The back room of The Underground thrummed with the aftermath of revolution. Dim light filtered through decades of cigarette smoke that had yellowed the ceiling tiles, casting everything in the amber glow of memory. Rico's hands trembled as he poured celebratory cognac into plastic cups, the bottle's crystal facets catching light like promises.
"To the new king," he said, voice thick with emotion and possibility. The small room was packed with faces I remembered from my other life—younger versions of legends, their futures now uncertain because of what I'd done. Big Tee, who'd become a radio mogul; Santos, whose production would define the next decade; Carmen, whose blog would transform into a media empire. All of them watching me with new eyes.
King Midas—Jerome to his mother—stood in the corner, his platinum chain now seeming more like shackles than crown. I remembered what happened to him in my original timeline: three platinum albums, two Grammy nominations, then a slow fade into reality TV appearances. As he caught my eye, I raised my cup in his direction:
*Respect to the throne that stood before mine*
*Your chapters ain't over, just changing design*
*Every king's path leads to different gold*
*Some stories get better as new plots unfold*
He straightened, surprise flickering across his face. The freestyle was an olive branch, but also a promise. In this new timeline, I'd make sure his talent found better soil to grow in. He raised his own cup, then delivered his response:
*Crown's got weight that few understand*
*Curious to see how long you'll take your stand*
*But respect game when the game is played right*
*Maybe both our names might shine bright tonight*
The tension dissolved into something new—not quite friendship, but mutual recognition. Rico watched the exchange with shrewd eyes, already calculating angles and opportunities. This was why he'd become legendary in my previous life: he could spot the threads of possibility in any situation.
My phone buzzed: a text from Ma.
"Baby, you coming home soon? Made your favorite curry chicken."
The simple message nearly broke me. In my other timeline, she'd worked an extra shift that night, too worried about bills to attend the battle. The butterfly effects were already rippling.
"The labels gonna be calling tomorrow," Rico said, pulling me aside. "We play this right, you could have a bidding war by the end of the week." He pulled out his Blackberry—cutting edge for 2004—and started scrolling through contacts. "I'm thinking we leak the footage tonight, let it build organic buzz..."
I sipped my cognac, letting the familiar burn ground me in this moment. The battle footage. In my timeline, it had never surfaced. But now...
"Not yet," I said, watching understanding dawn in his eyes. "Let's master the audio first. Add some polish to that beat. When we drop it, it needs to be perfect."
Rico's smile widened. This was why we worked so well together—in any timeline, he could recognize strategy. "Making them hungry. I feel you. But what's the next move then?"
I pulled out my notebook, filled with lyrics written twenty years in the future:
*They think the battle's the end, but it's just genesis*
*Every bar I write got future benefits*
*Building bridges between now and what's to come*
*Every track I lay down, industry gonna hum*
*With possibilities they ain't ready to see*
*Future's in the past, and the architect's me*
"Studio," I said, watching his eyes light up at the words. "Tonight. I've got this hook that's been haunting me..."
The room pulsed with celebration, but my mind was already in tomorrow. In my original timeline, I'd spent years learning what I now knew about production, about songwriting, about the industry itself. But knowledge wasn't enough—it had to be applied with precision, with respect for the butterfly effects each choice would create.
Santos approached, his future Grammy still decades away. "That beat tonight," he said, his producer's ear already catching the innovations I'd woven in. "Those string samples, the way you layered them..."
"We should collaborate," I said, watching another thread of history reshape itself. In my original timeline, Santos and I had never worked together. Now, looking at his eager expression, I could see new possibilities unfolding.
Rico was already making calls, his voice carrying across the room: "Yeah, yeah, he's with me. No, no sessions until we formalize..." Ever the protector, even before he knew what he was protecting.
I checked my phone again, typing a quick response to Ma: "On my way. Save me a plate. Got big news."
The cognac caught the light like liquid gold, more precious than any chain. King Midas's words echoed in my head—"Curious to see how long you'll take your stand"—and I smiled, knowing what he couldn't: this wasn't just about taking stands. It was about building bridges between timelines, between possibilities.
As if reading my thoughts, Rico appeared at my shoulder. "You changed the game tonight," he said softly.
If he only knew how literal that statement was. I raised my cup one final time, watching the amber liquid catch the light like tomorrow's memories:
*To the past we're building and the future we've seen*
*To the tracks not written and the tracks in between*
*Every choice a doorway, every rhyme a key*
*Time ain't linear when you flow like me*
The night stretched ahead, pregnant with possibility. Somewhere in the city, Ma was stirring curry chicken, her son's future suddenly brighter than before. And in my pocket, my notebook burned with twenty years of unwritten rhymes, waiting to reshape history one bar at a time.