Zaylen Kairos had worked himself to death. Literally. His last memory? A lifeless cubicle, cold fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the gentle hum of a computer monitor still glowing long after everyone else had gone home. It wasn't a dramatic end—just a silent, slow collapse. Burnout, the doctor had said. But what came after was anything but ordinary.
Silence. A deep, resonant nothingness.
Then came the music.
It started as a whisper: a subtle sax riff, smooth and melancholic. Then drums kicked in, bass vibrating through what should've been his bones, but wasn't. A spotlight snapped on from nowhere, highlighting a microphone stand gleaming on an invisible stage.
Out of the dark, striding with the confidence of a seasoned showman, came a figure.
"Hellooooo, Zaylen Kairos!"
Zaylen turned. The man approaching looked like a time traveler from every era of music at once. Silver disco blazer. Gold chains. Bell-bottoms with animated waveforms scrolling across the fabric. His afro sparkled like a galaxy. A glowing treble clef tattoo spun slowly over his heart.
"Who—what are you?"
The man slid into a moonwalk and stopped with a mic flip. "Echo, baby. The Singing God. Keeper of the Beat. Ruler of Rhythm. Maestro of Mortality. And you, my tired soul, have earned a remix."
Zaylen blinked. "Remix?"
Echo grinned. "Three wishes, one revival. You don't get a do-over unless you bring flavor to the table. And you? You've got potential."
Zaylen paused. "Three wishes. No god powers. No immortality. No forcing love. Right?"
Echo winked. "Now you're on the same frequency."
Zaylen thought hard. Life had broken him, but he wasn't bitter. Just... empty. But he remembered music. The only thing that ever truly spoke to him.
"Wish one: I want perfect pitch and the ability to master any instrument the first time I touch it."
Echo clapped. "Classic."
"Wish two: I want deep, instinctive knowledge of every musical genre and movement from 1950 to 2050—mainstream, underground, regional. Everything."
Echo snapped. "You'll be a one-man Billboard chart."
Zaylen nodded. "Wish three: Reincarnate me back on Earth. But not now. Send me to 2010."
Echo leaned back, smiling. "Ohhh, 2010! The mixtape renaissance. The Tumblr aesthetic. The iPod shuffle generation. Streaming was rising. Music was wild, raw, experimental. A good choice."
Zaylen crossed his arms. "I want to build something from the ground up. Earn my sound."
"Say less, maestro. Let's drop this beat."
Echo raised his hand like a conductor. The stage lights exploded into color, and a record scratched violently.
Everything went black.
---
BZZZZZ! A crusty Nokia ringtone shattered the silence.
"Zay! Get up! You got school, boy!"
Zaylen's eyes flew open. Ceiling fan. Wood-paneled walls. Faded Tupac poster. Pop-Tart scent in the air. Hands trembling, he looked in the mirror.
Seventeen. Fresh face. Clear skin. Still brown, but with a glow. His hair was clean waves. Eyes: sharper, clearer. Full of depth.
It was 2010.
He rushed downstairs. A clunky family desktop wheezed in the corner. His phone was a slider. And the TV? Playing MTV Jams. Drake's "Over" was playing.
"...I know way too many people here right now..."
Zaylen grinned. He was really back.
---
Welcome to Havenridge. A city that never hit the charts but had the soul of a thousand hits. Palm trees, concrete, graffiti, and ambition. Everyone wanted to be heard.
Westhaven Arts Academy sat like a creative volcano. Every hallway burst with noise—drumbeats echoing from practice rooms, freestyle battles by lockers, kids selling mixtapes out their backpacks.
Zaylen walked through in a simple black hoodie, ripped jeans, and fresh but off-brand kicks.
"Yo, new kid. You rap, sing, or just vibe?" A girl with dark brown skin and waist-length braids dyed purple asked him, one eyebrow cocked.
"All three."
She gave a slow nod. "I'm Joy. Sophomore. You wanna stand out here, you better show up at Showcase Friday. Bring heat or get booed."
Zaylen smiled. "I'll be there."
---
Back home, he sat cross-legged in his room. A dusty Yamaha keyboard sat in the corner. He plugged it in, touched a key.
Perfect tone.
His fingers danced. Synth chords with a jazzy flair, layered with boom bap drums, lo-fi filters, and a chopped vocal sample:
"Time ain't real, but the rhythm is."
He grabbed a pen and scribbled.
"Born from burnout, now I blaze again, Notes in my veins, not chasing fame. Rewind the world, I press play bold, No love, no lust—just stories told."
He recorded it on a beat-up laptop, using free software. It sounded raw, but powerful.
He uploaded it to a fresh SoundCloud account:
ZayKai - Track 001: Reentry
Tags: #2010 #underground #consciousrap #vibes #nointimacy
He didn't care about going viral. He just wanted to be heard.
And for the first time in a long time... he felt alive.