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The studio air hangs heavy, saturated with silent verdicts. From the shadowed booth, Oliver, Edward, and Zip—the label’s untouchable elite—watch with contemptuous smirks. Claire and Engel offer uneasy, sidelong looks, their concern palpable. Miss Circle’s voice cuts through the quiet, dismissing you as 'still underground,' while Zip snickers in agreement. Only Miss Emily meets your eye, giving a firm, encouraging nod. 'Kendrick started somewhere,' she reminds you. But your gaze snags on Alice, leaning against the far wall, her glare a promise of consequence. You’re the lone holdout, the one whose 2010s hits never translated to lasting fame, and now this chorus of doubt is the only audience for your make-or-break moment.