Toronto, a stronghold of Drake’s OVO empire, was still reeling from the seismic waves of the past year’s rap feud between the 6ix God and Compton’s lyrical titan, Kendrick Lamar. The beef had escalated into a cultural phenomenon—diss tracks flying like missiles, fans picking sides, and the Super Bowl performance of Kendrick’s NOT LIKE US still echoing in everyone’s ears. To many, it felt like Kendrick had delivered a knockout blow, with Drake’s commercial dominance supposedly faltering under the weight of the onslaught. But not everyone saw it that way, especially not Preme.
Preme—born Raynford Humphrey—wasn’t just an OVO affiliate; he was a brother-in-arms, a Toronto native who’d hustled alongside Drake from the gritty days of mixtapes and MySpace blogs. With his slick flow and Guyanese roots, Preme had carved his own lane, but his loyalty to Drake was unshakable. So when the narrative spread that Kendrick had “ended” Drake’s career, Preme felt a fire ignite in his chest. He wasn’t about to let the story end there.
It started with a screenshot. Preme sat in his downtown studio, the CN Tower looming through the window, scrolling Apple Music’s Top 100 Global chart on his phone. There it was: Drake’s latest single, “Nokia,” perched at number one, its nostalgic beat and catchy hook outpacing Kendrick’s “Luther” and “Not Like Us.” Preme smirked. The numbers didn’t lie—Drake was still moving units, still commanding streams, even amidst the chaos of his label disputes with Universal Music Group. To Preme, this wasn’t just a chart position; it was a middle finger to the doubters.
He fired off a post on X: “They said we were dead. They said it was over. They said Super Bowl was checkmate. They said he should take a few years off and disappear. Back on top even while beefing with the label and it’s only April! This why yall hate the boy 
.” The owl emoji, OVO’s signature, punctuated his defiance. Within minutes, the post blew up—retweets from OVO diehards, likes from casual fans, and, predictably, clapbacks from Kendrick stans. “Nokia’s a fluke,” one replied. “Kendrick’s still got the Hot 100 on lock,” another jabbed. Preme didn’t flinch. He doubled down: “The best revenge is success. Keep hating.”
The studio session that night was electric. Preme had invited a tight crew—producers Boi-1da and Nineteen85, a few OVO up-and-comers, and a bottle of vintage Hennessy to keep the vibes right. The walls vibrated with “Nokia” on loop, its ’90s-inspired call-and-response hook filling the room. “This ain’t no funeral,” Preme declared, leaning into the mic. “This is a resurrection.” He wasn’t just defending Drake; he was rallying the camp, reminding them who they were. OVO wasn’t built on fleeting wins—it was a dynasty forged in Toronto’s concrete jungles, a legacy Kendrick couldn’t bury with a single track, no matter how viral.
Across the border, Kendrick’s camp caught wind of Preme’s antics. In a sleek LA studio, Kendrick sat with DJ Mustard, sipping coffee and skimming X posts. “Preme’s out here acting like ‘Nokia’ means Drake won,” Mustard chuckled, shaking his head. Kendrick’s lips curled into a half-smile, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Let ‘em celebrate,” he said coolly. “Numbers don’t tell the story. Legacy does.” He’d seen “Luther” hold the Billboard Hot 100’s top spot for six weeks straight, watched “Not Like Us” become an anthem that transcended charts. To Kendrick, the war wasn’t about a single battle—it was about who’d be remembered when the dust settled.
Back in Toronto, Preme wasn’t done. He’d heard the whispers: Kendrick’s Grammy haul, the Super Bowl moment, the narrative that Drake was retreating into R&B with Some Sexy Songs 4 U. Preme saw it differently. Drake wasn’t running—he was reloading. “Nokia” wasn’t just a hit; it was a statement. Preme hit the streets, popping into a packed club on Queen West where the DJ spun “Nokia” to a roaring crowd. Phones lit up the dance floor, capturing the moment. He posted the clip online with a caption: “Dead, huh? Tell that to the city.”
The next day, Preme linked up with Drake at a low-key spot in the Bridle Path. The mansion’s sleek interior contrasted with the raw energy of their conversation. Drake, reclining in a leather chair, scrolled through Preme’s X posts with a grin. “You wild for this,” he said, his voice low but amused. Preme shrugged. “Someone’s gotta remind ‘em who’s still standing.” Drake nodded, swirling a glass of wine. “They’ll see soon enough. This ain’t the end—it’s the prelude.”
As April rolled on, the feud’s echoes lingered, but Preme’s mission was clear: rewrite the script. Kendrick might’ve landed blows, but Drake’s pulse was still strong—charts, streams, and a city that bled OVO proved it.
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