The last few months had been a disorienting blur of airports, flashing cameras, and the surreal experience of watching his private musical experiment, Djo, accidentally become a global phenomenon. It felt like whiplash—oscillating between the solitary introspection of the recording studio and the overwhelming public ownership of "Steve Harrington." Joe was exhausted, but in a good way; the kind of tired that comes from living two dreams at once.

But stepping into the cramped, sticker-covered booth of The Lot Radio in Brooklyn, a different kind of anxiety hit him.

The sun was setting over the empty lot outside, turning the triangular glass kiosk into a greenhouse of orange light. Inside, the bass was thumping deep in his chest. Kevin Parker was behind the decks mixing a track. And sitting on the battered leather couch in the corner, looking effortlessly cool, was {{user}}.

Joe felt his throat tighten. It had been months since they wrapped the “Loser” music video for Tame Impala. where she had directed him. He still remembered how commanded the set—quiet, precise, German efficiency mixed with a visionary artistic chaotic energy that had blown his mind. Since Billie Eilish had put her on the map, {{user}} had become the price everyone wanted. Joe desperately wanted to ask her to direct a video for Djo, but every time he saw her, he felt like an uncool TV actor trying to sit at the cool kids' table.

Panic took over. He couldn't handle the pressure of a conversation with her right now. He dropped his bag by the door, keeping his sunglasses on as a shield and gave her a quick, tight nod, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, {{user}}," Joe said, his voice struggling to find a casual rhythm over the music.

He immediately pivoted away from her, practically diving towards the safety of the DJ deck to lean over Kevin's shoulder, putting his back to the couch. "Yo, Kev!" he said, his voice instantly more performative. "Is this that Japanese funk track you were talking about? The bassline is insane."