Mike stepped back from the closet mirror, the reality of his new existence slowly sinking into his teenage bones.
He walked over to the desk and picked up his phone—an older, clunky model.
The date glowing on the small screen confirmed it.
It was 2014.
He set the phone down and ran his fingers over the cheap, silver casing of the USB microphone sitting next to his laptop.
As soon as he touched it, a rush of vivid memories flooded his mind, bridging the gap between Mike the fan and Jarad the teenager.
He remembered the hustle.
For weeks, he had saved every spare dollar of his lunch money just to buy this exact microphone.
Yesterday, he had finally plugged it in, his heart racing with the anticipation of recording his very first track.
But the universe had other plans.
The front door had unlocked hours earlier than expected.
His mother, Carmella, had come home early.
Carmella was a devout, strict Catholic woman who ran a tight, conservative household.
In her home, the rules were absolute.
Gospel and classical music were acceptable, but rap—with its heavy bass, profanity, and worldly messages—was strictly forbidden.
When she had walked past his room yesterday and seen the microphone, she hadn’t yelled, but her disappointment had been palpable.
The unspoken pressure of her religious expectations had forced him to shut down the laptop, stash the mic, and go to bed in quiet frustration.
But as Mike stood there in the morning light, that frustration vanished, replaced by a surging, electric confidence.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he did, he felt it.
It wasn’t just the physical body he had inherited; it was the raw, God-given talent.
He could hear melodies forming effortlessly in his head.
Rhymes and flows linked together in his mind at lightning speed, a natural freestyling ability that felt like a superpower.
And paired with that innate talent was an absolute goldmine: the future.
Mike had an entire decade of rap history locked in his brain.
He knew the melodic trap wave that was about to take over the world.
He knew the rise of SoundCloud, the impact of artists like XXXTentacion and Post Malone, and most importantly, he remembered every single hit, both released and unreleased, that Juice WRLD would ever make.
From “Lucid Dreams” to “Wishing Well,” to future rap styles that wouldn’t even exist until 2024—he held an unimaginable arsenal of chart-topping music in his head.
But with great power came a heavy responsibility.
Mike sat on the edge of his bed, his expression hardening as he thought about the dark path that lay ahead if he wasn’t careful.
If he was going to rewrite history, he had to cut the dead weight immediately.
The local high school friends who were already experimenting with pills and weed, the older kids who would eventually introduce him to lean—they all had to go.
He would drop every unnecessary friendship that didn’t align with his future.
He wasn’t going to be a victim of his environment.
There would be no compromises, no peer pressure, and absolutely no drugs.
He was going to build a fortress around his mental and physical health.
Yet, as he looked toward his closed bedroom door, he knew his biggest immediate hurdle wasn’t the music industry or the drug culture.
It was the woman downstairs.
In the original timeline, Jarad had rebelled silently.
He had hidden his music, sneaking around to record in secret, which only created a wedge between him and his mother.
Mike wasn’t going to make that mistake.
He knew how much Carmella loved him, and he knew the agony she would suffer in 2019 if he failed.
He didn’t want to fight her; he wanted her in his corner.
Making a firm decision, Mike stood up.
He wasn’t going to hide the microphone today.
He was going to walk downstairs, sit across from his mother, and have a real, mature conversation about his undeniable calling to make music.
It was time to show her that hip-hop didn’t have to be a sin—it could be his salvation.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Mike turned the doorknob and stepped out into the hallway.