The sun had begun its descent behind the Manhattan skyline when we finally emerged from Atlantic's fortress of glass and ambition. Rico clutched the preliminary contract like it was his firstborn, while I carried the weight of the future more heavily than the leather briefcase they'd gifted me – a premature token of our impending partnership.
"Three albums," Rico kept repeating as we walked toward the town car waiting at the curb. "Minimum guarantee of two million per album. Publishing. Marketing commitments. Marcus, do you understand what just happened up there?"
I understood more than he could know. In my previous life, my first deal had been for $50,000 and a prayer, signed in desperation during the streaming revolution's early days. Now, I'd leveraged my future knowledge to secure the kind of contract that made headlines – the kind that could change not just careers, but generations.
The car's interior was butter-soft leather and new money dreams. As we pulled away from the curb, I retrieved my Motorola RAZR – a deliberate choice to stay period-appropriate – and dialed Ma.
"Baby?" Her voice carried that mixture of hope and worry that only mothers can perfect. "How did it go?"
"Ma," I said, letting the word hang there like a note in search of its chord. "You can quit your job."
The silence on the other end had texture, had weight. I could picture her in the hospital's administrative office, clutching the phone, her free hand pressed against her heart like she did in moments of overwhelming emotion.
"Marcus Antonio Johnson," she finally managed, her voice thick with tears and memories of lean years, "what did you do?"
"What you always said I would, Ma. I changed our story."
Rico was already on his phone, calling the celebration into existence – studio time, champagne, the right people at the right club. But my mind was threading through time's tapestry, calculating ripples and implications. The demo we'd played today contained production techniques that wouldn't exist for years. The sound would spread, influence others, accelerate the timeline. And somewhere out there, Beyoncé was preparing for her own pivotal year, unaware that our destinies were already in motion, realigning like stars finding their true constellation.
My new song played in my head:
*Time is a currency
We spend without knowing the cost
Each moment a legacy
Of what's gained and lost
(But destiny's ledger always balances in the end)*
The town car glided through the gathering dusk of the city, its tinted windows reflecting the neon promises of 2006. Rico was saying something about meetings with producers, about building the right team, but I was already there – in the future-past, watching how each decision would ripple outward like sound waves in the studio's midnight air.
"We need to talk about the rollout," Rico said, finally breaking through my temporal reverie. "Melissa mentioned Jimmy Fallon's show. Said she could fast-track us for next month."
I shook my head, remembering the lesson of my other life. "We wait. Build mystique. Let the demo circulate in the right hands first." I pulled out my notebook – the one where I charted the intersection of my two timelines – and added another entry. "Trust me on this. Sometimes the power move is patience."
Rico studied me with that look he'd been giving more frequently lately, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that kept changing its picture. "You're different lately, Marcus. It's like... like you've done all this before."
I smiled, watching the city lights paint gold streams across the car's interior. "Maybe I have, Rico. Maybe I have."
The car turned toward Brooklyn, toward home, toward Ma and the life we'd dreamed of during those long nights when music was our only wealth. In my pocket, the contract's weight pressed against my leg like a secret, while in my mind, two decades of experience fought with seventeen years of youth for control of tomorrow.
But tomorrow, I knew, was already written in the grooves of a record that hadn't yet been pressed, in the dreams of a boy who'd already lived it once, in the destiny that bent like light through the prism of second chances. The night spread before us like a mixing board, each moment a fader waiting to be adjusted to its perfect level.
Rico's phone buzzed again – another call from another power player already hearing the industry whispers. But I was listening to a different frequency, to the sound of time itself being remixed, to the symphony of fate being remastered one precious moment at a time.