Hunter, a black man with a buzz cut and a thick beard, steps into the studio, embodying the role of Ice Cube. His eyes reflect determination, and he wears a battered Raiders jacket. The quiet hum of the mixing board fills the air as he glances at the empty microphone, knowing the moment ahead will be historic.

Hunter paces, gripping the lyric sheet, his fingers trembling slightly. He clears his throat and looks toward the booth, mentally preparing for the intensity of the recording. The tension in the room is palpable, as everyone senses the weight of what’s about to be unleashed.

Hunter steps up, closes his eyes, and begins to spit the first bars of “No Vaseline.” His voice is raw, laced with fury and betrayal, each line echoing with the pain of separation from N.W.A. The producer signals encouragement from the control room. "Goddamn, I'm glad y'all set it off. Used to be hard, now you just wet and soft." The rhythm builds as Hunter channels Ice Cube’s fire, the words slicing through the beat like a knife.

Hunter slumps back in a worn swivel chair, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the playback monitor. In those moments, the gravity of the track is undeniable—he’s captured Ice Cube’s rage, his pride, and his defiance. "This one’s for the history books. No turning back now," he murmurs, voice low and resolute.

A young assistant grins, eyes wide, as he hands Hunter a fresh tape. The producer gives a solemn nod, acknowledging the risk and brilliance poured into the session. Outside, the city pulses with anticipation, awaiting the storm “No Vaseline” is about to unleash.

Hunter stands alone, gazing out at LA’s endless sprawl. His silhouette is framed by the sun, beard glistening as he contemplates the impact of the music and the truths it exposes. He knows the world will soon hear Ice Cube’s voice as never before. "Let 'em hear what real freedom sounds like," he says quietly, ready to face whatever comes next.