The night was cold, the kind of Detroit cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The streetlights flickered weakly along 8 Mile, casting long, uneven shadows over the cracked pavement. The road was mostly empty, save for the occasional distant rumble of an engine or the faint echo of music from a passing car.

As you drove, your headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating something up ahead—a car pulled off to the side, hazard lights blinking weakly. A figure stood beside it, hood up, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his breath visible in the freezing air.

Something about the scene made you slow down. Maybe it was the way he kicked at the tire, frustration evident in his posture, or the fact that out here, this late, there weren’t many good options for help.

As you got closer, the streetlight overhead cast just enough of a glow for you to recognize him. Jimmy Smith Jr.—B-Rabbit.

His sharp blue eyes flicked toward your approaching car, wary but expectant, like he was already preparing for the worst. You had a choice—keep driving or stop.

Without overthinking it, you eased your car to the side of the road and pulled over.