The town car Rico sent gleamed like spilled oil against the worn concrete of their block. Marcus watched from the building's entrance as his mother emerged from the passenger seat, transformed from her usual scrubs into a charcoal pantsuit he didn't remember her owning in the original timeline. Rico stood by the car's open door, his usual leather jacket swapped for a tailored blazer, looking more like the music executive he would become than the hustler he still was.
"Baby, you look..." Maria's voice caught as she approached, and Marcus saw her through doubled vision: the proud mother of now, overlaid with memories of her tears at his first Grammy nomination, still years away in a future he was rapidly rewriting.
"Like his father," Rico finished, then immediately tensed, clearly expecting Maria's usual sharp response to any mention of Marcus Johnson Sr.
But Maria surprised them both, smoothing Marcus's collar with practiced hands. "No," she said softly. "Like himself. Like who he's meant to be."
The moment hung between them, delicate as the high frequencies in a perfect mix. Marcus felt the weight of both timelines pressing against his chest – in his first life, his mother hadn't attended any industry meetings until after his first gold record. By then, the distance between them had grown too wide to easily bridge.
"The car's waiting," Rico said, checking his phone. "Jimmy doesn't do late."
The drive into Manhattan unspooled like a familiar track played at a different tempo. Marcus watched the city scroll past, noting the absence of construction that would later reshape whole neighborhoods, the billboards advertising albums that would become classics, the fashion that would cycle back into style just as he'd left it in 2024.
"Tell me again about this meeting," Maria said from beside him, her hands clasped too tightly in her lap. "What exactly are they expecting?"
Rico turned from the front seat, his face serious in the filtered midday light. "They're expecting another teenager with a beat machine. What they're getting..." He gestured at Marcus's backpack, heavy with DATs and carefully curated demos. "That's something else entirely."
Marcus touched the bag, feeling the future encoded in its magnetic tape. He'd spent the morning selecting tracks, walking a careful line between innovation and accessibility. Too far ahead of the curve, and they'd dismiss him as unmarketable. Too safe, and he'd lose the very uniqueness that made him valuable.
"The artist they're bringing," he said, watching Rico's reflection in the privacy divider. "You really can't tell us who?"
Rico's eyes met his in the glass. "You know I would if I could, little man. But..." He glanced at Maria, then back to Marcus. "Let's just say it's someone who could change everything."
The car slipped into Midtown traffic, joining the eternal dance of yellow cabs and delivery trucks. Marcus counted blocks, remembering landmarks from meetings that hadn't happened yet. They were taking a different route than the one he remembered from his first visit to these offices – that one had been in 2008, when the industry's power had already begun to shift eastward.
"When we get there," Rico continued, his voice dropping into mentor mode, "let me handle the introductions. These people... they expect a certain protocol."
"I remember," Marcus said automatically, then caught himself. "I mean, I understand."
His mother's hand found his, warm and steady. "Just be yourself, baby."
But which self? The seventeen-year-old producer just starting out, or the veteran who'd seen two decades of industry evolution? Marcus squeezed his mother's hand, wondering how to be both at once.
The car slowed, turning into an underground parking garage that smelled of concrete and privilege. As they descended into the artificial light, Marcus felt time compress around him like audio being mastered – all the possibilities, all the futures he'd lived and could live, pressed into this single moment.
"One more thing," Rico said as the car stopped, his hand on the door handle. "Whatever happens in there... trust me to read the room. We play this right, we're not just making a deal."
"We're making history," Marcus finished, the words carrying the weight of knowledge from a future rapidly dissolving around him.
Rico's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded. "Exactly."
The elevator ride to the forty-second floor was silent, each of them wrapped in their own thoughts. Marcus watched the numbers climb, remembering how in his first life, he'd reached these heights too late, after streaming had already begun its disruption, after the power had already started to shift.
But now, standing between his mother and his mentor, wearing a shirt he'd originally left hanging unworn for four years, Marcus felt the future realigning itself around him like tracks sliding into perfect synchronization.
The elevator doors opened onto a floor of glass and chrome, where power dressed itself in transparent walls and deceptive simplicity. A familiar logo hung in the reception area, its clean lines belying the complexity of the empire it represented.
"Mr. Martinez," the receptionist smiled at Rico, then turned that practiced warmth on Marcus and Maria. "They're ready for you in the main conference room."
As they followed her through the maze of glass, Marcus caught fragments of conversation from various offices – discussions of artists he knew would fade into obscurity, deals that would sour, trends that would shift. But one voice, floating from behind a partially closed door, made him stop mid-stride.
It was a voice he'd know in any timeline – rich, confident, already carrying the authority that would help reshape the industry. A voice he'd first heard in person four years from now, in a future he was carefully undoing.
Rico caught his reaction and smiled, a small, knowing thing. "Ready to make some noise, little man?"
Marcus adjusted his backpack, feeling the weight of tomorrow's music against his shoulder. "Born ready," he said, and for the first time since waking up in 2004, it felt entirely true.