Unlock the mystery. #ANTIdiaRY https://t.co/ddHbXXa8dd

— Samsung Mobile US (@SamsungMobileUS) November 23, 2015

Harper’s Bazaar: I’m standing in a pitch-black room. Clutching my brand-new Samsung Galaxy, I wish I could remember how to turn on the camera light.

A text comes in: “Is it dark?” Fear takes hold.

How did my love for Rihanna guide me through a twisted rabbit hole of dark rooms, anonymous texts and the disclosure of my private information to a nameless Australian man?

I respond, “Very.”

Let’s start from the beginning: I am a Rihanna fan. Not a casual, “Diamonds”-is-so-catchy fan, but a die-hard member of her Navy. I can’t name all fifty state capitals, but I sure as hell can tell you every lyric to the overseas bonus tracks from her third album, Good Girl Gone Bad. For Halloween my junior year of college, I wore a Navy uniform and Sharpied my knuckles #NAVY (right hand) and RDIE (left hand). I have seen all of her tours, and once in a while, when I have the money saved, go to her favorite restaurant in LA, Giorgio Baldi, hoping she may be in the room (but also for the delicious angelotti pasta).

I love Rihanna for her uncensored self of being. She is a bad bitch with zero phucks to give. Unlike most artists held up on a pedestal, Rihanna is real and direct with her fans, from her (sometimes banned) Instagram posts to her unfiltered interviews.

But even I had been getting annoyed with Bad Gal RiRi these past months. Unlike previous chapters in her career, this one had no direction. Even though she released three songs that showcased how successfully her vocals can navigate any genre of music, from coffeehouse (“FourFiveSeconds”) to protest dubstep (“American Oxygen”) to BAMF braggadocious club bangers (“Bitch Better Have My Money”), RiRi has endlessly teased her new album for more than two years, extending the gap from her last album to three years—her longest-ever hiatus.

In October, she released the cover art and title (ANTI) for her mystery album, but then kept quiet until her tour tickets went on sale in November. She had yet to release an official tracklist for ANTI—they don’t call her Bad Gal for nothing.

Everything changed on November 22. During the American Music Awards (which she did not attend), a commercial for her Samsung-sponsored ANTIdiaRy project aired. In it, Rihanna lies in bed in a whitewashed replica of her childhood bedroom in Barbados. A group of children appear, and guide her down a hallway into darkness. A Twitter account, @iamthekeyholder, was activated soon after.

Excited, I dug through my bedroom bureau until I found my old Samsung Galaxy 5. I checked the website, ANTIdiaRy.com, and…there was no new music to be found. I followed @iamthekeyholder and left it at that.

As I scrolled through my Twitter feed a few weeks later, I noticed a cryptic tweet from @iamthekeyholde: “#LosAngeles, s?ö? yourselves. Send us a message for a chance to experience a piece of #ANTIdiaRy.” The random accenting of the letters pushed my level of intrigue over the edge.

Editing down my decade of fandom into 74 characters, I tweeted, “I live in LA and I am READY to experience a piece of #ANTIdiaRy. #NavyRDie” and crossed my fingers that my message would be seen. The next morning, I was chosen.

It’s 10 AM on Friday, December 4. My phone buzzes. It’s a direct message from @iamthekeyholder: “Your memories are etched forever across the places of your y?o?u?r? p?a?s?t?. Come to Samsung Studio LA In Los Angeles, California between 12-7PM today for an introduction to the w?o?r?l?d? of ANTIdiaRy. You need the secret code to enter. Will we see you there?” Without hesitation, I type, “What’s the secret code?” Almost instantly, a reply containing a code unique to me comes through. If I share it with others, they could take my place. That’s not going to happen.

The Samsung lounge is a 10-minute drive from my office. I tell my boss I need an early lunch to “run an errand.” Blasting Rihanna, I speed down Sunset to Fairfax. A million thoughts run through my head: Will Rihanna be there? Will they be playing a new song over the speakers? Will they have a special memorabilia giveaway? Settled on the idea of a memorabilia exhibit, I enter the Samsung Studio.

“I’m here for the event,” I whisper to the salesperson, expecting her to hold me at gunpoint for my secret code. She tells me to wait on the couch. Someone will “see me shortly.” A man dressed in black approaches. With an Australian accent, he asks for the “secret password.” I give him the code and my contact information. He hands me a brand-new Samsung Galaxy 6 and says I will be contacted shortly. As I start walking out, my new phone vibrates: “Do you like treasure hunts?” I turn around, afraid someone will tackle me for the phone. I respond, “I love treasure hunts.”

The mystery number instructs me to a find a door down the hallway marked with Rihanna’s symbol—and to make sure one notices me. I find the door with the “R” and open it. Suddenly, darkness surrounds me.

A new text: “Is it dark?”

I respond: “Very.”

“Enter the door in front of you.”

As my eyes adjust with the help of the screen’s glow, I see a knob in front of me. I open the door into a set decorated exactly like the child’s room in the ANTIdiaRy video. “This is amazing,” I shout, praying for no hidden cameras.

A text: “Go to the bed and get comfy. I have a story to tell you.”

I walk over to the bed and lie on top. A text comes through, telling a cryptic story about a girl wanting to escape her everyday life of normality and using her imagination to do so (loosely, the same storyline in the commercials). Another text instructs me pick up the pencil on the “window” ledge and use my imagination “like she did” to draw on the wall.

Forced to get out of the bed as I’m getting comfortable, I notice there are already multiple drawings on the wall. Given my lack of fine motor skills, I draw a stick figure of myself saying, “Hi! I’m Ryan.”

I get a text saying I’ve done great. It asks if I’m committed to this mission.

Cautious, I ask, “What’s the mission?”

“All will become clearer in due time.”

That was enough for me. I proceeded to swear upon my life, my family and Rihanna that I was in it until the end. My blind loyalty rewarded me “with a gift in the bed stand.”

I open the drawers and find nothing.

A text. “Do you like to read?”

I open one of the books under the stand. It’s hollow. Inside is a golden key with a tag. A five-digit code is engraved into it. I’m told to make sure not to show the code to anyone and to keep it on me at all times. I’m instructed “to leave the phone on the bedside table and leave the way I came in.”

As I exit, the saleswoman greets me with a smile. Was she the mystery texter? Did she see what I just did? Was she trying to steal my key? I dart past her and run out to my car (my meter was about to expire after this hour-long adventure).

I settle into the car and examine the key. A wooden tag reads, “Keep this close to you. Soon I’ll tell you what it unlocks.”

It is now Wednesday, December 9 at 2 AM. I can’t sleep. I wake up to make sure I don’t have an email/voicemail/text/tweet/Facebook message/snapchat/UPS package from the mysterious texter informing me what the key unlocks. I have no clue what’s next, but all I have to say is ?#?NAVYRDIE?.? Stay tuned for the next part of my mission…