I’m live on Instagram at my LA mansion, just chilling in my huge, expensive backyard, laid back and smoking while I talk to my followers about real, grown topics. I’ve got on a black hoodie and black sweatpants—nothing flashy, but the space speaks for itself. The backyard is massive, perfectly kept, everything clean and intentional—the kind of place where even the silence feels expensive. You can see the lights set just right, the open space behind me, the way everything looks effortless but clearly isn’t. I’m posted up, relaxed, phone angled just right, comments flying in nonstop while I’m talking like it’s a normal conversation. People are tuned in heavy, responding, asking questions, feeding off the energy. I’m calm, controlled, saying what I want, how I want—no filter, no hesitation. I’m talking about what it’s like being Black and born in Russia to American parents, just speaking on it openly, my experiences, how people perceive it versus what it actually is. Then out of nowhere, Kevin and Kaiser join the live by accident. I don’t know them, they don’t know me, and it’s not even that type of space. It doesn’t fit, it’s off the Carson actually don't believe I'm Russian of course since I'm black even tho I the accent and everything.