The Hit Factory's Studio A stretched before me like a cathedral of sound, its wood panels and vintage gear glowing under warm lights. Kanye West sat at the grand piano, picking out a melody that wouldn't exist for another three years in my original timeline. The cognitive dissonance made my temples throb—I'd studied this very progression in 2008, and now here I was, watching its creation unfold in reverse.
"The sample's too obvious," I said, leaning against the Solid State console. "What if we built it from scratch instead? Something that feels familiar but isn't quite..."
Kanye's fingers paused over the keys. "Like that thing you did on B's track? Man, when I heard those frequencies..." He shook his head, the admiration in his voice still strange to my ears. In my first life, our paths hadn't crossed until much later. "It's like you're pulling sounds from the future or something."
If he only knew. I walked to the piano, played the progression he'd been working on, then shifted it into something that split the difference between what was and what would be. The notes hung in the air like prophecy:
*They say time is river flowing
But I've seen tomorrow's shore
Every dream I plant keeps growing
Into something more, something more*
"There," I said, letting the final chord resonate. "Build the beat around that. Keep it minimal, let the space tell the story."
Kanye was already reaching for his MPC, eyes alight with creation. But Rico, watching from the control room, wore that look again—the one that said he was putting pieces together faster than I'd like.
"You two need anything?" Rico asked through the talkback. "Got that meeting with Jay's people in an hour."
The meeting. My stomach tightened. In both timelines, this day shaped everything that followed, but for entirely different reasons. Last time, I'd blown the opportunity, too focused on technical perfection to see the bigger picture. This time...
"Actually," I said, "let's move that meeting here. I want them to hear this."
Kanye nodded approvingly, already deep in his production zone. The beats he was laying down were pure 2005, but the undertones I'd suggested whispered of innovations yet to come. Each one a careful calculation, each sound a bridge between eras.
An hour later, Jay-Z himself walked in with his team, filling the studio with the kind of gravity that bends time itself. His eyes found mine first—sharper than any camera had ever captured, seeing straight through pretense.
"So," he said, settling into the leather couch, "you're the kid everyone's talking about. The one who's changing the game."
I forced myself to hold his gaze, remembering how this moment had paralyzed me in the original timeline. "Just trying to push things forward."
"Play him the new joint," Kanye interrupted, eager as always to share creation in progress. But I raised a hand.
"Actually, I had something else in mind." I reached for my laptop, pulled up a project I'd been building in secret. In my previous life, this concept hadn't emerged until 2012. But now, with streaming on the horizon and social media about to explode... "Before we play anything, I want to talk about distribution. About artist ownership. About where the industry's really headed."
Jay leaned forward slightly—the smallest tell, but I remembered it from conferences years in my future. I had his attention.
"Streaming's coming," I said, opening the presentation I'd prepared. "Social media's going to change everything. The old model—labels, physical sales, traditional radio—it's all going to flip. Artists who own their masters, who control their digital destiny..." I met his eyes again. "They're going to rule the next decade."
Rico shot me a warning look—this wasn't what we'd planned to pitch. But I kept going, laying out a future I'd already lived through: direct-to-fan platforms, streaming economics, social media leverage. With each point, I watched Jay's expression shift from skepticism to intrigue to that rare thing: genuine surprise.
"You sound awful sure about all this," he said finally.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Kanye stop his beat-making to listen. Rico had gone completely still. The future hung in the balance of my next words.
"Because I am sure," I said. "Sure enough to bet my whole career on it. Sure enough to partner with artists who see it too." I paused, then played my final card. "Sure enough to structure a deal that looks crazy by today's standards but will make history in five years."
Jay smiled then—that same smile I'd seen in 2015 when he'd launched Tidal. But this was 2005, and I was offering him the future on a silver platter, wrapped in beats that bridged the gap between now and then.
"Aight," he said. "Let's hear this track."
I turned to the console, fingers dancing across the faders, bringing to life a sound that wove together what was, what would be, and what might never have been without this moment. The bass hit first—pure 2005 energy—but layered with frequencies that wouldn't be mainstream for years. Then the progression I'd shown Kanye, transformed into something that could exist only in this altered timeline.
As the track played, I watched their faces in the control room glass, their reflections overlaid with glimpses of the future I remembered and the one I was creating. For better or worse, the timeline was splitting again, branching into something new and unknown.
But this time, I was ready. This time, I would make sure the revolution in music wasn't just about sound, but about liberation. About ownership. About shifting power back to the artists before the digital tide came in.
The track ended, leaving prophecy hanging in the air like incense. Jay nodded once—the same nod that had launched empires in another timeline.
"Tell me more about this deal," he said.
And so I began to reshape the future again, one beat at a time.