Rico's studio occupied the basement of a pre-war building in the South Bronx, the kind of place that held secrets in its walls. At 2 AM, the space felt like a confessional booth, all low lights and hushed tones. The MPC2000 sat before me like an altar, its pads worn smooth by years of devotion. In my original timeline, this machine would be in a museum by 2024. Now, its limitations were both frustration and inspiration.
"Play that last sequence again," Santos said, leaning forward in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him, adding another layer to the beat already building in the room. His eyes were wide, taking in production techniques that wouldn't exist for years. I had to be careful—too much innovation too quickly would raise questions I couldn't answer.
The track flowed through the monitors:
*[Verse 1]*
*Time flows different in the midnight hours*
*When tomorrow's memory becomes today's powers*
*Every beat I make got future DNA*
*Echoes of a path that done changed its way*
*They think they hearing music, but it's prophecy*
*Every track I lay down rewrites history*
*[Hook]*
*Living in between times*
*Dancing through the mean times*
*Future in my mind's eye*
*Past beneath my feet*
*Memories are gold mines*
*Digging through the old lines*
*Till the stars realign*
*And both timelines meet*
Rico paced behind us, his cell phone pressed to his ear despite the hour. "No, no... Yeah, we're laying it down now... Trust me, when you hear this..." His voice carried the excited tension of someone who sensed greatness approaching. In my other life, he'd become the industry's most respected manager. Tonight, I watched that future taking root.
Santos manipulated the EQ, his fingers dancing across the board. "These strings... man, I never thought about layering them like this. And that sub-bass pattern..." He shook his head in wonder. "It's like... it's like future music."
If he only knew.
I added another layer to the track—a hook that wouldn't be written until 2015, modified to feel at home in 2004:
*[Verse 2]*
*They say the past is written in permanent ink*
*But I'm editing pages, making history think*
*Twice about its choices, paths not yet taken*
*Every track I produce got timelines shaking*
*Y'all stuck in the present while I navigate*
*Between what was written and what I create*
The beat dropped out, leaving only the ethereal string sample—a piece I remembered from a film score that wouldn't be composed for another decade. Santos leaned back, running his hands over his face.
"This is gonna change everything," he whispered.
Again, if he only knew. I thought of Ma at home, probably still awake despite the hour, wondering about her son's sudden transformation. The curry chicken had been perfect—a meal that tasted like memories of a future that might no longer happen. Time travel was strange that way; even small changes created ripples.
Rico hung up his phone, excitement radiating from him. "That was Phantom Records. They want a meeting tomorrow." He paused, reading my lack of reaction. "Marcus, you hearing me? Phantom Records. The home of—"
"I hear you," I said, fingers dancing across the MPC pads. "But we're not taking that meeting."
The room stilled. In my original timeline, Phantom had gone bankrupt in 2006, taking dozens of artists down with them. Rico stared at me, confusion warring with trust on his face.
"You got something better in mind?"
I nodded, adding the final elements to the track:
*[Bridge]*
*Every choice a crossroads*
*Every beat a door*
*Dancing between timelines*
*Like I done once before*
*Past and future merging*
*In this studio tonight*
*Making tomorrow's classics*
*Until the time feels right*
*[Outro]*
*Watch the threads unravel*
*As we rewrite the scroll*
*Future's just a memory*
*Of stories yet untold*
*Every track we laying down*
*Got prophecy inside*
*Time ain't linear*
*When you've seen both sides*
Santos let out a low whistle as the track faded. "Man, this is... I don't even have words for what this is."
Rico was still watching me, waiting for an explanation about Phantom. I thought carefully about how much to reveal. "Trust me on this. We wait two weeks. Something better's coming."
In my original timeline, Elevation Records had launched their East Coast division in exactly fifteen days. They'd go on to define the next decade of hip-hop. Rico nodded slowly, years of street wisdom telling him to trust my certainty.
"Two weeks," he agreed. "But this track... we dropping this soon?"
I looked at the clock—3:47 AM. In a few hours, the sun would rise on a day that had already happened once before. But this time, the future was changing with every beat, every rhyme, every choice.
"First," I said, "we perfect it. Then we change the world."
Santos was already adding subtle elements to the mix, his natural talent merging with my future knowledge to create something entirely new. Rico resumed his pacing, making more calls despite the hour. And I sat before the MPC2000, my fingers moving across its pads like a fortune teller reading ancient bones, translating tomorrow's music into today's prophecy.
The night stretched ahead, full of possibility and paradox. Somewhere in the city, dawn was approaching—the same sun rising on a gradually diverging timeline. Every beat we laid down was another butterfly, another ripple in time's stream. The weight of that knowledge should have been crushing, but instead, it felt like freedom.
The music flowed through the monitors, bridging decades, merging timelines, creating something that was neither past nor future but eternally present. This was what I'd come back for—not just success, but the chance to make the music I'd always heard in my dreams.
Santos looked up from the board, his eyes shining with the light of revelation. "One more time from the top?"
I nodded, letting the beats flow through me like memories of tomorrow. The night was young, and time, for once, was on our side.