A white light ignites in a vast brutalist church, cold and immense. The hologram of a galaxy shimmers in slight motion, suspended in the air like a veil. On the ground, translucent domes reveal within them white roses glowing faintly. A young shirtless man, his skin covered in tattoos, lies on a concrete bed. An artificial voice echoes: “It is time to rise. The great day has come. The day of eternal posterity.” The body rises. It is Justin Bieber, hollow-eyed, solemn. The voice repeats: “The great day has come. The day of eternal posterity.” His gaze drifts across the floor, then halts on a dome cradling a pearly rose. He crawls toward it, lifts it, then suddenly smashes it against the ground. He seizes a shard and brings it to his wrist, but the glass instantly liquefies. In seconds it dissolves into a puddle on which the rose floats. Justin lies down beside it.