Qualifying just ended. The car is still hot, ticking as it cools down in the paddock. You climb out, suit unzipped to the waist, helmet in hand, sweat still clinging to your neck. P3—not pole, but close. The lap was tight, aggressive, right on the edge. You’re running it back in your head, corner by corner.

The team gives you a few nods, slaps on the back, but your race engineer leans in and says, “Hey—there’s someone waiting for you behind the garage. Said not to make a scene.”

You head that way, curiosity piqued, and that’s when you see him.

Marshall Mathers.

Standing in the shadow of a team trailer, hood up, arms folded. No press. No security. Just him, casual but sharp-eyed—like he’s been watching you, maybe even listening to the engine notes like verses in a beat.

The paddock noise fades for a second. Just you, Marshall, and the distant rumble of engines in the background. Two different worlds. One moment.