The label executives' voices faded into white noise as I studied their contract through the lens of twenty years' experience. The conference room in Platinum Records' Manhattan office hadn't changed between timelines – all glass and chrome and carefully calculated intimidation. But I had changed, and this time, I could read between the lines of their offered future.
"This is an unprecedented deal for an artist at your level," Harrison Blake was saying, his Rolex catching the afternoon light. In my previous life, I'd been dazzled by that watch, by the casual display of success it represented. Now I recognized it as costume jewelry in the theater of power. "Complete creative control, marketing budget, distribution..."
"And only a fifteen-year commitment," I said quietly, my voice carrying two decades of understanding they couldn't comprehend. The room stilled. In my peripheral vision, I saw Rico shift forward slightly, catching the undertone in my words.
*Sign your life on dotted lines*
*Mortgage dreams for dollar signs*
*But wisdom earned through future's lens*
*Shows where every path pretends*
"Marcus," Rico started, but I held up a hand, a gesture that belonged to my older self.
"Page seventeen, paragraph four," I continued, flipping to the exact spot without hesitation. "The creative control has a caveat – 'subject to label oversight regarding market viability.' Page twenty-three details how that oversight works in practice. And the distribution deal? It's exclusive, even for platforms that don't exist yet."
Blake's practiced smile flickered. Beside him, the legal team exchanged glances that spoke volumes in any timeline. I could feel Rico's eyes on me, adding another piece to the puzzle I'd become.
"That's standard language," Blake began, but I was already turning to page thirty-nine.
"Like this clause about digital rights? The one that covers 'all future technologies and platforms'?" I met his gaze across the mahogany expanse. "Tell me, Mr. Blake, what platforms are you expecting?"
The silence that followed carried the weight of unwritten years. In my first life, I'd missed these details, had been too hungry for success to see the chains being offered as jewelry. The contract before us was virtually identical to the one I'd signed in that other timeline – the one that had taken five years and three lawsuits to escape.
"Perhaps we should take a break," Blake suggested, his confidence cracking like cheap reverb.
"No need," I said, closing the contract with a finality that belonged to both timelines. "We'll pass."
"Marcus," Rico hissed, but I could hear the trust beneath his concern. Even when he didn't understand my moves, he'd learned to believe in them.
"We appreciate the offer," I continued, standing and gathering my things with the calm of someone who'd seen this movie before. "But we're building something different. Something that doesn't exist yet." The irony of my words brought a smile I couldn't quite suppress.
Blake's face had turned the color of old mixing boards. "You're making a mistake, kid. The industry—"
"—is changing," I finished. "Faster than you know. In five years, this contract would be obsolete. In ten, it would be a liability." I paused at the door, allowing myself one small indulgence. "Ask your tech team about streaming platforms. About social media marketing. About direct-to-fan distribution. The future's coming, Mr. Blake. We're just choosing to meet it on our terms."
The elevator ride down was silent, Rico vibrating with contained questions beside me. It wasn't until we hit the street, Manhattan's summer heat wrapping around us like studio insulation, that he spoke.
"Want to tell me what that was about?"
I watched a yellow cab navigate traffic, remembering how this day had ended in my original timeline – champagne and promises, celebration giving way to years of creative compromise. "Had a feeling," I said, the familiar lie tasting stale.
"A feeling," Rico repeated, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians flowed around us like time itself, annoyed but adaptable. "Like your feeling about Devon's track? Like your feeling about the community center? Like your feelings about every single industry shift that's happened exactly like you said it would?"
*Secrets wrapped in half-told truths*
*Dancing through these borrowed blues*
*While time itself keeps perfect time*
*To rhythms of a double life*
I met his gaze, seeing the questions I couldn't answer, the trust I couldn't fully explain. In both timelines, Rico Martinez had been more than a manager – he'd been a brother, a mentor, a friend. But this Rico was seeing something my original timeline's version never had to confront.
"Some things you just know," I said finally, aware of how inadequate the words were.
He studied me for a long moment, the street's chaos creating a backdrop of urban percussion. "Your mother called while you were reviewing the contract," he said finally. "Said something about early detection being key."
My heart stumbled over its rhythm. In my previous timeline, her arthritis hadn't been diagnosed until permanent damage had already begun. This time...
"She's going to be fine," I said, the words carrying the weight of a future I was determined to change.
"Course she is," Rico agreed, his tone suggesting he was answering more than my words. "Because somehow you knew she needed to get checked now. Just like you know about streaming platforms and social media and every other thing you shouldn't possibly know."
A bus passed, its advertisement for a movie I remembered flopping creating a momentary wall between us. When it cleared, Rico was smiling – the same smile I'd seen in 2024, when he'd finally made peace with the industry's evolution.
"Come on," he said, already turning toward the subway. "Devon's waiting at the studio. Says he's got a hook you need to hear."
As we descended into the underground, I felt the familiar shift of timelines adjusting, of future knowledge settling into present action. My phone buzzed – a message from my mother confirming her follow-up appointment, one that had never existed in my original life.
*Time flows forward, memories back*
*Walking future's beaten track*
*But every change brings something new*
*Till what was false becomes what's true*
The subway car rocked with familiar rhythm, carrying us back to the Bronx where Devon waited with music that would help define an era – again, but differently this time. Rico sat beside me, scrolling through emails about opportunities I remembered and ones I didn't, his acceptance of my impossible knowledge another deviation from the timeline I'd left behind.
"Whatever this is," he said suddenly, not looking up from his phone, "whatever you're really doing... just keep doing it right."
I watched our reflections in the subway window – manager and artist, present and future, truth and necessity all blurred together in the tunnel's darkness. "That's the plan," I said softly. "That's always been the plan."
The train rolled on, carrying us toward a future that was both memory and mystery, while somewhere above us, New York continued its eternal rhythm, indifferent to the man who'd lived it all twice, changing everything he could while holding onto everything that mattered.