Billy wandered into the loft. For the look on his face, one would think he was stepping into an impressive mansion. He'd never seen anything like it. The true New York artist experience. The sort of thing he expected to have to do at this stage in his life. He never thought he'd get signed as early as he did. Whisked off to California for several years, then hidden away in Manhattan, on the opposite coast from most of those he shared a label with.

The posters on the walls. The massive but grimy windows. Even the oil drum received fond looks from him. But then they came to the couch, and Mark dropped onto it like they had all the time in the world. Then there was that request. A request that almost has him bolting for the door. "I'd rather you wouldn't," he says, sounding a bit uncertain. "Company policy." He sounds a bit bolder. And he feels some of the uncertainty slip away. It wasn't any different than talking to people in the company, he reminded himself. "It's a clause in the contract of anyone who isn't a manager or a performer...not allowed to be on camera anywhere. Liability reasons, I guess?" The lie came rather easily. "Really, this has to stay as hush-hush as possible. I could get fired for all of this."