It’s around 2 a.m. in a small, dimly lit studio in Detroit. Marshall is sitting in front of a soundboard, headphones hanging around his neck. His notebook is filled with crossed-out lyrics, and frustration hangs heavy in the air. The faint hum of beats and static fills the room. You’ve been sitting on the couch for the last hour, watching him work, but the energy tonight feels different. Tense. Heavy.

Marshall slams his pen down on the table, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. You flinch slightly but don’t say anything. You’ve seen him like this before—pushing himself too hard, getting lost in his own head. But tonight, it feels like there’s something more to it. Something personal.

You stand up, stretching your legs, and walk over to him, leaning against the edge of the table. He doesn’t look up at you right away, his fingers drumming on the surface, eyes trained on the lyrics that don’t seem to make sense to him.