spiked—thump-thump, thump-thump. A single tear escaped the corner of "Dave's" eye. It was the most terrifying thing Dave had ever seen. It was a silent scream from a man who was used to having the world at his feet, now unable to even lift a finger.
"I'll fix this," Dave promised, though he had no idea how. "I'll keep your life going until we find a way back. Just... hang on."
"Sir! You cannot be in here!" A head nurse grabbed Dave's shoulder.
"Get your hands off him!" Hood shouted, bursting in behind them. The entourage had arrived to "rescue" their boss.
The room became a shouting match of HIPAA violations and celebrity ego. Scott finally grabbed Dave's hoodie and practically hauled him out of the room.
"He's stable!" Scott yelled at the nurses. "You heard the man! Now, we are leaving before the paparazzi find the service elevator!"
The Escape
They moved through the bowels of the hospital like a tactical unit. Dave was shoved into the back of a blacked-out Cadillac Escalade. The door slammed, and the locks engaged with a heavy thud.
As the SUV peeled out of the ambulance bay, Dave looked back at the hospital receding in the distance.
"Yo, Breezy," Hood said, sitting across from him, already rolling something that smelled very illegal and very expensive. "Forget that nerd. You're back. Tonight, we're hitting the studio. Then the club. We gotta show the world you're 100%."
"The studio?" Dave's voice cracked. "Tonight? I just woke up from a coma!"
"You said it yourself, man," Hood grinned, passing him a diamond-encrusted flask. "Can't kill a king. And the fans want a 'miracle' track. We got a beat waiting that's pure fire. You just gotta go in there and do that thing you do."
Dave stared at the flask. He thought about his old life: the meticulous calorie counting, the anxiety about vocal strain, the three hours of sleep he needed before a big meeting.
He looked at his new reflection in the tinted window. He was a god of pop culture. He was a target. He was a legend.
"Yeah," Dave said, a dark, nervous energy settling in his gut. "The thing I do. Right."
He took a pull from the flask. It burned all the way down, but for the first time in his life, he didn't cough.
They pulled through the massive, reinforced iron gates of a hillside estate. It was a masterpiece of glass, steel, and aggressive modern architecture.
"Home sweet home," Hood said, slapping Dave's knee. "Staff's got the kitchen prepped. Your manager, Scott, is meeting us at the studio at eight, so you got a few hours to just... be you."
Be me? Dave thought as he stepped out onto the driveway. I don't even know how to be me in my own body, let alone this one.
The mansion was overwhelming. Every wall was a gallery of Chris's life: platinum records, custom graffiti art, and photos of him with every legend from Michael Jackson to Usher. Dave wandered into the master suite, a room so large it felt like it had its own weather system.
He closed the door and locked it. The silence was deafening.
He walked to the full-length mirror and peeled off the Balenciaga hoodie. He stood there, bare-chested, staring at the canvas of tattoos. He ran his fingers over the ink—the lions, the stars, the intricate patterns. He flexed his arm, watching the bicep peak with a hardness he'd never achieved despite years of personal trainers and overpriced gym memberships.
"Okay," Dave whispered. "Rule number one: Don't panic. Rule number two: Don't talk too much. If I don't say anything stupid, they'll just think I'm being 'moody Breezy.'"
The Digital Ghost
He found the iPhone—the gold-plated one—on the nightstand. It was buzzing incessantly.
[99+ Unread Messages]
[47 Missed Calls]
He opened the messages. It was a literal 'Who's Who' of the music industry. Drake asking if he was okay. Rihanna's camp sending a formal well-wish. A dozen 'Rated 18' photos from women Dave only recognized from the covers of magazines.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He was tempted to reply to someone—anyone—just to see if he could pull it off. But then he saw a contact that made his heart stop.
MOM.
Not his mom. Chris's mom. Joyce.
MOM: The news says you're awake. I'm on a flight from Virginia. I'll be at the house by dinner. I love you, son. Praise God.
Dave sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the situation finally crushing him. He could fool the entourage. He could probably fool the fans with a pair of sunglasses and a middle finger. But he couldn't fool a mother.
He stood up and began pacing the room. He needed to learn the layout of this life, and he needed to do it fast. He started opening drawers.
In the bedside table, he found a hidden compartment. Inside wasn't a gun or cash—it was a sketchbook. He flipped through it. It was filled with incredible, jagged drawings of monsters, aliens, and fashion designs. It was the work of a man with a lot of kinetic energy and nowhere to put it.
"He's actually an artist," Dave murmured. "Like, a real one."
A sharp knock at the door made him jump.
"Breezy? It's Scott. We gotta move the session up. The label is breathing down my neck to get a 'miracle' verse recorded while the accident is still trending. You ready?"
Dave took a deep breath. He looked at the mirror one last time. He practiced his "Chris Brown face"—the slight tilt of the head, the confident, somewhat bored gaze.
"Yeah," Dave called out, his voice cracking slightly. He lowered it an octave. "Yeah, I'm coming. Just getting my head right."
He grabbed a diamond chain from the dresser, feeling the heavy coldness of the metal against his neck. He walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out.
The entourage was waiting. The cars were running. The world was watching.
And for the first time in his life, Lil Dicky was about to find out if he could actually sing.