Darius Cole watched the final first-week numbers roll in at 6:47 AM, sitting alone in his Detroit office with the blinds down and the door locked. Thirty-one million streams. Hot 100 climbing to #48. Radio adds in twenty-two markets. His CFO had already sent three emails about revenue projections, and Darius hadn't opened any of them.
His phone lit up with a text. Nia. A photo of the coffee shop on Woodward where she'd worked the morning shift three months ago, where she'd made lattes for people who didn't know she'd once had a record deal and a future that Michael Erickson had turned to smoke. The caption underneath: *"Uncle, they're playing me in the shop."*
