"Where are they?" Cortland Morris, Pacific Record's Chief Legal Officer, addressed the federal agents with a warm cup of coffee in his hand. In Benton West's boardroom, he had been afraid. No one ever wanted to go to the big boss with that type of news. But here, minutes away from interrogating the group of digital wannabe artists that put him in such a compromising position in the first place? He felt angry and powerful. This was the type of repeated breach that could have left an irrevocable stain on his sterling legal career resume. And he wasn't happy about it.

"There's no they, sir." Mirian addressed Cortland, his strong arms crossed across his chest. "We only have Stevie Marlowe in custody whose sole IP address has been identified in connection to uploading the pirated music."

"Have we not yet scrubbed her computer for links to others? I still have a hunch that a competing record label, or one of those indie fuckers is behind all of this." Cortland was agitated, his signature red flush creeping up his neck when he was either embarrassed or angry.

"We did, sir." Jack responded, the technically savvy one among the federal agent squad. "So far, we have not identified any other IP addresses related to pirating software or streaming upload services. And Miss Marlowe is remaining adamant that she worked alone. She doesn't seem keen on giving anyone up."

"We'll see about that." Cortland downed the rest of his hot coffee, tossing the paper cup in the trash. Mirian nodded in the direction of Stevie, who was seated in an all-white room, the handcuffs still around her slender wrists. As Cortland approached the two-way mirror of the interrogation room, he muttered, "what in the fuck" under his breath.

"What is this?" He gestured at Stevie who was staring blankly at the wall, her face deep in concentration.

"Stevie Marlowe."

"She's the infamous MarLow?! Who uses their own goddamn last name," Cortland grumbled before adding, "and she has pink hair."

"Sir, our intel is correct. That girl is a twenty-four year old woman, Stanford computer science dropout, with off-the-charts test scores since childhood. She had an entire makeshift studio in her apartment, including DJ mixing consoles and electric keyboards." Mirian opened the door to the room and Stevie's attention snapped toward them. Cortland's frustration turned momentarily to lust. Behind Stevie's pink hair, excessive eyeliner, and litany of ear piercings was a beautiful woman. Cortland let this realization manifest into more anger within him.

"Look, guys, these handcuffs are really unnecessary. I mean, I can barely open a jar of pickles by myself. You really think I'm going to try and pull a fast one?" Stevie had a feminine, crooked smile on her face and Mirian shook his head, his annoyance with her turning into a hint of admiration.

"She's all yours." Mirian left the room and the door clicked behind him, leaving Stevie and Cortland alone.

"Stevie. Marlowe." Cortland took a seat across from Stevie. "My name is Cortland Morris, the Chief Legal Officer at Pacific Records. It looks like you and your band have made my life a bit difficult as of late."

Stevie studied Cortland's ruddy face and beady, brown eyes. "You're...the Chief Legal officer...at Pacific Records?" She leaned in further, a mischievous look taking over her face, "Just tell me...between us...is Jelean Kingston like, really pissed?" Stevie's voice was high and excited. Her pale eyes, further accentuated by her dark, navy blue liner, looked electric against her face.

"The antics are not appreciated, Stevie. Drop the act and I'll do what I can to get you the lowest five-year sentence for digital piracy."

"I swear," Stevie raised her handcuffed hands, a faint smile still on her lips, "I had no intention of my remix going mega-viral and I never, ever sell these kinds of remixes for money. I've made zero profit on this whole thing."

"Then what are you doing it for? There's millions of other tracks out there, why continue to go after Pacific Records and our top artists?" Cortland placed a palm on the table, the red flush creeping up from his neck to his jaw.

"I mean, for glory, you know? Bragging rights. Shit, I thought I peaked at like fifty million streams a few weeks back but now I'm nearing a billion." Stevie's eyes took on a far-off look, her lack of immediately palpable fear aggravating Cortland.

"You're past a billion, Miss Marlowe. But I don't believe you or your story and neither do those federal agents standing outside this room. I want to know what your motive was and who else was involved. I suspect you are being paid by a competing record label or some new streaming service as a dipshit rogue marketing campaign to attack the most profitable label in the industry. I want to know the truth within the next five minutes or you will be staring at the inside of a prison cell for what's left of your youth." Cortland's voice was cold and threatening. Stevie took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. She had a better idea.

"Do you understand music?" Stevie's gaze had taken on an intensity that surprised Cortland. It was a sudden and drastic shift in her look, like a switch had flipped.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, you're this big, hotshot legal guy, right? But couldn't you also do that work for a bank or a tech company? I'm asking, if you yourself are a musician."

Cortland grumbled to himself and pulled at his shirt collar, the fabric feeling tighter with his increasing annoyance, "No, Miss Marlow. I can't say that I am."

"Is there someone here? From Pacific Records that understand music? I can prove that I am the only one behind MarLow."

Cortland paused for a moment and then pressed a buzzer. When a federal agent entered the room, he demanded that they, "bring in Aero, please."

"Wait...Aero Hayden? As in...the DJ and producer Aeronox?" Stevie's voice rose even higher and Cortland rolled his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, Miss Marlowe. We've brought him here for his subject matter expertise." Cortland's voice was dripping with sarcasm as the door to the interrogation room opened, and a large, brooding man wearing a hoodie took a seat next to the overweight lawyer. They couldn't have been more opposite.

"Holy shit..." Stevie couldn't help herself, and a huge, pure smile stretching across her doll-like face, illuminating the prettiness of her features underneath her eccentric makeup. "I'm a huge fan."

"Likewise." Aero removed his hoodie, revealing his famously shaved head and neck tattoos.

"Enough of that," Cortland's voice snapped, "get to it Miss Marlowe."

"Okay, I need a whiteboard or something to draw on."

"For christ's sake." Cortland buzzed again and asked a federal agent to wheel in a whiteboard. Stevie raised her handcuffed hands at the agent and nodded between them and the whiteboard. "I'm clever but not clever enough to draw musical progressions with my wrists handcuffed. Cut a girl a break, will ya?" Stevie winked at the agent and he had to suppress a laugh. The young woman was relentless. He took a key from his belt and unlocked her handcuffs, smiling as Stevie dramatically rubbed her wrists in relief.

"Go on." Cortland interrupted the exchange with an impatient tone.

"Okay, so I'm going to reverse engineer exactly how I remixed Jelena Kingston's hit, Heart of Ice, and why it's becoming so popular. I'm going to prove to you that it was just me, all by myself, who managed to get one billion...geez I can't believe I'm saying that out loud...one billion streams with no marketing budget and no label." She took the marker in her hand and began to draw. She spoke quickly and with complete composure. Right now, Stevie wasn't in an interrogation room making a case that could very well determine the course of her entire life. She was explaining the process of her art, showing the combination of creativity and science that went into her digital remixing passion. She was at her creation-station, noise-cancelling headphones in, empty Red Bull cans crushed and littered on the floor. She was thinking and creating out loud and when she did this, her entire being was enraptured.

When Stevie casually tossed the marker back on the table, Cortland's face had completely transformed. His earlier anger, even his earlier attraction to the woman before him were all dimly lit emotions. He didn't understand music like she did, but he knew enough artists to understand the depth of her talent. He was impressed to such a degree that even jealousy had no place being present. This woman was a savant. A criminal, but a savant.

Aero was the first to break the silence, "This is...impressive, Miss Marlowe."

"MarLow," Cortland's voice was distant and when he glanced over at her, he was still distracted by the drawings on the whiteboard.

"That's me," Stevie leaned back in her chair, a sense of accomplishment settling over her. She still had a long and strange road ahead, but she'd at least bought herself some time, and maybe a little leniency as well. Cortland nodded and hit the buzzer that brought the federal agents back in. One started to approach Stevie with the handcuffs.

"No." Cortland put his hand up, glancing between the handcuffs and Stevie. "Just take her back to the hotel. She'll meet with Benton tomorrow." Stevie glanced between the men, a new set of questions flooding through her mind.

"That was fucking sick." Aero gave her a quick wink before pulling his hoodie back over his head and following Cortland out of the interrogation room.

"Let's go, Stevie." Mirian pulled her gently out of her chair, a sarcastic act of chivalry. Stevie smirked.

"Can I at least order room service? At the hotel? I'm freaking starving." No one responded but even Cortland couldn't keep a small laugh from escaping his lips.