The label guy's office gleamed with the kind of calculated ostentation that would become cliché by 2015. Chrome and glass everywhere, platinum records like prophecies on the walls. Rico sat beside me, leg bouncing with nervous energy, while Jay's demo played through speakers that cost more than my mother's annual salary.
Warren Chen—who in my original timeline would become one of hip-hop's most notorious vultures—leaned back in his ergonomic throne, eyes closed. I watched him, knowing exactly how this scene had played out thousands of times before, knowing exactly how it would evolve over the next two decades. He hadn't yet developed his infamous "360 deal" strategy, the one that would chain a generation of artists to predatory contracts. But I could see it forming behind his eyes.
The track reached its bridge, and Jay's voice filled the room:
*In the shadows of these towers
Where the dreams refuse to die
Every minute, every hour
Watching chances passing by
But the rhythm of tomorrow
Beats beneath these city streets
And the hope we try to borrow
Makes these broken parts complete*
Warren's eyes opened, and I recognized the gleam in them—the same predatory glint that had trapped so many young artists in my first timeline. "It's rough," he said, "but there's potential. Kid's got something raw. We could work with this."
Rico beamed, but I felt ice in my veins. I knew what "work with this" meant in Warren-speak circa 2004. It meant stripping away everything authentic, replacing Jay's truth with market-tested falsehoods. In my original timeline, I'd watched it happen too many times.
"What kind of deal structure are you thinking?" Rico asked, leaning forward.
Warren reached for a leather portfolio. "Standard new artist contract. We handle production, distribution, marketing. Plus first right of refusal on merchandise, appearances, the usual package." He smiled, all teeth and no warmth. "We'll need to clean up the sound, of course. Get some of our in-house producers to—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended, carrying the weight of twenty years of industry knowledge.
Rico shot me a warning look, but I pressed on. "The sound stays as is. We maintain creative control, and Jay keeps his publishing." I pulled out my own portfolio—prepared with contracts I wouldn't technically learn about for another five years. "We're thinking more of a distribution partnership. Limited term, focused release strategy."
Warren's smile flickered. "That's not how we usually—"
"Usually is changing," I cut in, my seventeen-year-old voice carrying thirty-five years of certainty. "The industry's about to transform. Digital distribution, streaming platforms, social media marketing—it's all coming. Artists won't need the old model anymore." I slid my portfolio across his desk. "We're offering you a chance to be ahead of the curve."
The silence that followed was heavy with futures unwritten. Rico stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Warren picked up the portfolio, frowning at terms that wouldn't become industry standard for another decade.
"Those numbers," Warren started, but I was already reaching for my backpack.
"Are fair," I finished. "More than fair, considering where the market's heading. But if you're not interested..." I stood, remembering how this office would look in 2020—empty, the platinum records gathering dust, Warren's empire crumbled by the very changes I was describing.
"Sit down," Warren said, his voice different now. He was looking at me with new eyes, the way people would eventually look at me in my first timeline—like someone who saw the future clearly. "Let's talk about these terms."
Two hours later, we emerged into the Manhattan afternoon. Rico waited until we were half a block away before grabbing my arm.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded. "How did you—where did you learn—" He gestured helplessly at the building behind us. "Marcus, man, you just rewrote the whole playbook in there."
I looked up at the sky, thinking of how many careers would be saved by this one meeting, this one deviation from the timeline. "Sometimes you have to break the rules to write new ones," I said.
"Those contracts," Rico continued, "the stuff about digital rights and streaming revenues—I've never even heard of half that shit."
"You will," I murmured, then louder: "Trust me, Rico. This is just the beginning."
My phone buzzed—Mama, checking in. As I reached for it, a billboard caught my eye across the street. Beyoncé's face stared down at the city, advertising a perfume that in my timeline would launch her beauty empire. I smiled, remembering how she'd laughed when telling me about the photoshoot.
"You ever think about how one decision can change everything?" I asked Rico, who was still shaking his head in disbelief.
"After what I just saw? Man, I don't know what to think anymore."
I watched the city move around us, each person carrying their own timeline, their own version of what was possible. In my pocket, the revised contract felt like a key unlocking a different future—not just for Jay, but for all the artists who would follow.
"Change is coming," I said, knowing exactly how true those words were. "We might as well be the ones leading it."
Above us, Beyoncé's billboard caught the afternoon sun, turning her into a goddess in gold. Soon, I thought. But not yet. First, there were more timelines to rewrite, more futures to save.
One contract at a time.