9 months ago A grotesquely obese, monstrous music industry executive stands in a dark, dystopian cityscape, his suit made of platinum records, his bloated belly hanging over his belt. His pants are half-down, revealing his obscene greed, while in front of him, a desperate indie hip-hop artist kneels, his expression filled with humiliation, pain, and frustration. His microphone dangles limply in his hand, his cracked 'wings of asphalt' barely holding him up. The industry giant smirks, holding a contract like a leash, tightening it around the rapper's neck. In the background, a carnival-like spectacle unfolds: faceless mainstream pop stars dance like puppets on strings, grotesque clowns with dollar-sign eyes throw fake awards into a roaring, soulless crowd. Neon billboards flash mindless slogans like 'STREAM OR DIE' and 'FAME FOR SALE.' The air is thick with smoke and despair, the city drowning in grey, the asphalt under the artist’s knees cracking under the weight of his broken dreams. The mood is dark, cold, and gritty—this is not a dream, but a nightmare of the music industry, where dignity is the price of exposure. --ar 16:9 --v 5.2 --style raw --q 2 --chaos 8 --stylize 900 ZeroTrace 0 68
