After Hours

The walk home was electric with possibility. Streets I'd known for fifty years looked different tonight, glowing with future potential. My phone buzzed – a text from Rico: "Studio tomorrow. 2PM. Bring three beats."

Three beats. In my original timeline, I'd stayed up all night producing them, running purely on instinct and Red Bull. This time, I knew exactly what would work: one commercial enough for radio, one experimental enough to prove range, and one that would plant the seeds for the sound that would define the next decade.

The apartment was dark when I got home – Mom deep into her night shift. I set up my equipment, methodically connecting cables that would become obsolete in five years. The MPC's blue glow filled my bedroom as I pulled up the first beat.

Commercial track first. R&B with just enough hip-hop edge to cross genres. I layered in elements that would become industry standard by 2007, but subtle enough to feel innovative rather than impossible. The kind of beat that would make A&R executives see dollar signs.

The experimental track came next. This one was trickier – showcasing complexity without revealing too much future technology. I built it around a sample that wouldn't be discovered by mainstream producers until 2009, weaving in polyrhythms that would influence a whole generation of musicians. I added subtle touches of what would become trap music's signature sounds, but stripped down to their embryonic form. Just enough to plant the seed of what was coming.

As I worked on the final track, the city lights outside my window began to fade, giving way to pre-dawn gray. This beat would be my wildcard – the one that would make Rico's industry contacts lean forward in their chairs, sensing something revolutionary but not quite able to name it. I infused it with traces of sounds that wouldn't exist for years – neural-processed harmonics simplified for 2002 technology, quantum-inspired arrangements stripped down to their essence.

My fingers moved across the pads with practiced precision, each tap carrying the weight of future knowledge. I thought about the neural interface studios we'd build, the quantum harmonics that would revolutionize production, the AI-assisted mixing that would become industry standard. But for now, it was just me and this primitive machine, threading the needle between innovation and believability.

The sun was rising by the time I finished the third beat. I ran them all through one final check, testing them on different systems – computer speakers, headphones, even my old boom box. Each beat walked a different tightrope: commercial appeal versus artistic integrity, current technology versus future innovation, familiar patterns versus revolutionary concepts.

My phone lit up again. Another text from Rico: "Label guys confirmed. Sony's sending someone."

I smiled, remembering how this meeting originally played out. In my first timeline, I'd been nervous, unprepared, too eager to prove myself. This time, I knew exactly what they were looking for – even if they didn't know it yet. I knew which executive would be there, what his concerns would be, what would make him take a chance on a kid from the Bronx.

I saved the beats to my DAT tape, labeled it carefully, then started packing away the equipment. In a few hours, I'd have to drag myself to school, pretend to care about calculus and European history. But for now, I let myself feel the weight of this moment.

This was where it all began – again. The first step toward building an empire that would reshape the music industry. But this time, I wouldn't be stumbling through the dark, learning from my mistakes. This time, I had a map of every pitfall, every opportunity, every revolution waiting to happen.

I laid down on my bed, still fully dressed, and watched the sunrise paint my bedroom ceiling gold. In my head, I could hear the future – the neural-enhanced concerts, the quantum-processed albums, the AI-collaborative performances that would define the 2030s. But here, in 2002, it was just me and three carefully crafted beats that would open the door to everything.

Tomorrow, Marcus Johnson would take his first real step toward building an empire. But first, I had two hours to catch some sleep before pretending to care about high school calculus.

The future could wait. For now.