Night had draped itself across the Bronx by the time we finished the last session. Three artists, six tracks, and countless moments of carefully orchestrated "inspiration" that would ripple through the next two decades. The studio's fluorescent lights cast everything in that particular shade of amber that always reminded me of late nights in my first life—nights that now existed only in my memory, like photographs of an alternate future.
"One more playback," Rico said, though we'd already run through the final mix four times. He wasn't listening for technical flaws anymore; he was trying to understand what made these tracks different. I watched him from the corner of my eye, remembering how this same expression would cross his face years from now, when we'd revolutionize digital distribution models.
The last track was the most daring—a piece I'd constructed from production techniques that wouldn't become standard until 2019, stripped down and disguised as experimental innovation. The young rapper we'd paired it with, Kendra James, had nearly cried when she heard the finished product.
*"Vision clear as diamonds, cutting through the haze
Future's in my rearview, still leading the way
They ain't ready for this sound, this style, this grace
But time got plans that history can't erase..."*
"You know what this reminds me of?" Rico mused, his fingers conducting an invisible orchestra. "That underground scene in London that's just starting up. But it's not quite that either." He turned to me, eyes sharp with curiosity. "Where do you get your inspiration?"
In my first life, I'd discovered that London sound three years too late, missed the wave of fusion it sparked. "I listen to everything," I said, the truth hiding in plain sight. "Sometimes you can hear where music's going by paying attention to where it's been."
Rico's phone buzzed—Andrews again, following up on Monday's meeting. "He never checks back same-day," Rico muttered, thumbing through the message. "What exactly did you do in that first track?"
I adjusted a level that didn't need adjusting, buying time to frame my response. "Just tried to make something timeless," I said, the word heavy with private irony. "Music that sounds like memory and possibility at the same time."
Through the studio's window, the city sparkled with familiar promise. Somewhere out there, Mom was probably reheating dinner, worrying despite my earlier text updates. In my first timeline, I'd missed dinner entirely this night, too caught up in desperate networking. This time, I'd brought her lunch at the hospital between sessions, watched her eyes light up as I described the day's progress.
"Three more artists want to book time next week," Rico said, scrolling through messages. "Word's traveling fast." He looked up, that keen business glint in his eye. "We should talk about making this official. Proper contract, percentage points, publishing—"
"Fifty-fifty creative partnership," I said, the words falling into place like destined rhymes. "Plus three points on the back end for anything we develop together, shared publishing, and right of first refusal on any side projects."
Rico's eyebrows rose. In my first life, he'd offered me ten percent and no publishing, a deal that had taken years to renegotiate. "That's... specific."
"I believe in being clear about value," I said, forcing my voice to carry just a hint of youthful nervousness. "We both know what we heard today was different. Special. And this is just the beginning."
The console's meters danced in the silence that followed, measuring the weight of future possibilities. Finally, Rico laughed—that rich, genuine laugh that I'd only heard after our first platinum record in the original timeline.
"Fifty-fifty," he agreed, extending his hand. "Draw up the paperwork tomorrow. But right now..." He reached for his coat. "Let's celebrate. I know a spot in Manhattan where industry people—"
"Tomorrow," I interrupted gently. "Family dinner tonight. Non-negotiable." Another change, another subtle correction to history's course. In my first life, those missed dinners had accumulated into a weight of regret that no success could lift.
Rico paused, then nodded with unexpected respect. "Family first. I feel that." He gathered his things, then turned back at the door. "But tomorrow, we start building an empire."
If he only knew. I smiled, saving the day's sessions to formats that would be obsolete in five years. "Tomorrow," I agreed, thinking of the notebooks filled with two decades of industry knowledge waiting in my bedroom.
The studio fell quiet except for the soft hum of equipment cooling down. I ran my fingers across the SSL's faders one last time, feeling the convergence of past and future beneath my touch. In my pocket, Mom's text vibrated: "Proud of you, baby. Food's warm whenever you're ready."
I gathered my 505 and headed out into the New York night, past the platinum records that lined the halls like chronicles of a future in revision. A future that, this time around, would unfold with the precision of a perfectly constructed track.
Time, like music, was all about patterns. And I had twenty years of patterns to draw from.