Drake : IceMan 2.0

IceMan

Part 1: UMG vs OVO

Part 2: An Unforgettable Offering !

Part 3: What Did I Miss?

Part 4: Views Of The Cold

Part 5: Thats Just How I Feel?

Part 6: 0-1000 Thoughts

Part 7: Ice Crown!?

Outer: Iceman !

Part 1: UMG vs OVO

The gavel cracked, a sound like a gunshot echoing through the sterile courtroom, irrevocably shattering the gilded cage of Aubrey Graham’s life. “The jury finds for the plaintiff, Universal Music Group.

(Of course they was paid off, like trumps election being rigid…but that did not matter in the end)

Drake, or rather, the man who had been Drake, felt the words like a physical blow.

Billions. An unthinkable sum, awarded for what UMG’s lawyers had relentlessly painted as a calculated, insidious attempt to reclaim his masters through re-recording and independent distribution, all while still under the legal purview of his final, iron-clad contract. They’d argued breach of contract, intellectual property infringement on a colossal scale, and a cynical disregard for the very label that had birthed his superstar status.

He had lost. Spectularly. Publicly.

The media frenzy that followed was a biblical plague of headlines. Champagne Papi’s Bubble Bursts. OVO’s Empire Crumbles. From Hotline Bling to Bankruptcy Filing. 

The carefully curated image, the impenetrable aura of invincibility, it all dissolved like sugar in hot tea. His mansions were seized, his luxury cars repossessed, his art collection sold off in a hurried, humiliating auction.

His closest associates, those who’d once basked in his reflected glory, scattered like roaches when the lights came on.

The phone calls dwindled, then ceased. The silence was deafening.

He filed for bankruptcy, a hollow, public declaration of defeat.

Every cent, every asset, every future earning – all gone, swallowed by the insatiable maw of Universal’s legal victory. He was, quite literally, left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a name that had become a scarlet letter.

But the name, 'Drake,' had always been a performance, a projection. Aubrey Graham, the man beneath the crown, was still there, albeit bruised and broken.

One night, sitting in a borrowed, sparsely furnished apartment, the city lights of Toronto blurring outside his window like a smeared painting, he made a decision. It wasn’t an escape, not truly. It was an amputation.

He had to cut off the diseased limb of his past to survive.

He liquidated the last few hidden assets – a watch he’d kept, a small, anonymous investment from years ago – enough to buy a one-way ticket and a nondescript duffel bag of clothes. No farewell statements, no cryptic social media posts. The last thing he did was deactivate every account, erase every trace of his digital footprint. He was already a ghost.

His journey took him far from the flashing lights and the concrete canyons. He chose a place where the air tasted of salt and pine, where the rhythm of life was dictated by tides and seasons, not algorithms and release cycles.

A small, forgotten fishing village nestled on the rugged coast of Nova Scotia, a place so removed from the pulse of global culture it felt like another century.

He had land he built a small cabin on, overlooking the churning Atlantic. ( No lover or pet, just him)

He bought a used fishing boat, taught himself the basics from weathered old men with calloused hands and knowing eyes. He swapped his designer sneakers for worn rubber boots, his tailored suits for oilskins and sturdy denim. He grew a beard, let his hair fall naturally, and developed a permanent squint from watching the horizon.

No one recognized him.

Why would they?

The man who occasionally hummed a forgotten melody as he cleaned his catch, who spoke with a quiet, thoughtful cadence, was a world away from the swaggering icon. He introduced himself as "Aubrey," a name that felt both familiar and utterly new on his tongue. He became a fixture in the local pub, a silent observer in the corner, occasionally nodding to a sea shanty played on a fiddle, never once touching the microphone.

Sometimes, a tourist would visit, a city-dweller taking photos of the picturesque lighthouse.

Nicki Minaj, scrolling through her phone, briefly glanced up from a celebrity gossip site.

Nicki: My barbie and ken’s…Can you believe what happened to Drake?, CHILLLLLD! she mused to her companion, shaking her head.

Nicki: Just disappeared off the face of the earth.

Nicki knew nothing was the same now!

Years Later————————

Aubrey, meticulously polishing a pint glass behind the bar, offered a small, inscrutable smile.

He poured her a fresh draft, the foam rising perfectly to the rim of only an owl being what he could see.

Drake: Happens all the time, he murmured, his voice low and even…

Drake: People just... find their way to a different shore.

He was no longer Champagne Papi!

He was nothing but a bartender now, no one forgot him but very little cared to scream his name

He was just Aubrey, a man who couldn’t afford to hide the salt of the sea in his hair and the deep, quiet peace of anonymity settling in his bones.

The crown had been heavy; its absence was a lightness he'd never known he craved.

He had lost everything, only to find himself.

Chapter 2 Unlock: TBA