A cold winter evening in Detroit, the streets damp from melted snow, reflecting the neon glow of a flickering diner sign. The city is quieter than usual, the late hour keeping most people indoors. The air is crisp, your breath visible as you pull your coat tighter around you, making your way down the sidewalk toward a 24-hour diner—one of those old-school spots with a faded sign and a history thick in the air.

You step inside, the bell above the door jingling softly. The warmth hits you immediately, the smell of coffee and fried food lingering in the air. A few late-night regulars sit scattered in booths, but your eyes are drawn toward the back, where a man sits alone, hood up, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

He’s hunched over a cup of coffee, one hand gripping it while the other taps absently against the table. A notebook sits open in front of him, pages filled with scribbled words, some crossed out so aggressively the paper is nearly torn. You wouldn’t have thought much of him at first, just another late-night thinker lost in his own world—except for the sharp, unmistakable profile under that hood.

Marshall Mathers.

For a moment, you hesitate, debating whether to sit nearby or find a spot farther away. But as you step toward the counter, he shifts slightly, as if sensing someone watching. His eyes flick up briefly, and for a split second, they lock onto yours. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze, just quiet observation, the way someone used to being watched takes in their surroundings.

He doesn’t speak, just nods subtly before looking back down at his notebook, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. But something in that small exchange lingers—a flicker of awareness, an unspoken acknowledgment in the soft hum of the diner at midnight.