With his physical and mental health restored, Alex felt a creative clarity that was as bracing as the coastal air he'd left behind. The runaway success of Billie's "Video Games" had become the new guiding principle for Echo Chamber Records: nurture the artist, trust their interpretation, and the music will find its truth. He now understood that his role wasn't to be a micromanager with a perfect answer key, but to be a gatekeeper to an extraordinary library, and then a collaborator who helped each artist find their own unique way to tell the story. Now, it was time to tell his own next chapter.
The return to his home studio was tentative at first. The space was still charged with the phantom energy of his burnout—the memories of sleepless nights, the frantic, data-driven production sessions. He had to consciously reclaim it, to make it a place of creation again, not a place of manic production. He spent an entire afternoon just reorganizing cables and dusting his monitors, a mundane, grounding activity.
He spent the next few days in the quiet hum of the studio, combing through the Codex, but with a different intention. He wasn't searching for the biggest commercial hit or the most epic power ballad. He was searching for a feeling. A song that would encapsulate the quiet strength he now felt, a track that would signal a shift in his own narrative from heartbreaking balladeer to something more self-assured.
He scrolled past grand, emotionally taxing anthems that felt like they belonged to the person he used to be. He paused over files for songs by Hozier, The 1975, even Frank Ocean, but none felt right. They were beautiful, but they were someone else's mood. Then, nestled between massive pop productions, he found it. It was a file from an artist named Justin Bieber—an artist who, in this timeline, was known for a few generic teen-pop songs years ago before fading into obscurity. The track was titled "Love Yourself."
Listening to the simple demo from the Codex, Alex felt an immediate click. It was musically spare but lyrically potent—a song whose power lay in what it didn't do. It didn't scream or rage. It was a quiet takedown, a self-respecting severance of ties. After his own public spectacle of breaking down, this calm, confident assertion of boundaries felt like the perfect statement.
The production became an exercise in that same minimalist perfection. He started with the guitar. He spent hours getting the tone just right—a clean, crisp, slightly hollow sound from his Telecaster, recorded so dry and immediate that it felt like it was being played in the same room as the listener. He layered his own vocals to create a rhythmic, breathy percussion, a human element that made the track feel less produced and more confessed. He resisted the urge to add bass or a heavy drum track, letting the empty space in the arrangement create its own kind of tension.
The masterstroke, a detail he pulled from the original's production notes in the Codex, was the trumpet. He hired a local session player, a veteran jazz musician, and gave him simple instructions: "Play it like you're lonely, but you're not sad about it. Play it like you're closing a door for the last time." The result was a mournful, elegant trumpet line that elevated the song from a simple pop diss track into something more sophisticated and timeless.
He sang the biting lyrics not with anger, but with a cool, almost detached sense of resolution. When he sang the line, "My mama don't like you and she likes everyone," a small, genuine smile touched his lips. It was savage, but it was also true to the feeling of finality. He sent the finished mix to Olivia, who was now in the full whirlwind of pre-production for her new acting role, a blur of script readings and wardrobe fittings.
Alex: My official comeback single. Ready for the world to hear it?
Her reply came back within minutes, a welcome burst of light in his focused studio bubble.
Liv: OMG. It's SAVAGE. I love it. "My mama don't like you and she likes everyone" is the single most iconic line ever written. I'm obsessed. It's so different for you, but so… perfect right now. I can practically hear you shrugging. Let the world have it.
Echo Chamber's social accounts, dormant since the tour cancellation announcement, came to life with a simple, coordinated post across all platforms. A stark, black-and-white photo of Alex looking directly at the camera, calm and centered. The caption: "Alex Vance is back. 'Love Yourself.' Out Friday at midnight." The internet ignited.
In a small apartment in Chicago, 28-year-old Ben was staring at a spreadsheet, the fluorescent office lights bleaching all the color from his world. The numbers on the screen swam together into a meaningless gray field. He was on his third cup of vending-machine coffee, and it was only 10 a.m. His ex-girlfriend, Sarah, had emailed him that morning—a cheerful, breezy note about how she'd just gotten engaged to the guy she'd started dating a month after she left him. She'd ended it with "I'm so, so happy for me!" A typo, surely, but it felt brutally honest.
He'd spent the last six months replaying their final argument, picking apart his own words, his own actions, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he'd failed her. He was an archeologist of his own inadequacy. He put on his cheap headphones to drown out his colleagues' chatter about weekend plans and saw the notification. Alex Vance had released a new song.
Ben had followed Alex's career with a kind of protective reverence. The kid's epic ballads about love and heartbreak had been a strange comfort, making his own mundane sorrow feel cinematic. He braced himself for another beautiful gut-punch. He hit play.
The sharp, clean guitar riff cut through his mental fog like a switchblade. Then Alex's voice, cool and impossibly close to the mic, began.
"For all the times that you rained on my parade… And all the clubs you get in using my name…"
Ben sat up straighter in his chair. This wasn't a ballad. This was… a reckoning.
"You think you broke my heart, oh girl for goodness sake… You think I'm cryin' on my own, well I ain't."
He listened, captivated, as the story unfolded. He thought of all the times he'd let Sarah belittle his job, his friends, his quiet hobbies. He thought of her "suggestions" that were really demands, her tears that were really manipulations. He'd apologized so many times he wasn't even sure what he was sorry for anymore.
And then came the chorus, a quiet thunderclap of self-worth that rattled the flimsy walls of his cubicle.
"'Cause if you like the way you look that much… Oh baby, you should go and love yourself… And if you think that I'm still holdin' on to somethin'… You should go and love yourself."
When the lonely trumpet solo entered, so sad and elegant, something inside Ben clicked into place. The sadness he'd been marinating in wasn't about losing Sarah. It was about losing himself while trying to keep her. Alex's voice wasn't whiny or vengeful; it was liberated. It gave him permission to finally feel the same way.
He opened up Sarah's engagement announcement email. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. For a moment, he thought about a bitter reply, a catalogue of his own grievances. Then he listened to Alex's calm voice one more time and deleted the draft. He wrote five simple words.
"I am really happy for you."
He hit send and then, without hesitation, moved the entire email thread with her into the trash. He looked back at his spreadsheet. The numbers were still just numbers, but somehow, he could see them clearly now. He turned up the volume on the song, a small, defiant smile playing on his lips.
The public reaction mirrored Ben's on a massive scale. "Love Yourself" was an instant, culture-shifting hit. It debuted at number one, praised for its lyrical genius and mature, stylistic pivot. Alex Vance wasn't just back; he was smarter, sharper, and more interesting than ever.
With his own comeback secured, Alex turned his attention to the label's future. His A&R passion reignited, he descended back into SoundCloud's emerging emo-rap scene. He bypassed the more polished artists and searched for the raw, melodic voice that had stuck with him—"JuiceTheKidd."
The artist had uploaded a new track. "All Girls Are The Same." The title alone was a red flag and a cry for help. The beat was hypnotic, a sad, looping melody over a heavy trap drum, but it was the voice that arrested Alex. A melodic, almost beautiful croon that dripped with genuine, unvarnished pain. He sang about heartbreak, addiction, and paranoia with a startling honesty. The kid wasn't just performing angst; he was drowning in it.
Alex's hand instinctively went to query the Codex. He already knew the tragic story from Timeline A, but he needed the full data set, the stark context. Search: Artist "JuiceTheKidd." Full Biographical Profile and Timeline A Analysis.
The interface lit up, his renewed mental clarity allowing full access.
[Artist Confirmed: Jarad Anthony Higgins. Known as Juice WRLD in Timeline A.]
[Timeline A Key Tracks: "Lucid Dreams," "All Girls Are The Same," "Robbery."]
[Biographical Notes: Documented history of severe anxiety and depression from a young age. Early and frequent use of narcotics as self-medication. Died of accidental overdose in Timeline A, December 8, 2019, age 21.]
Alex stared at the last line until the words blurred. December 8, 2019. In this timeline, that was only a few years away. This wasn't just about signing a future superstar. This was about a young man on a timer, a man whose immense gift was inextricably tied to his pain. He thought about the responsibility. Signing him wasn't a business decision; it was a moral one. He had to build a structure around Jarad—one that prioritized his health above chart positions. Therapists, sober coaches, a safe and structured environment. It would be the most complex and most important challenge Echo Chamber had ever faced.
He closed his eyes, the haunting melody of "All Girls Are The same" echoing in his ears. Before he could share that incredible song with the world, he had to try to save its creator. He bookmarked the page and, after much thought, sent a simple, carefully worded message.
To: JuiceTheKidd
From: Alex Vance
Subject: Your music
Hey. My name's Alex Vance. I run a label called Echo Chamber Records. I've been listening to your tracks for a while now, and I think you're one of the most honest and talented artists I've ever heard. The melodies you write, the things you say—it's real. Your potential is limitless. I'd like to talk to you about what you want for your future, not just in music, but in life. If you're open to it, let's connect. No pressure, no business talk, just a conversation.
He hit send, his heart heavy. This wasn't a contract offer. It was an attempt at an intervention. It was a promise.