Platinum Sound Studios crouched between a Dominican bodega and a check-cashing place like a diamond embedded in concrete. Dawn had barely begun its argument with the city's darkness when I arrived, carrying equipment that cost less than what I knew the studio charged per hour. The security guard—a mountain of a man whose gold tooth caught the fluorescent light—gave me the kind of dismissive glance I remembered from my first life, the one reserved for teenage dreamers who wouldn't last a month in the industry.
If he only knew I'd celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday in this same building, toasting with Grammy winners who'd started exactly where I stood now.
Rico materialized from the stairwell, designer boots clicking against tile worn smooth by two decades of musical pilgrimage. "Marcus," he said, my name rolling off his tongue like he was testing its commercial potential. "You're early."
"Time is money," I replied, the phrase carrying a weight Rico couldn't yet appreciate. "Especially studio time."
Something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe, or recognition of a kindred spirit. He led me through the lobby toward Studio C, past signed platinum records that formed a timeline of hip-hop history. Some weren't there yet in my memories; others would never make it to these walls in this new iteration.
The studio's control room hummed with familiar energy, though the equipment seemed amusingly dated to my future-trained eyes. The SSL console—a workhorse I'd eventually own three of—dominated the space. Behind the glass, a young artist was running through vocal warmups, his oversized jersey bearing a record label logo that would fold in 2008. Unless, of course, I decided to change that particular detail of history.
"Your track record's local battles and a bedroom studio," Rico said, settling into the producer's chair. "Convince me that means something."
In my first life, I'd launched into a desperate monologue about my passion for music. This time, I simply began setting up my equipment with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd logged thousands of studio hours. "Actions convince better than words," I said, connecting my 505 to the console. "Let me show you."
The beat I'd prepared last night filled the room—carefully crafted to sound contemporary for 2004 while incorporating subtle production techniques that wouldn't become standard for years. Rico's fingers began tapping against his armrest, unconsciously finding the pocket of the groove.
"That's... different," he said, leaning forward. "That swing on the hi-hats, the way you're sidechaining the—" He paused, studying me. "Where'd you learn to mix like that?"
I shrugged, channeling my teenage self's bravado while measuring every word. "You hear enough music, you start understanding how it works underneath. Like taking apart an engine to see what makes it run."
The artist in the booth—Jerome was his name, though his career would peak with a single mixtape unless I intervened—had stopped his warmups. He stood pressed against the glass, nodding his head to my beat with the intensity of someone hearing their future.
Rico's phone buzzed—a flip phone that made my fingers itch for the smartphones still years away. "Got three artists coming through today," he said after checking the message. "Background tracks for Jerome, maybe some original production if you've got something radio-ready." He pinned me with a stare that had intimidated me the first time around. "You mess this up, you're back to battle circuits. You deliver..."
He left the sentence hanging, but I remembered its conclusion: my first real production credit, the beginning of a partnership that would reshape both our destinies. I began pulling up another beat, one that would sound just innovative enough without raising suspicions.
"Watch what happens when I layer this sample," I said, fingers dancing across familiar pads. The control room filled with sound—past and future colliding in carefully measured doses. Jerome's eyes widened behind the glass, and Rico's phone disappeared into his pocket, forgotten.
Outside, the Bronx morning painted the studio windows in shades of possibility. Somewhere in the city, Mom was starting her shift, unaware that her son was about to take the first step on a very different path than before. And in the space between memory and destiny, I allowed myself a small smile.
The revolution would be subtle, but it would be profound. One beat at a time, one session at a time, I would build something better than mere success. This time, I had the wisdom to do it right.
"Again," Rico said, reaching for the talkback button. "Jerome, get ready. We're about to make something special."
If he only knew how special. If any of them knew what was coming.
But that was the point of a second chance, wasn't it? The beauty lay not in the destination, but in the careful orchestration of every step along the way.