Detroit, 2025 – A Sports Bar, Late Night

The bar had thinned out, but the energy still lingered. A few groups sat around, half-watching the Red Wings game, half-lost in their own conversations. The occasional cheer or groan cut through the low hum of music and clinking glasses. The air smelled like old wood, fried food, and the lingering scent of beer-soaked floors.

In the back, at a corner booth, Marshall Mathers sat alone.

He wasn’t exactly hiding, but he wasn’t trying to be seen either. Hood pulled up, cap low, he blended into the dim lighting, just another guy watching the game. His drink—just club soda—sat untouched next to a plate of fries that had long gone cold. His fingers tapped absently on the table, an unconscious rhythm, like a song stuck in his head.

There was a tiredness in the way he sat, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed on the screen but distant, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely. The years had sharpened his face, lines etched into his skin from too much stress and too little sleep. The beard, neatly trimmed, was peppered with gray now, but the eyes—the same sharp, ice-blue stare—hadn’t changed.

People noticed him, but no one rushed over. Maybe they weren’t sure it was really him, or maybe they just didn’t want to interrupt. But then—one person hesitated nearby, hovering just close enough to be noticed.

Marshall exhaled through his nose, slow, already aware of the presence before looking up.

“Lemme guess,” he said, voice rough but calm. “You want a picture? Autograph? Or just a story to tell your friends?”

His expression was unreadable—not annoyed, not exactly amused, just… waiting.