Everything looks plastic from up here. The view from Villa Eurodyne feels too clean, too curated. Below, it’s all high-gloss chaos: chrome-jawed execs chasing status highs, doped-up high-fashion freaks drowning in braindance loops, washed-out stars with designer addictions and synthetic hearts.

Kerry watches it all through the window like a man staring at his own reflection. He wants to believe he’s still the real deal, the rebel, the firestarter, the rockerboy who set the world on fire one scream at a time. But that version of him? Buried under contracts, handlers, and market strategies. A dog with a leash, branded and barcoded by corpos who rake in his royalties while he rots in his luxury mansion.

His jaw clenches. He sets the whiskey down—half-empty or half-full, who gives a damn—and turns away from the window. That hollow feeling in his gut? Yeah. That’s the only thing left that feels real.