The Hot97 studio gleamed before me like a temple of brass and glass, unchanged from my memories yet somehow more magnificent in this second viewing. I checked my reflection in the lobby windows – seventeen again, yet my eyes held the weight of music yet unwritten. The security guard gave me the same nod he would give me thousands of times over the next twenty years, though he didn't know that yet. Time is funny that way.
Rico paced beside me, his white Air Force Ones squeaking against the polished floor. "You sure about this track, Marcus? It's not like anything out there. Funk Flex said it sounds like—"
"Like it's from another planet?" I finished his sentence, suppressing a smile. In my first life, Flex had said those exact words in 2019. Now, hearing them in 2004, they carried a different weight.
The morning show's producer, Ebony Williams, burst through the lobby doors like a summer storm. Her braids were shorter than I remembered – would remember? – but her energy was unchanged. "Y'all ready to make history?"
*History*, I thought. *Or future?*
The control room hummed with the same electronic pulse I remembered from countless interviews across two decades. Behind the glass, the morning show host adjusted his headphones – younger now, but with that same hungry look all New York DJs wore like armor.
"Dropping this at 7:45," Ebony announced, handling my demo CD like it was made of crystal. "Prime time. You must know somebody, kid."
I knew everybody. Would know everybody. The paradox made my temples throb.
The track loaded into their system, waveforms painting the monitor in familiar patterns. The intro began to play through the studio monitors:
*Dawn breaks different when you've seen it before
Every sunrise a remix of what came before
Time ain't linear when the beat drops right
Yesterday's dreams in tomorrow's light*
The bassline that followed – a fusion of 2008's trap movement and 2015's electronic evolution – filled the room like smoke. I watched their faces carefully, searching for signs of rejection, of the music being too far ahead of its time. Instead, I saw what I'd hoped for: recognition of something they didn't know they'd been waiting to hear.
"This ain't street music," Rico whispered, but his foot was tapping. "This ain't club music either. This is..."
"The future," Ebony finished, her eyes closed as the bridge hit. She didn't know how right she was.
Through the glass, I watched the on-air light flare to life, red as destiny. The host's voice rolled through the speakers: "World premiere. Exclusive. This kid Marcus Johnson about to change the game. Remember where you were when you heard this."
I remembered. Would remember. Was remembering right now.
The track poured into New York's morning commute, rippling through car stereos and bodega speakers, seeding the future with echoes of what was to come. In my pocket, my ancient flip phone began to vibrate – numbers I recognized from my past but hadn't earned yet in this timeline.
Rico grabbed my shoulder, his grip tight with excitement. "Labels calling already? Who did you give this to?"
I hadn't given it to anyone. Didn't need to. I knew exactly who would be listening at 7:45 on this particular morning, which cars would be stuck at which red lights, which studios would have their monitors turned to Hot97. Knowledge of the future was my greatest advantage, but also my heaviest burden.
"Sometimes," I said, watching the track's waveforms dance across the screen like prophecy, "you just know when the moment's right."
Outside, New York was waking up to a sound it wasn't supposed to hear for another decade. Inside, I stood in the control room caught between two timelines, watching the future I remembered dissolve into something new, something dangerous, something beautiful.
The revolution doesn't always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it slips in through the back door of a radio station at 7:45 on a Thursday morning, wearing borrowed time like a borrowed suit, carrying tomorrow's dreams in today's hands.