Fresh off the whirlwind of the boAt commercial shoot in New York—a sleek, high-budget affair that left him feeling more like a brand ambassador than an artist—Alex retreated to the one place that still felt honest: his LA studio. He needed something real again. Something with weight, soul, and purpose. Something that didn't end with a tagline.
The call came less than a week later.
It wasn't from a fashion label, or an awards committee, or a glossy magazine. It was a Burbank area code. One his father had once told him: If this number ever calls, you answer it.
"Alex Vance," said a voice on the line, brisk and professional. "This is Sarah Finn's office, casting director for Marvel Studios. Kevin Feige and Ryan Coogler would like to meet with you this week regarding the soundtrack for their upcoming film, Black Panther."
Alex sat up straighter.
This wasn't about charts or trends. This was the work. The kind of work that mattered.
He already knew what Black Panther meant. Not just from his own sense of art and history, but from his encyclopedic knowledge of Timeline A—where the film had been a phenomenon, a cultural earthquake. He remembered the Kendrick-curated soundtrack from that world. He remembered how it felt. Powerful. Electric. Important.
Walking into the Marvel compound days later, he felt calm, clear-headed. He was greeted at a secured entrance, led through a maze of sound stages and production offices, and finally into a glass-walled conference room lined with breathtaking concept art: the golden hues of Wakandan cityscapes, sleek panther armor, ancestral planes glowing with purple light. It was surreal.
Ryan Coogler leaned forward, eyes intense but warm. "We're not making just another comic book movie," he said. "This is about legacy, identity, tradition versus change. What it means to inherit a crown—and what it costs to wear it."
Feige nodded beside him. "The end-credits song has to carry the weight of all that. It needs to feel ancient and futuristic at the same time. African in its soul, but global in its power. We considered Kendrick, but after your Oscar… we knew we had to talk to you first."
Alex nodded slowly, already hearing fragments in his head. Not just a beat or melody—but a story. Not just a track that sounded African, but one that wrestled with the film's emotional truths. The conflict between love and legacy. The grief beneath power. The ancestors behind every step forward.
"I understand," Alex said quietly. "A sound that's regal but haunted. Beautiful, but never simple. A song that remembers."
He paused, then added, "I have an idea. It's ambitious. Give me one week."
What followed was seven days of creative obsession. Alex didn't write from scratch—he reconstructed from memory, drawing from the Codex like a sacred text. The beat came first: heavy, pulsing, filled with low-end gravity. Then the synths—majestic but fractured, like neon light filtering through stained glass. A melody followed, floating and ascendant, yet grounded in aching chords.
The final instrumental shimmered with drama and soul. When he sent it to Marvel, the response was instant.
An hour later, Coogler called him personally, breathless. "Alex, this is it. This is Wakanda. It's royalty. It's pain. It's pride. Who do you hear on it?"
Feige added: "We can go big. Rihanna. Beyoncé. Anyone."
Alex didn't hesitate. He already knew the play. Not the obvious one—the right one.
"I hear two voices," he said. "It's a dialogue. Fire and soul. For the verses, we need raw melodic heat—my new signing, Juice WRLD. And for the chorus, the spirit—Gracie Abrams. They're young. But they're exactly what this needs."
There was a pause. Alex could hear the doubt even over the phone.
Feige finally spoke. "They're kids, Alex. This is a billion-dollar film. You're betting the soundtrack on two artists no one outside the indie scene knows."
"It's a bigger risk to be predictable," Alex countered. "This pairing will mean something. It will make people lean in, not tune out. Give me one more week. I'll cut the demo. If it doesn't blow you away, I'll call Beyoncé myself."
Challenge accepted.
He flew both Jarad and Gracie to LA that night. The sessions were intense. Intimate. Collaborative.
Gracie arrived first—shy, focused, carrying a dog-eared notebook filled with lyrical fragments. Alex coached her through the swelling chorus, having her layer take after take until her whispery tone became a celestial choir. Her voice shimmered—fragile and infinite at once.
Jarad came next, brimming with anxious energy, pacing the studio like he was preparing for battle. Alex didn't hand him lyrics. He handed him a concept: "You're the king who never expected the crown. You don't trust the throne. You've seen what power does. Rap that."
Jarad delivered. His verses were fire—melodic, vulnerable, urgent. A perfect contrast to Gracie's ethereal calm. When they recorded their ad-libs together, something intangible clicked. They didn't just sound good—they sounded historic.
Alex stayed up for two days straight, mixing. No shortcuts. No second-guessing. When it was done, he sent the demo with no subject line. Just the track.
The next morning, Coogler replied.
You were right. The kids are incredible. It's perfect. Let's make it happen.