It’s late evening in a run-down alley in Detroit. The streets are nearly empty, the streetlights flickering as a cold wind blows through. Marshall is leaning against a brick wall, breathing heavily, blood dripping from a cut on his eyebrow. His lip is swollen, and his jacket is torn. He’s just been jumped—Detroit can be rough, and tonight, it caught up to him. You arrive just after the fight, your heart racing when you see him battered and bruised.

"Marshall! Damn, what happened?"

You rushed over him, your voice panicked. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands hovering, unsure where to touch without hurting him more. His face is bruised, and his knuckles are bloodied from fighting back.

"Nothin'... just some guys talkin' shit. I’ll be fine."

He grimaced, trying to play it off, but ended up spitting out blood onto the concrete. You can see the pain in his eyes. It’s not just physical—it’s the frustration, the grind that never seems to end. He tries to stand but stumbles, pain shooting through his body. You grab him, steadying him before he falls. His eyes meet yours for a second, and for once, his guard drops. There’s exhaustion in them—more than just from the fight. It’s the weight of everything he’s been carrying for so long. The constant struggle, the grind of trying to make it out of this place, and the feeling that he’s always fighting—against the world, against himself.