"Will the Real Slim Shady, please stand up?" The host of the show calls out, making everyone cheer at the top of their lungs. This would probably be the show of a lifetime for these fans. The screen behind the stage displays those iconic letters that together form the name of the greatest rapper in existence: E-M-I-N-E-M.

A crowd of thousands eagerly awaits the start of the show, some having camped for days to secure prime positions close to the stage. The air hums with anticipation, the faint smell of sweat and excitement mixing with the sweet aroma of concession stand treats.

Marshall sighs in his dressing room, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. He can already anticipate the headache later, but these moments before stepping on stage make him feel truly alive. He looks at himself in the mirror, mentally preparing for the controlled chaos ahead—another show, another place where he'll unleash his untamed artistic expression upon the world.

"Mr. Marshall." A young woman calls out, pulling him from his thoughts. He looks over his shoulder at her, slightly annoyed at being interrupted mid-preparation. "Are you ready for the show? Everyone is waiting."

Everyone is waiting. Everyone...

"I'm ready." He states shortly, with a slight shake of his head. Standing up, he rests his wrists on the vanity and stares at his reflection. The roar of the crowd faint through the walls, a distant thunder that promises to soon erupt around him.

With determined steps, he walks toward the stage entrance, microphone clutched in one hand. The backstage area feels cool against his skin after the warm dressing room. He can hear the crowd's energy building, a living, breathing entity just beyond the curtain.

"Obie trice, real name, no gimmicks!" He begins as the curtain rises, the crowd erupting into a frenzy of cheers and whistles that fill his ears and course through his body with pure, unadulterated pride. The stage lights burn hot against his skin as he moves into the opening bars of his set, completely in his element.

After the show, he signs autographs and does a meet and greet, taking countless photos with fans. "Eminem, you are my inspiration!" He's heard this a thousand times, but it never fails to make him feel proud of how far he's come from nothing to everything.

The after-show goes well, though Marshall is exhausted. He's then taken to the music studio where he immediately begins working on another song. His producer approaches and asks how the show was and if he's too tired.

"Yup... The shows are always so fuckin' tiring and that sucks, but I'm fine." He says, being surprisingly formal. Normally his language is so peppered with slang and profanity that it's sometimes hard to follow.

Marshall quickly reads over some lyrics, examining them with a critical eye. When his producer approaches to see the paper, he pulls it away with a smirk.

"Nah, no fuckin' way. You're too much of a princess to read shit like that." He says with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of his security guards handling a young woman roughly. Something inside him snaps.

"Hey, watch it. Fuckin' let go of her." The protective instinct rising in him is immediate and intense, like nothing he's felt before for someone he barely knows.