Chapter 1: Rooftop Confessions Over Whiskey
The air on the rooftop tasted of electricity and distant rain. Mike Jones leaned against the cool glass barrier, his fingers tracing the phantom memory of a sequined glove. Below him, Los Angeles was a nervous system of light, holographic adverts for neural interfaces and Korean pop bands bleeding cyan and magenta across towers of black glass. A billboard the size of a mountain flickered, its surface dissolving into a shimmering, familiar silhouette. The fedora, the spin, the snap. A logo for a “King of Pop Immersive Experience” flashed beneath it.
His stomach clenched.
“You just tap it. Or, you know, hover it. The chip does the rest.”
Mike turned. Rami Malek stood beside him, holding two glasses of amber liquid. He offered one, a patient, kind smile on his face. He’d found Mike glaring at the payment kiosk ten minutes ago, a look of genuine bafflement on his face as the machine chirped, “Please present your method.”
“The chip,” Mike repeated, his voice softer than he intended. He took the glass. “Right.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Rami asked, not unkindly. He nodded toward the city. “Or this era, maybe. That’s a vintage jacket.”
Mike looked down at the red leather blazer. It felt like armor. “It’s comfortable.”
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the strange tapestry of sound. The synthwave pulse from hidden speakers, the melodic sigh of a real violin from the quartet in the corner, the ever-present hum of aerial drones delivering snacks. A young woman nearby laughed, a crystal chime of a sound, and held her wrist up to her friend’s. Their smart-bands flashed in unison, transferring data, or money, or secrets.
“It’s a lot,” Rami said, following his gaze. “I miss landlines sometimes. The weight of the receiver. The cord you could twist.”
The observation was so unexpectedly profound it caught Mike off guard. He looked at Rami properly. The actor had a stillness about him, an observant quiet. He wasn’t performing. He was just there.
“Yes,” Mike said, the word carrying the weight of entire dead technologies. Rotary phones. Boomboxes. The satisfying clunk of a tape being slotted into a deck. “The cord. You could… you could feel it.”
A waitress glided by, a tablet in her hand. “Another, gentlemen? Just scan your wrist.”
Rami extended his hand with practiced ease. A soft beep. “All set.”
Mike instinctively reached for his back pocket, a habit from a body that died seventeen years ago. His wallet was there, a prop, filled with the new paper money that felt like plastic and an ID card for a man who didn’t exist. “I… I have cash.”
Rami’s smile turned warmer, amused. “Mike, nobody has used cash here since the pandemic. It’s okay. This one’s on me. Consider it a welcome to the future.”
The kindness was a physical pressure behind Mike’s eyes. He looked away, back at the pulsating city. Welcome to the future. He’d spent a lifetime singing about it. Now he was drowning in it. A soft, melodic strain from the string quartet cut through the low thrum. It was familiar. A descending line of notes, aching and sweet. They were playing “Human Nature.”
His hand tightened on the glass. The violins swelled, and for a second, he was nowhere near this rooftop. He was in a studio, listening to the demo, feeling the spark, the surety that this was magic. He could smell the old recording booth, the dust on the mixing board.
“You alright?” Rami’s voice was close.
Mike realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them. The city shimmered, blurred. “That song.”
“Oh, the quartet? They’re good. It’s a classic. Michael Jackson.” Rami took a sip. “My parents played Thriller until the vinyl warped. That music… it’s in the DNA of the world now. Doesn’t matter how many holograms or brain-feeds they invent. That stuff sticks.”
It’s in the DNA. Mike swallowed. His throat was tight. “Do you think… do you think he’d like it now? All this?”
Rami considered it, leaning on the rail. He watched a silent, pod-like car streak along a magnetic ribbon above the streets. “I think he’d be fascinated. And maybe a little horrified. The lack of privacy. The noise. But the music… he’d find a way. The need for it hasn’t changed. People still need to feel something.” He glanced at Mike. “You’re a musician, right? Your hands.”
Mike looked down at his own hands. Long fingers, now unadorned. He’d bitten the nails down to the quick in this new life, a nervous habit he’d never had before. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s in the way you hold a glass. Like it’s a microphone. And the way you just listened to that song. You didn’t just hear it. You dissected it.”
A gust of wind carried the scent of ozone and street food from thirty stories below. The holographic MJ on the distant billboard did his iconic crotch-grab and freeze. Mike flinched.
“It’s a lot of legacy,” Rami said softly, misreading the flinch entirely. “To feel that pressure. To make art now, after all that. I feel it sometimes, in a different way. Winning an award… it doesn’t make the next blank page any less terrifying.”
Mike almost laughed. The understatement of the century. The terror wasn’t of a blank page. It was of a page that was already filled, in his own handwriting, in a language everyone thought was extinct. He had decades of music, of choreography, of ideas, locked in a skull that was legally a stranger’s. A vault he couldn’t open without screams of “thief” or “lunatic” echoing back at him.
“Terrifying,” Mike echoed, his voice barely a whisper.
Rami was quiet for a long moment. The song had changed to something contemporary, beat-driven and cold. “Come to my studio tomorrow,” he said finally, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m producing a small thing. A short film. The sound is… off. I need someone with an ear. Not a tech ear. A human one.”
Mike turned to him. “Why?”
“Because you’re the first person I’ve met at one of these things who isn’t trying to sell me something, or get a part, or take a picture for their feed. You were just… lost. In a song.” Rami shrugged. “And I trust lost people. They’re usually looking for the right thing.”
The simplicity of the offer was a lifeline thrown into a choppy, digital sea. Mike didn’t know what to say. Thank you felt insufficient. A confession was impossible.
From the sound system, the DJ mixed in a track. It was a relentless, algorithmically-designed hit, all synthetic drops and processed vocals. But underneath the slick production, the beat was undeniable. A four-on-the-floor kick. A syncopated hi-hat. His feet, almost of their own volition, gave a tiny, shifting tap against the concrete. A pivot. A ghost of a step.
Rami saw it. He didn’t comment. He just finished his drink.
“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “I’ll send you the address. And don’t worry about the payment kiosk. I’ll get your coat.”
Mike watched him walk away, a calm figure moving through the shimmering, anxious crowd. He looked back at the city, at his own ghost dancing a thousand feet tall. The miracle felt like a knife. The second chance felt like a sentence. But for the first time since he’d opened his eyes in this young, unfamiliar body, in this screaming, fast-forward world, he had an appointment.
He let his head drop, a faint, private smile touching his lips. The rhythm from the speakers fed into his bones. His shoulders gave a minute, rolling shrug. Just to feel it.
It was still there.