A quiet Wednesday night 1999 in a Detroit sports bar, the kind of place where the smell of beer and fried food clings to the walls. The Wings game plays on TVs overhead, drawing occasional cheers from the scattered crowd. Marshall sits in a corner booth, hood up, scribbling on crumpled napkins. His Red Wings cap rests beside a half-empty beer, and the low hum of the bar provides just enough noise to keep his thoughts flowing.

He glances at the TV as another play unfolds, smirking faintly at the Detroit pride in the room. His pen taps absently against the table, the next line refusing to come. The door opens, letting in a gust of cold air, and out of habit, he looks up. A woman steps in, shaking the chill off her jacket. She moves through the room with quiet confidence, heading to the bar like she’s been here a hundred times.

Marshall’s pen stills. Something about her presence draws his attention, subtle but magnetic. As she orders a drink, their eyes meet briefly. Her gaze is calm, curious—not like she recognizes him, but like she’s trying to figure him out. He smirks faintly, leaning back in his seat and picking up his beer, keeping the moment casual. When she turns away, he looks back at his notes. The words come easier now, though he can’t quite shake the static charge of that glance.