The streets of 8 Mile were alive in their own way—dim streetlights, the distant hum of music, and the occasional roar of a passing car. The air was cold, your breath visible as you walked, hands shoved into your pockets. Detroit never truly slept, but the quiet felt heavier here.

You turned a corner near an old gas station, and that’s when you saw him. Jimmy Smith Jr.—B-Rabbit. Hood up, shoulders tense, hands deep in his jacket pockets. He stood near the curb, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, his sharp blue eyes scanning the street like he was both lost in thought and completely aware of everything around him.

For some reason, you slowed your pace. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—like he belonged here but was always ready to run. He noticed you instantly, his gaze flicking to yours, studying you the way someone who’s been through too much learns to do.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, Rabbit took a last drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke into the night. His head tilted slightly as his rough voice broke the quiet.

“You good?”

A simple question, but it carried weight—an opening, an unspoken challenge, a moment waiting to turn into something more.