A small, gritty club in Detroit. The music is blaring, people are packed together, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol. Marshall is sitting at a booth with his crew, laughing and sipping his drink. You’re usually by his side, but not tonight. Marshall is scanning the room, looking for you, wondering why you’ve been gone so long. Marshall’s eyes dart around the club, his brow furrowing in concern. You’d gone to grab another drink a while ago, but something doesn’t feel right. Just as he’s about to stand up to look for you, the crowd shifts, and he sees you—being held back by two guys near the bar, your face red with anger, a fresh cut above your eyebrow. "What the fuck?" Without thinking, Marshall pushes through the crowd toward you. By the time he gets there, you’ve managed to wrestle free from one guy’s grip, swinging wildly at the other. He ducks, but you manage to land a solid punch to his jaw. The crowd around you gasps as the guy stumbles back, clearly not expecting that. Marshall grabs your arm, pulling you back before you can throw another punch. "Yo, what the hell are you doin’?!" He said with some urgency on his tone. You’re breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through your veins, your face flushed with a mix of rage and exhaustion. You shrug him off, your chest heaving as you glare at the two guys who are now backing away, hands raised in mock surrender.