The glow of their Grammy dominance hadn't faded, but for Alex Vance, it was already part of the past. While the world toasted Echo Chamber as the sound of the present, Alex's mind was scanning the horizon. Victory wasn't a place to rest—it was a vantage point.
Khalid was mapping out his first headlining tour for American Teen, pinning dates to cities with the precision of a cartographer. Harry was camped out in Alex's studio most nights, sketching out sonic landscapes that hinted at glitter, chaos, and swagger—full glam-rock rebellion. Billie had vanished into a cave of creation with Finneas, obsessing over details like the hiss of static in a pre-chorus or the metaphorical weight of a spider in a verse. Juice WRLD was quietly writing again, stabilizing like a star finding its orbital rhythm.
The empire was thriving. But Alex felt a gap. Not in success—in texture.
He had the voice of heartbreak, the king of cool, the manic visionary, the soulful dreamer, the raw survivor. But he lacked the one who could tell stories, not just sing songs. The artist whose lyrics unfurled like novellas, whose words clung to the listener like underlined sentences in a favorite book.
In the silence of his studio, Alex reached into the deepest, most fragile part of Timeline A—the realm of memory, instinct, and unfinished business. A name surfaced: Alec Benjamin.
He remembered Alec as a whisper in a crowded room. Not stadium anthems or chart battles—but bedroom poetry and soft lamplight. Fans who memorized lyrics like scripture. Songs that didn't beg for attention—they earned it, slowly and intimately.
He pulled up the Codex.
Query: Locate Alec Benjamin. Analyze current musical activity, online growth patterns, and label affiliation.
The answer came swiftly: Unsigned. Recently dropped by a major label. Current trajectory: self-promoted "Parking Lot" performances outside concerts. Current platform: YouTube. Current impact: quietly rising.
Alex spent the next four hours in digital devotion. No distractions. Just a boy and his guitar, standing outside a Shawn Mendes concert, singing "The Water Fountain" to a line of strangers who forgot they were strangers by the second verse. In another, "Let Me Down Slowly" echoed through a parking lot, a heartbreak not shouted but gently surrendered. There were no theatrics. Just storytelling—delicate, devastating, unforgettable.
Alex didn't hesitate.
He sent an email. Not as the head of a Grammy-dominating label, but as a songwriter who had just fallen in love with another songwriter's mind.
Subject: Your Stories
Alec,
My name is Alex Vance. I just spent two hours watching your Parking Lot videos. You are one of the most brilliant and unique lyricists I've ever heard. I don't want to talk business. I just want to talk about storytelling. Let me buy you a coffee.
They met in a small, quiet café in Burbank—anonymity by design. No publicists. No cameras. Just two people who understood words.
Alec arrived with the energy of someone who still wasn't sure the world had room for his kind of voice. His smile was nervous, but his eyes were sharp. "So," he said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "you're the guy who wrote the heartbreak song I cried to last week."
Alex laughed. "You're the guy who made me cry in a parking lot."
They clicked immediately.
Alec spoke like he wrote—precise, observant, often lost in tangents that doubled back to brilliance. He talked about his songs like they were short films, each with an internal world, a color palette, and a secret message hidden in the bridge.
Alex didn't pitch Echo Chamber. He offered sanctuary. "I don't want to change a single lyric," he said. "I just want to build you a stage wide enough for people to hear what you're already saying. You deserve more than parking lots."
Alec said yes. Immediately.
The contract was signed quietly, privately, with no fanfare. Alec didn't want billboards—he wanted time. Alex gave it to him.
But Alex's mind never stayed still.
As he finalized Alec's onboarding, another name flickered into memory. The future wasn't just going to be poetic—it was going to be visual, viral, fast. The next generation of artists would live in 15-second loops. They would dance as much as they sang. They would be Tate McRae.
He opened the Codex again.
Query: Locate Tate McRae. Analyze trajectory, artistic inclination, social reach, musical content.
The data painted a picture of a prodigy in waiting. Fourteen. Canadian. Competitive dancer. A YouTube channel bursting with choreography that looked more like emotional theater than movement. Buried between routines were tiny, vulnerable musical uploads—short piano clips, sometimes just a verse or chorus. The voice wasn't polished. But it was magnetic.
Alex didn't reach out. Not yet.
He saw the spark—but it wasn't a flame. She was a dancer who happened to sing. Not a singer yet. But she would be. He was sure of it.
Instead, he programmed the Codex:
Directive: Monitor Tate McRae. Track musical output, public music mentions, and social media momentum. Alert if music surpasses dance in engagement or focus.
It was like planting a seed in winter, already picturing the blossom in spring.
That night, Alex lay on the couch in his Echo Chamber penthouse, scrolling through his phone. He watched a video of Tate dancing to an unreleased Lorde track, her movement so precise it felt like punctuation. He let the video loop three times. Then he locked his phone, placed it on the table, and stared out at the skyline.
Behind him, the empire pulsed—Grammys, world tours, critical acclaim. But in front of him were Alec's stories and Tate's future. Poetry and pop. Reflection and velocity.
He smiled, soft and certain.
The present was his.
The future was forming.
And it would speak in verses.