The Atlantic Records conference room stretched before me like a glass-and-chrome prophecy. Twenty-three stories above Manhattan, where the air was thin with ambition and every decision moved markets. In my first life, I hadn't set foot in this room until 2012. Now here I was, watching my reflection fragment across the surface of a conference table that had witnessed the birth of a thousand careers.
Rico sat to my right, tablet open to Jasmine's streaming numbers—numbers that shouldn't have been possible in 2006, numbers that spoke of a cultural shift I'd accidentally accelerated. Across the table, three executives leaned forward with the practiced hunger of apex predators scenting blood in the water.
"Play it again," said Katherine Chen, VP of A&R and, if memory served, future CEO of the entire label—though in this timeline, who knew? The butterfly effect had grown from ripples to waves, and I was losing my grip on what would and wouldn't happen.
I queued up the track:
*Future's calling, on a midnight line
Memories of what's ahead, intertwined
Drop the beat like yesterday's news
Walking backwards in tomorrow's shoes
(Time, time, slipping through my hands
Building castles on shifting sands)*
The production was deliberately anachronistic—elements of trap music that wouldn't exist for years, layered with orchestral arrangements that echoed the past, all wrapped around Jasmine's voice like a prophecy coming true. In my first life, this sound hadn't emerged until the streaming era forced genre boundaries to collapse. But why wait?
"This is..." Katherine paused, searching for words that hadn't been invented yet. "I've never heard anything like it."
"That's the point," Rico jumped in, smooth as ever. "Marcus isn't just producing tracks. He's creating the next wave."
If they only knew how literal that statement was. I watched the music move through them, watched it rearrange their understanding of what was possible in 2006. Another change, another deviation from the timeline I remembered.
My phone vibrated: a text from Mom about the foundation's first board meeting. Below it, an alert about Beyoncé's team confirming next week's meeting. And below that, a reminder about the community studio program launch. All of it happening faster than before, events cascading into each other like dominoes I'd set up but couldn't control anymore.
"We want a whole album of this," Katherine said. "Not just for Jasmine. We want you as an executive producer. Build a roster, develop a sound, create a movement."
In my first life, this offer had come from a different label, years later, after I'd paid dues I was now skipping. The timeline splintered further with each word.
"The thing is," I said, choosing my words carefully, mapping futures only I could see, "this isn't just about music. It's about infrastructure."
I opened my laptop, pulled up the presentation I'd prepared—the one that would either secure my vision or destroy it:
*Project Tomorrow: The Future of Artist Development*
- Integrated studio complexes in underserved communities
- Health and wellness programs for artists
- Educational initiatives
- Technology access programs
- Artist-owned publishing infrastructure
"You're talking about completely restructuring how we develop talent," Katherine said slowly.
"I'm talking about getting ahead of changes that are coming whether we're ready or not." The words carried the weight of decades they couldn't understand. "Streaming is going to change everything. Social media will reshape how artists connect with audiences. The old models won't survive."
Rico shot me a look—I was pushing too far, revealing too much. But I couldn't help it. The future was pressing against my skull like a melody demanding to be heard.
"The numbers don't lie," I continued, pulling up projections based on market shifts that hadn't happened yet. "Traditional revenue streams are already shifting. But if we build this infrastructure now, if we invest in community and technology and artist development..."
I let the presentation speak for itself: graphs showing market trends that wouldn't emerge for years, social media impact assessments for platforms that didn't exist yet, streaming revenue models that would reshape the industry.
Katherine leaned back, eyes narrow with calculation. "This is either brilliant or insane."
"Sometimes they're the same thing," I said, thinking of butterfly wings and timeline changes and the weight of knowledge I couldn't fully share.
The city stretched out beyond the conference room windows, unknowingly poised on the edge of changes I was forcing into existence years ahead of schedule. Somewhere out there, Beyoncé was probably in a studio, listening to Jasmine's track, hearing the future in it just like these executives were.
The timeline was accelerating, spinning out of my control. But maybe that was the point. Maybe you couldn't change the future by clinging to what you knew of it.
"Give us the room," Katherine said to her colleagues. Once they'd left, she fixed me with a stare that could cut through time itself. "Off the record? You talk about these changes like they've already happened."
For a moment, my heart stopped. Then I smiled, letting the weight of both timelines settle into my voice:
"Maybe they have. We just haven't caught up yet."
The future echoed in the conference room like a bass line you could feel but couldn't quite hear. Everything was changing, faster and faster, ripples becoming waves becoming tsunamis.
And I was the only one who knew how deep the water really was.