Chapter 71: Live Wire
The red light pulsed like a heartbeat, and Funk Master Flex's voice rolled through the studio with practiced gravity: "We got something special today, New York. Crown Heights' own Jasmine Torres, the voice behind that track that's been burning up your phones..."
I watched through the control room glass as Jasmine settled into the guest mic, her posture a perfect blend of street confidence and artistic poise. In my previous timeline, she'd never made it to this moment. But now, watching her adjust her headphones with subtle precision, I could see the star she was about to become.
"So tell us," Flex continued, "how'd this track come together?"
Jasmine's eyes found mine through the glass, and I nodded slightly. We'd rehearsed this – or rather, I'd lived through enough interviews to know exactly which story would resonate.
"It was organic," she said, her voice carrying that perfect mix of humility and authority. "I was doing my thing in the battles, you know? But Marcus – my producer – he heard something different. Heard the melody beneath the bars."
*Between the beats and battles*
*Buried deep in Brooklyn nights*
*Found a voice that rattles*
*Heaven with its raw delight*
The impromptu lyrics flowed from her naturally, and I saw Flex's eyebrows rise. This wasn't the standard radio interview anymore – this was performance as conversation, art as autobiography. In my first life, I'd learned that the biggest moments often came disguised as casual opportunities.
"You want to bless us with something live?" Flex asked, right on cue.
Rico tensed beside me – we hadn't planned for a freestyle. But I stayed calm, knowing what was coming. In the original timeline, I'd spent years studying how organic moments could become viral before "viral" was even a concept.
Jasmine closed her eyes as Flex's DJ dropped a beat – one of his signatures, a rhythm that had launched a hundred careers. But instead of the expected battle bars, she began to sing, her voice weaving between the beats like smoke through a fence:
*Crown Heights raised me proper*
*Taught me how to bend the light*
*Every dream's a copper*
*Penny tossed in midnight's spite*
*But now we're rising higher*
*Than the projects ever planned*
*Brooklyn's holy fire*
*Burning bright across this land*
The studio fell silent except for the beat and her voice. Even the phones stopped blinking. I caught a glimpse of one of the interns frantically pressing record, knowing they were witnessing something special.
Through the glass, I could see the future rearranging itself around her performance. In my original timeline, it had taken years for artists to successfully blend battle rap intensity with melodic vulnerability. But here we were, rewriting the rules in real time.
"That's not written," Flex said when she finished, his voice carrying the rare tone of genuine surprise. "That's straight from the soul."
"Everything's written," Jasmine replied, with a wisdom I recognized from my future memories, "we just don't always know it until the moment comes."
Rico shot me a look – he hadn't expected this level of performance either. But I just smiled, remembering how many times I'd seen raw talent transform into polished brilliance when given the right moment and the right guidance.
The phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree, but I was already reaching for my cell. In about thirty seconds, it would ring with a call from a certain label executive – one who, in my original timeline, had become known for spotting the exact moment when underground artists were ready to explode.
"We're going to need to take some calls," Flex was saying, his finger hovering over the switchboard. "New York wants to talk to you, Jasmine."
Through the glass, I watched her straighten in her chair, ready to embrace the moment. The timeline was shifting, accelerating, paths that had taken years to traverse in my first life now unfolding in minutes.
My phone buzzed right on schedule. The caller ID showed a number I shouldn't have known yet, but one that would change everything. I stepped out of the control room to answer it, leaving Rico to watch in amazement as Jasmine handled caller after caller with the grace of a veteran.
"Marcus Johnson," the voice on the phone said – a voice that, in another life, wouldn't know my name for years to come. "We need to talk about the future."
I smiled, watching the sunrise paint Manhattan in shades of possibility. "The future," I said, "is already here. We're just helping everyone else catch up."
Through the studio glass, I could see Jasmine rising into her destiny, while Rico frantically typed notes on his Blackberry, trying to keep up with the momentum we'd built. The timeline wasn't just changing anymore – it was dancing to our rhythm, following a beat I'd spent twenty years learning to perfect.
This time, we'd play it just right. This time, history would have to sing along.
new book out
Title: Second Chance: Rise from the Dead
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