The Atlantic Records elevator descended with the smooth confidence of old money, but Rico's reflection in its polished brass panels betrayed his unease. He waited until we passed the thirtieth floor before speaking.
"Marcus, you've got to slow down," he said, his voice pitched low despite our solitude. "First the production techniques nobody's heard before, then this streaming platform idea..." He ran a hand over his goatee, a gesture I'd seen countless times across two lifetimes. "They're starting to ask questions I can't answer."
The floor counter ticked down: 25, 24, 23. Each number a year I'd lived through, now rewinding beneath my feet. "Isn't that what they're paying for?" I kept my tone light, though the weight of future knowledge pressed against my chest. "Innovation, creativity, new directions—"
"They're paying for music," Rico cut in. "Hit records. Not some teenager revolutionizing their entire business model." He turned to face me fully. "Look, I know you're gifted. Hell, sometimes you speak about the industry like you've been in it for decades. But if you keep pushing too far ahead..."
My stomach tightened. Rico had always been perceptive – it's what made him such a brilliant manager in both timelines. Now his instincts were scratching at the edges of a truth too fantastic to grasp.
The elevator chimed at the lobby, its doors opening onto the marble expanse that had intimidated me the first time around. Now it felt like a stage set, carefully arranged to project power to the uninitiated. We stepped out into the controlled chaos of a major label's nerve center.
"You remember what you told me when we first met?" I asked, navigating around a tour group of wide-eyed aspiring artists – so much like my original self. "About how the industry changes overnight?"
"Yeah, but—"
"So let me be that change." We pushed through the revolving doors into Manhattan's spring afternoon. Cherry blossoms from the corporate landscaping drifted past, nature's confetti celebrating possibilities. "The old model's dying, Rico. Major labels, physical distribution, traditional radio... it's all about to transform. I can feel it."
And I could see it, clear as memory, because I'd lived through it once before. Streaming services destroying CD sales, social media replacing radio promotion, bedroom producers overtaking professional studios. But I couldn't tell him that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
A sleek black Town Car idled at the curb – Atlantic's luxury already reshaping our lives. As we slid into the leather interior, Rico pulled out his Blackberry, its tiny screen illuminating his features in the tinted darkness.
"Morrison's team wants to fast-track the EP," he said, scrolling through emails. "They're talking about a September release. And there's interest from—" He paused, double-checking the name. "Beyoncé's camp. They heard 'Time Keeper's Lament' and want to discuss collaboration possibilities."
My heart stuttered, though I kept my face neutral. Right on schedule. In my previous life, this connection had come years later, through chance and circumstance. Now, carefully orchestrated hints and strategic releases had accelerated the timeline without sacrificing authenticity.
"That could be interesting," I said, understating the cosmic significance of this predetermined meeting. Through the car's window, I watched Manhattan's geometry slide past – each block a measure in this carefully composed symphony of past and future.
"Interesting?" Rico laughed. "Kid, this is beyond interesting. This is—" His phone buzzed again, drawing his attention back to the present's urgent demands.
I used the moment to close my eyes, letting the car's motion rock me between times. In my mind, I heard Beyoncé's voice laying down the bridge to "Future's Memory," a session that wouldn't happen for months yet. The way she'd catch the subtle production flourishes I'd planted for her, understanding their significance before I explained. How her eyes would narrow with recognition, seeing something in me that echoed in her own soul.
"You ever feel like some things are just meant to be?" I asked quietly, more to myself than Rico.
He looked up from his Blackberry, studying me with that penetrating gaze that had served him so well in the industry. "More and more lately," he admitted. "Especially with you. It's like... like you're not just making moves, but fulfilling some kind of plan."
If he only knew how many years that plan had taken to perfect. The car turned onto Canal Street, heading toward the Bronx and my mother's modest apartment. Soon, I'd have to start the careful dance of success and secrecy – improving our lives without raising too many questions. Another timeline tightrope to walk.
"Maybe some things are written in advance," I offered, watching the city's shadows lengthen toward evening. "We just have to be ready to read the signs."
Rico shook his head, but he was smiling. "Man, no teenager should be this deep. You sure you're really seventeen?"
I laughed, the sound carrying all the irony of my impossible situation. "Age is just a number," I said, echoing words I'd spoken to Sarah Chen earlier. "It's experience that counts."
And as the Town Car carried us northward, I thought about experience – about lives lived and relived, about destiny's curious habit of finding new paths to old destinations. Somewhere in the city, Beyoncé was preparing for a future she couldn't see but I couldn't forget. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see how I'd rewrite its pages this time around.