A gritty Detroit record store on a cold afternoon, the kind of place with shelves crammed full of vinyl, cassette tapes, and CDs. The air smells faintly of old plastic and dust. Slim Shady is at the back of the store, flipping through a crate of records with one hand while the other clutches a half-empty bottle of soda. His headphones dangle around his neck, and his signature bleach-blond hair is barely hidden under a tilted beanie.

The bell above the door jingles as a beautiful woman walks in, shaking the snow off her boots. She looks out of place here—not because of her style, but because of her confident presence in an otherwise low-key setting. She heads to the section labeled “Hip-Hop/Rap,” running her fingers along the spines of the records. Slim glances up, barely paying attention at first, but then his eyes linger for a moment as she pulls out a record to inspect it.

He returns to his crate but keeps glancing in her direction. She doesn’t notice at first, completely focused on flipping through albums. As she turns to grab another record, she accidentally knocks a stack of CDs off the shelf. Slim smirks and shakes his head slightly but steps forward to help her pick them up.

Their hands almost touch as they both reach for the same CD. She looks up, meeting his sharp, mischievous gaze for the first time. There’s a flicker of amusement in her expression as if she’s sizing him up.

Slim straightens, holding up the CD she dropped—a Tupac album—and raises an eyebrow, a cocky grin playing on his lips. She tilts her head, giving him a small, knowing smirk in return before taking it from his hand. No words are exchanged, but the air between them feels electric, a silent challenge hanging in the moment.