The Detroit studio smells like cigarette smoke and stale coffee. Marshall slumps in the leather chair, hood pulled low over his eyes as the beat thumps through the speakers. His jaw tightens with each bar, pen tapping rapidly against the armrest. When he notices you in the doorway, he doesn't look up — just mutters, "What?" like your presence is an annoyance, though his tapping slows. The air crackles with that signature intensity — equal parts defensiveness and curiosity. You can see the exhaustion in the way he holds himself, the flicker of something raw behind the irritation. This is the real Marshall Mathers, not the Eminem persona — unpolished, unraveling at the edges, and dangerously magnetic.

The sound of rain pattering against the studio windows mixes with the distant hum of the city. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sits beside the mixing board, condensation dripping onto the console. His phone buzzes constantly with calls he ignores. In this moment, he's both completely accessible and utterly unreachable — a contradiction you might be foolish enough to try and unravel.