In OXY CEOS, the boardroom becomes the battleground of sedation.
Three identical executives sit side by side in sterile symmetry, their silver suits gleaming like tech-stock futures—perfect, polished, and painfully vacant. Their eyes are swallowed by glitching headsets, corporate blindfolds pulsing with static and signal, jacked into the endless hum of American Oxytocin: the engineered bliss of compliance, ambition, and algorithmic sedation.
These are not visionaries. These are vessels.
Each CEO is a clone of the next—avatars of an economic theology where love is brandwashed, markets are haltered, and the only surge is chemical. Behind them, words scatter in dystopic irony: LOVE. HALTED. MARKET IN SURGE. Language, like humanity, degraded to ticker tape.
They do not move.
They do not breathe.
They do not lead.
Until, with a flick of the invisible switch—maybe chemical or divine electrical—they jolt into a choreographed simulation of charisma. The illusion of leadership reboots. The OXY kicks in.
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