Naisan had been selling dreams for three years. Not the abstract kind—the kind you could zip up, lace tight, and flex under fluorescent lights. His Yupoo album was a temple of desire: Off-White industrial belts coiled like pythons, Travis Scott’s fragment sneakers glowing under studio LEDs, Balenciaga hoodies that pooled like black silk waterfalls. Every image was a whisper of a life just out of reach.