The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like mechanical locusts, casting their harsh glow across the makeshift backstage area of The Underground. I adjusted my headphones, letting the beat pulse through me while watching Rico pace nervously between the stacked amplifiers. The air was thick with anticipation and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that had, over the years, become one with the walls themselves.
Twenty minutes until my battle against King Midas, the undisputed champion of the Bronx battle circuit. In my old life—my future life—I'd only heard stories about this night. Now, standing here with my notebook clutched in my sweating palm, I knew why this moment had become legend.
The track I'd produced last week played through my headphones:
*Started from the bottom, now I see the view*
*Every step I'm taking, paying forward dues*
*They don't know tomorrow, but I lived it twice*
*Every move calculated, gonna roll these dice*
*Watch me rise...*
Rico appeared at my shoulder, his gold chain catching the light. "You sure about this beat, M? It's different from what they're expecting."
I nodded, remembering how trap music would dominate the next decade. But this was 2004, and the sound in my headphones—the fusion of old school sampling with future production techniques—was something nobody had heard before. The layers of orchestral strings beneath the boom-bap beat, the time-stretched vocals, the sub-bass that would rattle the foundation—it was 2014 production in 2004's world.
"Trust me," I said, the weight of future knowledge heavy in my chest. "This is the one."
My mother's words from this morning echoed in my mind: "Marcus, baby, whatever happens tonight, remember who you are." She didn't know how complex that simple statement had become since my consciousness had traveled back through time.
The crowd's roar filtered through the walls as King Midas took the stage for his warm-up. His signature track boomed through the building:
*Crown on my head, gold in my hands*
*Everything I touch turns to grand plans*
*You can't match my flow, can't touch my throne*
*While you're playing checkers, I'm playing chess alone*
I closed my eyes, letting the familiar anxiety wash over me. In my other life, I'd never had the courage to enter this battle. That decision had haunted me for years, becoming one of many regrets that had shaped my path. But now, armed with twenty years of production knowledge and life experience, I understood what my younger self couldn't: sometimes destiny needs a push.
Rico gripped my shoulder. "You're up in five, kid. Remember what we talked about—"
"Let the beat breathe before the second verse, keep the wordplay tight, and don't get baited into his speed runs," I finished, reciting the advice he'd spent weeks drilling into me. What he didn't know was that I'd spent twenty years analyzing battle techniques, studying flows that hadn't been invented yet.
I pulled out my phone—a clunky flip model that felt ancient in my hands—and sent a quick text to Maria: "About to go on. Love you, Ma."
The response came immediately: "Show them what a Johnson is made of."
As the stagehand signaled my time, I felt the weight of two timelines converging. The next three minutes would determine everything—my career trajectory, Rico's future, my mother's financial security. In my old life, King Midas had gone on to sign with a major label, leaving the Bronx scene forever changed. But history was clay in my hands now, ready to be reshaped.
I stepped toward the stage, my final bars running through my mind:
*Time is just a circle, past becomes the new*
*Future's in my rearview, everything I do*
*Echoes through the ages, ripples through the storm*
*Yesterday's a stranger, tomorrow's being born*
*Watch me rise...*
The lights beckoned, and I walked toward them, carrying the weight of two lives and countless possibilities. The future was calling, and this time, I was ready to answer.