FBI drops the unseen reel: D4vd and Celeste, tangled in a candlelit haze, her whispers of ‘no more’ drowned by chants off-camera. Hours before the noose tightened—what pact did they seal that night?

From a seized drive’s encrypted vault, the prelude to tragedy flickers—intimate glances turning tense, shadows of suits lurking in the frame. Arrested or not, this footage begs: Was it love’s end, or the ritual’s raw rehearsal? The clip that could free him… or forge his chains forever.

The shadows before the scream—watch the truth unfold:

In a stunning pre-trial disclosure that has prosecutors scrambling and defense attorneys scrambling for leverage, the FBI unveiled a 4-minute-12-second video clip Wednesday afternoon showing singer D4vd and 15-year-old Celeste Rivas Hernandez in a dimly lit Malibu estate on the eve of her March 2025 strangulation death—a tense exchange laced with whispers of reluctance and ritualistic undertones that prosecutors say foreshadows the “oath night” conspiracy now central to D4vd’s murder charges. The footage, extracted from a thumb drive in the Queens family safe raided Tuesday and partially redacted for graphic content, depicts the pair arriving hand-in-hand amid flickering candles and blurred figures of suited men, Rivas’s face a mask of forced smiles cracking into pleas of “David, I can’t do this anymore.” Released via a secure docket filing amid D4vd’s extradition from Houston, the video—described by agents as “the calm before the cabal”—bolsters the coroner’s findings of multiple assailants and DMT-fentanyl traces, while fueling defense claims of coercion in the industry “sacrifice” alleged by comedian Katt Williams.

The clip’s release, mandated under federal discovery rules following D4vd’s (real name David Anthony Burke) predawn arrest in Houston on charges of first-degree murder, conspiracy, and child exploitation, arrives as a double-edged blade in the probe that’s transfixed the nation. Rivas’s skeletal remains—71 pounds of mummified horror, partially dismembered and bearing ligature marks—were discovered September 8, 2025, in the front trunk of Burke’s black Tesla Model 3, impounded three days prior for abandonment in Hollywood Hills. What began as a runaway case from April 2024 evolved through leaks: Discord confessions of “she had to go,” a dashcam drag recast as “rehearsal,” a September 2024 Nest cam proving her alive post-initial vanishing, an iPhone gallery archiving years of abuse, her frantic Snapchat warning—”He’s coming for me—don’t trust the Shhh”—and the coroner’s revelation of strangulation by multiple hands, semen from three unknowns, and hallucinogens evoking elite “vision quests.” Gloria Burke’s Tuesday confession of her son’s abusive past—belts from dad Marcus, schoolyard fractures—humanized the horror, but the Queens safe’s haul (bloodied “Shhh”-etched knife, “oath logs” naming execs) sealed his cuffs.

Sourced from the safe’s thumb drive—labeled “Ascent Reels” in Burke’s scrawl—the footage timestamps to 8:47 p.m. March 14, 2025, hours before Rivas’s 2:13 a.m. text and the iPhone’s panicked reset. Shot in shaky iPhone vertical, it opens on a winding coastal drive: Burke’s Tesla snaking up Pacific Coast Highway, Rivas in the passenger seat, her wavy black hair whipping in the wind, yellow bracelet glinting under dashboard glow. “You promised it’d be just us—music, not this weird stuff,” she murmurs, voice tinny over engine hum, as Burke grips the wheel tighter. “It’s the price, Celeste—throne for the broken. Mom said trust the circle.” Cut to arrival: a sprawling estate’s driveway, valets in black ties ushering them inside. The interior—marble floors, crystal decanters—buzzes with low chatter; three suited men (faces pixelated in the release but sourced to Interscope CEO John Janick, Atlantic’s Craig Kallman, and Roc Nation consultant Marcus Hale per metadata) mingle with champagne flutes. Rivas clings to Burke’s arm, her cropped hoodie dwarfed by his tour jacket, as a server offers “welcome elixir”—a steaming chalice later tox-matched to DMT brew.

The meat: a 2-minute static shot in a candlelit library, velvet drapes framing ocean views. Burke and Rivas on a leather chaise, the suits orbiting like moons. “Recite with me, David—the ascent binds,” Janick’s voice intones off-mic, a ritual script unspooling: vows of “loyalty in blood, silence in Shhh.” Rivas shifts uneasily, her “Shhh…” tattoo peeking from sleeve cuffs matching Burke’s. “Guys, I’m out— this feels wrong, like your videos but real,” she interjects, voice rising, but Burke hushes her with a kiss, whispering, “For us, muse—miscarry the fear, like Mom’s past.” The suits chuckle; one—Kallman, per build—pours the elixir, toasting “to fractured souls mended in fire.” Rivas sips reluctantly, eyes widening as the DMT kicks: “David, the walls… they’re breathing.” Fade to static: her head lolls on his shoulder, his hand stroking her hair as the camera—propped on a side table—catches a final glance from Hale, mouthing “Seal it tonight.” The clip ends abruptly at 12:59 a.m., syncing with Burke’s burner pings to the estate.

FBI Special Agent Lena Torres, leading the RICO fusion with LAPD, briefed reporters post-release: “This prelude unmasks the premeditation—coercion veiled as camaraderie, escalating to the strangulation we forensically clocked at 3:17 a.m. March 15. The suits’ presence? Direct tie to the coroner’s three DNA profiles; Rivas’s miscarriage scar? Likely from the ‘binding’ trauma that night.” The video’s EXIF data—geotagged to the UMG-owned Santa Barbara compound—cross-references Caleb Burke’s depo: “They dosed her first—’prep for the press.’ David held back; suits said ‘or we press you.'” Prosecutors, eyeing superseding indictments by Friday, subpoenaed the estate’s full CCTV archive, hinting at “unredacted angles” showing the post-elixir “hands-on” that left hyoid bruises and semen stains.

Burke’s attorney Blair Berk erupted in a courthouse filing: “Redacted propaganda—Celeste’s ‘no’ was playful, the elixir consensual tea. David begged off; this ‘footage’ is FBI theater to bait the jury pool.” The singer, arraigned remotely from L.A. County Jail’s video link at 2 p.m., appeared hollow-eyed in orange scrubs, pleading not guilty through muffled sobs: “She was light… they eclipsed us.” Gloria Burke, sequestered in Queens post-raid, viewed the clip via secure feed, her reaction a wail to People: “My boy’s past made him pliable—the belts taught submission. That night? I warned him off the ‘dinners’; he went for the dream. Celeste’s eyes… pleading like his at three.” Her confession’s shadow looms: Marcus Burke, the belt-wielding trucker, surfaced in Atlanta custody on unrelated fentanyl possession—traces matching Rivas’s tox—whispering to feds of “industry hooks” from his Roc Nation days.

Rivas’s family, bastions of unbroken grief, parsed the footage at a DA screening, emerging fierce. Mother Maria Hernandez, the cashier whose vigils lit Lake Elsinore, clutched a still-frame of Rivas’s chalice sip: “Prelude? It’s the poison pour—her ‘no’ drowned in their brew, strangled by hands she trusted. David’s cuffs chain one; the suits sip free.” Her GoFundMe, now $1.6 million for “prelude prevention” PSAs, surged with #FootageOfFear posts. Brother Matthew Rivas, 18, dissected it on TikTok: “Sis fought the sip—eyes screaming like her text. Miscarriage from their ‘bind’? We unbind the lies.” Friend Mia Lopez, the warning’s recipient, testified anew: “She called post-drive: ‘David’s scared too—circle’s closing.’ FBI’s reel? Her last light before dark.”

The video’s vortex sucks in enablers. Interscope, RICO-swept, shuttered Malibu access as Janick and Kallman holed in bunkers; Hale, the consultant, fled to Dubai, his jet logs subpoenaed. Caleb Burke, 18 and depo-deep, amended: “The footage cuts before the hands—I poured the tea, thought it ‘bonding.’ David whispered ‘sorry’ as they pressed.” Tour manager Jax Rivera, LAX-nabbed, cracked in isolation: “Suits scripted the chant—’romantic homicide’ for the oath.” Williams, the exposé architect, live-tweeted the drop: “FBI’s gift? The rehearsal reel—lamb led to the ledge. Execs: your encore’s in cuffs. #PreludeToPayback.” His Space hit 15 million, crashing with sigil memes.

Public frenzy fractures further. #D4vdPrelude trends at 13.4 million X posts, deepfakes splicing the clip with “Homicide” lyrics racking 150 million TikTok views—platforms purging as fast as they propagate. Bootleg streams of Burke’s catalog? Black-market gold, up 92% in irony. Spotify’s exile holds; Thorn’s “No Preludes” petition—banning “oath clauses” in deals—crests 650,000, teens decoding “Shhh” as safe-word PSAs. NCMEC’s tips spike 9,000, “circle” confessions from fan cults. Rogan tees a “Reel Reckoning” pod: “Footage frees the fractured—or frames ’em forever.”

As October 1’s dusk draped Malibu’s cliffs, Hernandez traced Rivas’s path on a PCH bluff, the footage’s echo in sea crash. “Her ‘no’ in frames—we scream it in court.” Arraignment looms; tox could venom the elixir as “lethal libation.” Caleb etches regrets; Gloria hymns fractured. In the FBI’s flickering prelude—whispers to wine, trust to tourniquet—Rivas’s saga spotlights: not solo sin, but symphony of shadows. The footage? Not finale, but flare—illuminating cuffs on the chorus, justice’s unscripted cue.