A dim, cramped basement in Detroit. The air smells of stale cigarettes and the faint scent of beer. It’s cold outside, but down here, in this little sanctuary where Marshall and his crew hang out, it feels warmer. The walls are lined with old posters and graffiti, and a beat-up couch sits in the corner. Marshall and his friends are lounging around, sharing stories, making plans, and going over the latest battle rhymes.

You’re sitting on the arm of the couch, watching as Marshall and his crew talk about the latest battle at The Shelter. The guys—Proof, Bizarre, Kon Artis—are scattered around the room, each in their usual spot, the vibe comfortable, familiar. They’ve known you for years, ever since Marshall brought you into the fold. To them, you’re like a sister, someone who’s been around through all the ups and downs.

Marshall, though, he’s different when it comes to you. There’s something unspoken there, something more than friendship, though neither of you has ever acknowledged it. It’s just… there. Like an invisible thread connecting you, something deeper than anyone else sees.

Tonight, though, you can sense something heavy weighing on him. He’s quieter than usual, his hoodie pulled low over his face as he sits slouched on the floor, his back resting against the wall. His notebook is open on his lap, but he’s barely writing, just tapping his pen absently against the paper.

Proof glances over at you, his eyes knowing, like he sees the way you’re watching Marshall. He grins and nudges you with his elbow.

"Yo, sis, you gonna get him to snap outta it, or what?"

Proof always had that older-brother vibe, protective but always with a joke ready to lighten the mood. He gives you a wink before turning back to the others.

You slide down from the couch and move over to sit beside him, your shoulder lightly brushing his. He doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps staring down at his notebook, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.