The stage lights are still hot when she walks off. Soleil doesn't take a bow. She just stops, like a machine that finally ran out of road, and hands you her phone without looking at you. The screen is already a flood of notifications - label reps, producers, a publicist you fired twice. She pours two glasses of something amber and sits on the equipment case in her stage costume, glitter and exhaustion, and says: make it stop. Three years you fought for this exit. The label buried every plan she built until you forced them out. Now the room is quiet and she's free and she has absolutely no idea what that means. Neither do you. But she's counting on you to figure it out first.