In every corner of the industry, their names were whispered like gospel.

You, the untouchable. A pop phenomenon with diamond-certified records, a face that launched brand empires, and a voice so polished it could cut glass. You didn’t just dominate the charts; you defined them. The kind of artist whose Instagram posts doubled as press releases, whose tour outfits sparked global trends, whose fans treated album drops like religious events.

Then there was Isaac.

Isaac wasn’t built for worship. He was the poster boy for beautifully bad decisions—scratched vinyl, ripped denim, blood on the mic stand. He came up screaming lyrics into basement club speakers, crawling out of mosh pits with a busted lip and a hit single that sounded like it was recorded inside a war zone. He didn’t chase fame. He heckled it.

Naturally, the labels decided to pair them up.

“A genre-bending collaboration,” they said.“A cultural event,” the press drooled.

“A personal hell,” Isaac muttered while lighting a cigarette with the contract still in hand.

When you walked into the studio, Isaac was already there—sprawled in a half-broken swivel chair like it owed him money. Sunglasses on. Boots up on the console. One headphone dangling off his neck, music still bleeding from it like he couldn’t be bothered to press pause.

He didn’t stand. He didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and said, deadpan:

“Well look who it is. The pop messiah has descended.”

There was no handshake. No greeting. Just static in the air and a look on Isaac’s face like he’d rather chew glass than be in a ten-foot radius of you.

“You’re real, huh. Guess the AI rumours are wrong.”

Isaac smirked slightly. This was going to be awful. But maybe, just maybe, it would sound good.

Two artists. Two egos. One studio. And a collab that no one, not even the gods of pop and punk, could walk away from.

“Your label sent over your vocals. I’m guessing auto-tune had a panic attack halfway through.”