Hunter, a Black man in his early twenties sporting glistening Jheri curls and a thick mustache, stands at the door, holding a fresh poster tube. He’s dressed in a black Raiders jacket, gold chain gleaming in the last light. With careful hands, he pulls out a glossy poster of Ice Cube, the real one—Jheri curls, mustache, and an attitude that seems to jump off the page. "Man, Cube looks cold in this shot. Straight outta Compton, for real."

Hunter grabs a roll of tape, tearing off strips with precise movements. He moves to the wall above his bed, where the best posters go—prime viewing for anyone walking in. He lines up the corners, making sure Cube’s gaze is level and intimidating, then presses the tape down with reverence. "If I ever get half as fresh as Ice Cube, I’ll be set for life," he muses, admiring the new addition.

Hunter tilts his head, brushes his mustache, and mimics Cube’s serious expression. The poster seems to challenge him, daring him to live up to its image. He smiles, feeling a surge of confidence and connection. "Yeah, I see you, Cube. We both got that look—ain’t nobody messing with us tonight,"

Tony[/@ch_3], Hunter’s childhood friend, steps in—skinny, energetic, rocking a Kangol hat and Adidas tracksuit. He immediately spots the new poster. "Yo, Hunter! You finally got Cube up in here! About time, bro. That’s the real king of Compton right there." "You know it. Had to represent, man. Cube’s changing the game. You ever think we could spit like that? Make it outta here?"