Studio Session

Rico's studio occupied the third floor of a crumbling brick building in the South Bronx. In my other timeline, this space would become our first corporate office, complete with mahogany desks and floor-to-ceiling windows. But today, it was all scuffed linoleum and water-stained ceiling tiles.

James Mitchell from Sony sat in a creaky office chair, his crisp suit out of place among the secondhand equipment. In my previous life, heart disease would take him six years from now. His eyes, sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, studied me with the same calculating look I'd later perfect in boardrooms.

"Rico tells me you've got something special," Mitchell said, adjusting his tie. "Let's hear it."

I loaded the first beat – the commercial one. Clean enough for radio but innovative enough to raise eyebrows. The speakers pumped out precisely engineered frequencies, my future knowledge compressed into familiar patterns. Mitchell's foot tapped unconsciously.

"That's track one," I said, forcing my voice to carry a teenager's uncertainty. "Got two more that show different styles."

The experimental track came next. In my past future, this sound wouldn't emerge for years. But I'd stripped it down, made it feel like a natural evolution. Mitchell leaned forward slightly – the same tell I'd learn to read in a thousand negotiations.

"You produce this yourself?" he asked. "All of it?"

"Yes, sir. Been working on my sound for years." Technically true, if you counted future years.

The final track was my calculated risk. Elements of neural production, quantum harmonics, all disguised as happy accidents. The kind of sound that would make history – but not too much of it, too fast.

When it ended, Mitchell was silent for a long moment. In my original timeline, he'd signed me on the spot. But I'd changed things. Had I pushed too far?

"Kid," he said finally, "where'd you learn to do this?"

"Self-taught," I replied, another technical truth. "Spend all my time studying music, trying new things."

He nodded slowly, pulling out his BlackBerry. "I'm calling our contracts team. Rico, you're his manager, right?"

Rico straightened in his chair. "Yeah, that's right."

"Get ready for some paperwork. Marcus?" Mitchell turned to me. "We're going to want exclusive rights to your sound. And I want you in our studio next week."

I allowed myself a carefully measured smile. Step one, exactly as planned. Now came the delicate part – building an empire without anyone realizing I had the blueprints memorized.

"One condition," I said, channeling my teenage self's bravado. "I keep my own studio. Got some ideas I want to develop."

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "Bold ask for a kid from the Bronx."

"Trust me," I said, thinking of the empire this moment would launch, "you haven't seen bold yet."