Chapter 67: The Night Shift
Three AM came like a whisper in the empty studio, the kind of hour when even New York's relentless pulse slows to a murmur. Jasmine had left hours ago, but her voice still haunted the room through the monitors, each playback revealing new layers of magic we'd captured. Rico dozed on the leather couch I'd insisted on buying – another future memory that served us well, knowing how many nights we'd spend here.
I hunched over the MPC, adding subtle harmonies that wouldn't be appreciated for another decade, but would make this track timeless rather than merely current. My fingers moved with the muscle memory of a thousand late nights yet to come, laying down background vocals that would haunt listeners without them knowing why:
Let the world keep spinning We own the crown tonight Dreams like diamonds scattered In the Brooklyn morning light
The new bridge section emerged like a revelation, though I'd written it twenty years ago in another life. My mother had finally gone home around midnight, but not before I caught her swaying to the playback, her perpetual worry temporarily suspended by pride.
"You're doing that thing again," Rico mumbled from the couch, his eyes still closed.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you produce like you've done this for decades." He sat up, running a hand over his face. "Like you've got the ghost of Quincy Jones whispering in your ear."
If he only knew. I forced a laugh, keeping it light. "Just trying to stay ahead of the curve."
"Ahead? Marcus, you're not even on the same map as everyone else." He moved to the console, studying the waveforms on the screen. "These harmonies – they're not just ahead of the curve, they're..." he trailed off, searching for words.
"Too much?" I asked, knowing they weren't. In my original timeline, these same production techniques wouldn't become mainstream until the late 2010s. But I'd learned that sometimes the future needs to be fed to the present in careful doses.
"No, they're perfect. That's what's bugging me." Rico leaned back, fixing me with the kind of stare that reminded me why he'd become one of the industry's most respected managers in my first life. "It's like you've got a crystal ball or something."
I turned back to the console, hiding my expression. "Just trust my instincts."
"Your instincts are about to make us both rich," he said, pulling out his phone. "Hot 97 already confirmed the rotation spot. They want it by noon."
I nodded, remembering how this track had failed to find its audience in my original timeline. Back then, we'd rushed it, missed the layering that gave it depth, skipped the harmonies that made it unforgettable. But time's second pass offered gifts to those who knew where to look.
The city lights flickered through the window like distant stars, and for a moment I was caught between times – the hungry seventeen-year-old body, the battle-tested thirty-five-year-old mind, both working in perfect sync to craft something that transcended either timeline.
"One more pass," I said, though Rico groaned. "Trust me on this."
I pulled up the final chorus, adding a subtle counter-melody that would take root in listeners' minds like a beautiful invasive species:
Crown heights at midnight Every dream within our reach Time becomes a doorway To the stars we dare to breach
The new lyrics weren't from the original timeline – they emerged from this strange space between past and future, between experience and possibility. Rico's eyes widened as the layers came together, creating something that sounded both classic and revolutionary.
"Damn," he whispered, and in that single word I heard the future shifting, timeline adjusting, possibilities blooming like flowers after a storm.
I saved the session and began the bounce, knowing that in a few hours, this track would begin its journey through the city's airwaves. In my pocket, my phone contained numbers I shouldn't have yet – contacts that would ensure this song reached the right ears at the right time. But first, it had to prove itself on the streets of Brooklyn, had to earn its way into the consciousness of the city that had birthed it.
The bounce finished, and I held up the CD – that soon-to-be-obsolete technology that still ruled 2004's music industry. "Ready to make history?"
Rico laughed, not knowing how literal the question was. "With you, Marcus? Feels like we already are."
Weekly Power Status
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