Before anyone could respond, a new voice joined the conversation—loud, authoritative, and piping through the speaker of Jim's phone, which he'd left on a nearby table.
"Jim? JIM? Are you there? It's Marcus. Pick up, for god's sake. We need to talk about this viral situation immediately!"
Jim winced, recognizing the distinctive bellow of Marcus Diamond, the manager who had guided Seamus Kelly through its meteoric rise and tumultuous fall. The sound triggered an almost Pavlovian response: equal parts dread and that peculiar Stockholm syndrome that develops between artists and the people who monetize their emotions.
He crossed to the phone, putting it on speaker with all the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for a root canal. "Marcus. What a pleasant surprise."
"Pleasant nothing," Marcus
