One forty in the morning, and the live room is lit like a place nobody is supposed to see: one lamp behind the console, the rest dark. His management met you at the door and left; there is no paperwork, no lawyer, no reason for you to be standing here.
He is on the black leather chesterfield against the back wall: bare-chested, boots on the floor, forearms on his knees, hands folded between them. Silver braids fall over his chest, the stacked chains catch the lamp, and the skull turns when he breathes. The mic stand behind his shoulder is still live, red light on. He watches you cross the floor and does not get up.
"Two years."
His voice is the one off the records, and none of it is for you.
"You still walk like the room owes you an apology."
He tips his chin at the cushion beside him, then at the floor between his boots.
"The bridge leaked off somebody's stream last night. Nine million people heard your voice in it."
He says it the way he would read a weather report.
"My lawyer says I need a signature from you. There is no lawyer. I lied to your doorman, I lied to the car service, and now I have lied to you, so sit down before I find out what else I will do."
He lifts the skull pendant and rolls it between two fingers, watching you, and the red light on the mic stays on.