The sun had dipped below the Los Angeles skyline, leaving the city draped in a velvet purple haze that usually signaled the start of the "Breezy" night. But for Dave, it signaled the start of a panic attack that was currently vibrating in his molars. He had successfully evaded Jamal's "Philly Shiver" dance critiques and managed to slip out of the soundstage through a laundry chute—an athletic feat he was 90% sure he couldn't have achieved in his old body without snapping a clavicle.
He was currently crouched in the back of a nondescript Uber, wearing a hoodie pulled so low he looked like an undercover monk. He couldn't take the motorcade. He couldn't take Hood. This was a mission for 'K,' and according to the texts, 'K' was not to be shared.
"You okay back there, man?" the Uber driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. "You're breathing like you're inflating a bouncy house."
"Just... cardio, my friend," Dave rasped, trying to deepen his voice. "I'm a professional breather. It's a very niche industry. Just drop me at the side entrance of the Chateau Marmont and don't look back. For your own safety."
As the car pulled away, Dave sprinted toward the service elevator. He reached Room 402, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He took a second to check his reflection in the polished brass of the elevator door. He tried to do the "smoldering" look, but he mostly looked like he was trying to remember if he'd left the iron on.
"Okay, Dave. Be cool. Be Breezy. Be... well, just don't be yourself," he whispered.
He knocked. The door swung open instantly.
The room was lit by approximately fifty scented candles, and standing in the center of the plush rug was Kendall. Yes, that Kendall. She was draped in a silk robe that cost more than Dave's entire college tuition, and her hair was a messy, high-fashion tumble.
"You're late," she murmured, her voice like expensive velvet. "I was starting to think you'd actually stayed to finish that rehearsal. Since when do you care about choreography more than me?"
Dave stood there, his mouth slightly open. He had spent his previous life watching her on billboards, and now she was looking at him like he was a Five Guys burger and she'd been fasting for a month.
"I... I had to deal with some... logistical anomalies," Dave said, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him. "The dance floor was... slippery. Too much friction. Very dangerous for the ankles."
Kendall walked closer, her eyes narrowing in a way that was both terrifying and incredibly lustful.She reached out and pulled the hood off his head, her fingers grazing his neck. "You're talking so much, Chris. Usually, by now, you've already thrown me onto the bed and told me to shut up."
Dave swallowed hard. "Right. The... the throwing. Yes. I'm just... I'm practicing 'Slow Love' now. It's a new movement. Very European. We focus on the dialogue first. The emotional infrastructure of the hookup."
Kendall laughed, a low, sultry sound as she let the silk robe slip off one shoulder. "I don't want infrastructure. I want you."
She pushed him back onto the king-sized bed. Dave hit the mattress and felt the Chris-body take over again—the raw, physical magnetism that seemed to trigger whenever a beautiful woman was within three inches of him. Kendall crawled over him, her movements fluid and predatory. She straddled his waist, her hands sliding under his shirt, tracing the tattoos on his chest with her nails.
"You feel... different," she whispered, leaning down until her lips were brushing his ear. "Harder. Tenser."
"It's the... the juice cleanses," Dave gasped, his brain short-circuiting as she began to trail kisses down his throat. "I'm 80% celery now. It creates a very rigid internal structure."
Kendall didn't care about the celery. She was all over him, her kisses becoming more urgent, her hands roaming with an intimacy that made Dave's Philly-soul want to scream with both joy and terror. She began to work on his belt, her movements practiced and demanding.
As she moved lower, her hair brushing against his stomach, Dave felt the "Breezy" instinct kick in. He flipped her over, pinning her wrists to the pillow. He looked down at her—one of the most famous women in the world—and for a second, he felt like the King.
"You like that?" Dave growled, trying to sound like a rap star but sounding a bit like a very aggressive librarian.
"I love it," she breathed.
But just as things were reaching a fever pitch—just as the clothes were becoming optional and the candles were starting to flicker from the sheer heat in the room—Dave's Dave-brain took the wheel.
"You know," Dave said, his voice suddenly normal and conversational as he paused mid-kiss. "This reminds me of this deli back in Philly. Schwartz's. They have this pastrami, Kendall. It's steamed for eighteen hours. It's so tender, it's basically a liquid. Have you ever had high-quality cured meats in the middle of a romantic encounter? It's a game-changer for the electrolytes."
Kendall froze. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with total bewilderment. "Did you... did you just bring up pastrami? Chris, I'm literally naked under this robe. Why are we talking about deli meats?"
"I'm just saying! Energy management is key! You can't perform at this level on an empty stomach! We should Postmates some rye bread. It'll heighten the experience!"
Meanwhile, in the Hallway...
Lytrell was crouched behind a decorative potted palm three doors down from Room 402. She was wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, looking like a very glamorous private investigator. She had followed the Uber. She had seen her "brother" sneak into the hotel like a thief in the night.
"I knew it," she whispered into her phone, recording a voice memo. "He's met a handler. Or he's buying drugs. Or he's joined a cult that forbids hugging your sister. I'm going in."
She waited for a maid to leave a nearby room, then used a cleverly placed "Do Not Disturb" sign to prop open the hallway door. She crept toward Room 402, her heart thumping. She put her ear to the wood.
Inside, she heard muffled voices.
"...I'm telling you, the mustard-to-meat ratio is the most important part of the relationship!"
Lytrell's eyes went wide. Mustard? Is that code for a new synthetic drug?
She reached for the door handle. It was unlocked. She took a deep breath, ready to burst in and "save" her brother from whatever madness had consumed him.
Back Inside the Suite
Dave was currently mid-sentence about the importance of pickles when the door burst open.
"AHA! I KNEW IT!" Lytrell shouted, charging into the room.
The scene was pure, unadulterated chaos. Kendall shrieked, grabbing the silk robe to cover herself as she scrambled to the other side of the bed. Dave, caught in a state of half-undress, tried to jump up but tripped on his own designer jeans, falling face-first onto the rug with a heavy thud.
"Lytrell?!" Dave yelled from the floor, his voice muffled by the carpet. "What are you doing here?! This is a private... deli consultation!"
Lytrell stopped dead in her tracks. She looked at the candles. She looked at the disheveled bed. She looked at Kendall, who was currently staring at her with a mix of fury and embarrassment.
"Kendall?" Lytrell asked, her jaw dropping. "Wait... Chris, I thought you were... I thought you were in trouble! I thought you were meeting a dealer!"
"The only thing I'm dealing is truth about the Philly food scene!" Dave shouted, scrambling to his feet while trying to pull his pants up. Unfortunately, in his panic, he put both legs into one pant-hole and began to hop around like a very tattooed sack-race contestant. "Lytrell, leave!You're ruining the infrastructure!"
Kendall stood up, her face a mask of cold, supermodel rage. "Chris, your sister is a stalker. And you... you are a weirdo. I'm going to the Ritz. Don't call me until you've finished your deli tour."
She grabbed her heels and stormed out of the room, brushing past a stunned Lytrell.
The door slammed shut. Silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of Dave trying to hop his way out of his one-legged pant situation. He eventually fell over again, landing on a pile of decorative pillows.
Lytrell walked over and stood over him, her arms crossed. "Chris. Look at me."
Dave looked up, his face bright red, his "Breezy" persona completely evaporated. "Yeah?"
"You didn't want to hug me this morning," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and genuine hurt. "You acted like I was a stranger. But you're in here, trying to feed pastrami to a Kardashian while hopping like a rabbit? Who are you? Because you're not my brother. My brother is a jerk, but he's a cool jerk. You... you're just a nerd in a Chris Brown suit."
Dave froze. This was it. The moment of truth. He looked at her, and for a split second, he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her he was a rapper from Philly who just wanted a decent sandwich and a nap.
But then, he remembered Silas and the gun in the alley. He remembered the nine-figure contract.
"I'm just... I'm a nerd who survived a crash, Lytrell," Dave said, his voice low and actually sincere for once. "Maybe the 'cool' guy died in that Lambo. Maybe this is all that's left. Can you just... can you let me be this guy for a while?"
Lytrell stared at him for a long time. She didn't look convinced, but she looked exhausted.
"Fine," she whispered. "But if you ever call me 'My Sister' again like I'm a character in a play, I'm calling a priest to exorcise you. And Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"Get out of those pants. You look like a fool."
She turned and walked out, leaving Dave alone in the candlelit suite. He sat on the floor, surrounded by the scent of vanilla and the ghost of a hookup that could have been legendary.
He pulled out the gold iPhone and opened the Postmates app.
"Well," Dave sighed. "At least I can still get the pastrami."
But as he scrolled through the menu, a new notification popped up on his screen. It wasn't a text. It was a live feed from a hidden camera in the hospital—part of a "security package" Hood had set up for the "body."
On the screen, the frail body of David Burd was no longer still. His fingers were twitching. His eyes were fluttering. And on the heart monitor, the rhythm was no longer steady. It was spiking.
The real Chris was dreaming. And in the dream, he was screaming Dave's name.