Detroit didn’t warn you.

You landed that night for a last-minute meeting, a freelance gig you almost turned down. But the sky opened up faster than anyone expected, and by the time your rideshare dropped you at the Shady Records building, the city was already vanishing under a blanket of white.

Wind howled through the alleyways. The snow slapped sideways against the windows.

You pressed the buzzer with your coat sleeves pulled down, fingers stiff from the cold. To your surprise, the door unlocked with a soft click.

You stepped inside — the heat was still running, but barely. Lights flickered. The silence was thick.

The building was supposed to be empty.

But then, a low voice called out from down the hall.

“You lost or just insane enough to be here?”

You turned, startled — and there he was.

Marshall.

Standing in the doorway of a studio room in a black hoodie and joggers, looking at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw a blanket over your shoulders.