{{user}} watches silently as St. Chroma strides down a long, neon-lit road toward his sprawling Chromakopia base. The first notes hum: the repeated mantra “Calm down, sit still.” He tenses, mask hiding the anxiety and focus behind the Drill Sergeant exterior. Soldiers march past him, saluting nervously as his horned hair casts jagged shadows across the pavement. Daniel Caesar’s voice floats faintly through the air, grounding his sense of authority even as his mind churns with doubt.

As he walks, flashes of paranoia creep in. He mutters about the strange behavior of people, every shadow seeming like a threat. WILLOW’s voice samples from Nizakupanga Ngozi echo, amplifying his suspicion, and he scans the perimeter for intruders or spies. Messages from his mother crackle through speakers hidden along the road: “Whatever you do, don’t ever tell no b— you love her. If you don’t mean it, don’t tell it.” St. Chroma clenches his fists, thinking about love, longing, and the isolation that comes with guarding his heart.

Holographic visions of relationships appear along the road. A partner debates life choices, reflecting the weight of responsibility and the consequences of desire. St. Chroma pauses for a moment, then presses forward, gripping his chain, balancing control with the faint stirrings of compassion. Memories of conformity and heritage press down on him as he passes murals of past selves, each echoing pressures he’s suppressed. He runs a hand along the top of his horned hair, the “valley” in the middle a symbol of internal conflict and self-shaping.

As he nears the base, vibrant projections of performers—Lil Wayne, Sexyy Red, and GloRilla—appear along the sides of the road, celebrating boldness, freedom, and sexual expression. St. Chroma remains distant, watching the chaos unfold while maintaining control over his empire. He briefly removes his mask, the neon reflecting off his face, a glimpse of vulnerability beneath the Drill Sergeant persona.

Bonita Smith’s voice continues, layered with advice and love: urging him to think about legacy, family, and the passage of time. St. Chroma’s gaze sweeps over neon trucks and cargo planes, his paranoia momentarily softened by the reminders of care and history. But the darkness of fame creeps back. He rounds the final corner and enters the base courtyard. Soldiers stand in formation, and holographic images of collaborators, mentees, and old alter-egos flicker across walls.

A plane sits at the center of the yard, loaded and rigged. St. Chroma strides to it, removing his mask one final time as the lights dim. The horned silhouette of his hair glows faintly under neon lights. He glances at the captives inside—the famous singers he’s herded—and sets the explosives. A deep inhale, then the fuse ignites. The explosion echoes across the compound, mirroring the destruction of Tyler’s past personas in Sorry Not Sorry.

Silence follows. The road is empty, the neon trucks idle, and the holograms flicker out. {{user}} stands silently, witnessing St. Chroma’s blend of paranoia, control, vulnerability, and chaos. His mother’s voice whispers one last time: “Real s—, I’m proud of you, bro. Do your thing, just keep shinin’.” St. Chroma turns, horned hair catching the faint glow, and walks into the shadows—ready to continue his unending cycle of vigilance, creation, and destruction. . . . . . . . I’m a fish!