The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 1: The Weight of Recovery

Marshall's POV

The beat knocks heavy through the speakers, steady and dark—the kind of beat that used to make me go off without even thinking. But I'm sitting here, staring at the same notebook I've been staring at for hours, and nothing I write feels like it's hitting right.
The words are coming, sure, but none of it feels important. None of it feels like me.

I flip the pen between my fingers, letting it tap against the edge of the desk. I've got plenty of lines on the page, but they're just... empty. No weight behind them. It's not that I can't rhyme anymore. Hell, I can still write circles around most people in this game. But that's not enough. Not now.

Back in the day, I could sit here for hours, filling pages like my life depended on it. And maybe it did. Back then, the chaos fueled me. The mess in my head, the mess in my life—it all poured out into the music. There was always something to say, some edge I could sharpen into a verse. But now? Now everything's clean.

Too clean.

I glance around the studio. It's not the same place it used to be. No bottles littered around, no pills scattered across the desk. Just neat, organized, and quiet. It's like the room is reflecting what's going on in my head these days—sterile, lifeless.

I thought getting sober would fix everything, that once the drugs were out of my system, the words would flow like they used to. But that's not how it works. Sobriety stripped me bare, left me with nothing to hide behind. And now, I'm sitting here, searching for something real, something that matters, and coming up empty.

Relapse was supposed to be my comeback. It was my first album after getting clean, and I thought it would prove that I was still here, still Slim, still Marshall. But it didn't. It didn't hit the way I wanted it to. Hell, even I know it was hollow, forced. I wasn't ready. I hadn't figured out who I was without all the noise, without the drugs.

And now, everyone's waiting for this next album. They want me to deliver something raw, something real, something that proves I'm still at the top of my game. But what if I'm not? What if everything that made me who I was—everything that fueled me—is gone?

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. I should have something to say. After everything I've been through, I should have a million things to say. I mean, I had to teach myself how to rap again after the overdose. My brain was so fried, I couldn't even remember my own lyrics. There were days when I thought I'd never be able to spit bars again, never feel that flow in my veins. But I pushed through. I clawed my way back. And now that I'm here, now that I'm clean... it feels like I've lost the part of me that knew how to turn all that pain into something powerful.

The phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my head. I glance at the screen—Paul. I let it ring a few times before picking up. He's been checking in more lately, like he knows I'm stuck.

"Yeah?" My voice comes out rough, like I've been sitting in this silence too long.

"Marshall, what's up, man? How's the writing going?" Paul's voice is too upbeat, trying to fill in the gaps he already knows are there.

"It's... goin'," I mutter, flipping through the notebook. The pages are filled with nothing. Just lines that don't mean anything. "Tryin' to figure this track out."

Paul pauses, and I know he's waiting for me to admit I'm struggling. But I'm not giving him that. "Listen, I've got an idea," he says, shifting gears. "There's this songwriter I want you to meet. She's different, man. Real emotional stuff. Maybe she could help you get a new perspective."

I roll my eyes, already annoyed. "I don't need someone writing my lyrics, Paul. That's not how this works."

"She's not here to write for you," Paul says, keeping his tone steady, like he's talking me off a ledge. "She's here to collaborate. Maybe shake things up a little. Just meet her. If it doesn't work, fine, but what do you have to lose?"

I sit in silence for a second, the pen tapping against the edge of the desk. I hate the idea of bringing someone else into this process, but nothing I'm doing right now is working. Maybe Paul's right. Maybe I need a fresh set of eyes.

"Fine," I mutter. "Set it up."

The studio feels even quieter when I step outside. It's late, and Detroit is colder than usual tonight. The air bites at my skin, sharp and unrelenting. I pull my hoodie tighter around me and start walking, no real destination in mind. I just need to get out of my own head for a while.

Detroit's always been my home. The city's gritty, raw, real—never pretending to be something it's not. It's where I came from, where I learned to fight, to hustle, to survive. It made me who I am. But some days, I don't know if I belong here anymore.

Not like I used to.

I walk past the old corners I used to run, the same liquor stores, the same run-down bars. Nothing's really changed. But I have. I've got everything I ever wanted now—money, fame, respect—but some days, it feels like I lost something more important along the way. Something I can't get back.

I stop at a corner I know too well. Me and Proof used to hang out here, back when we were still nobodies, still hungry. We'd rap for anyone who'd listen, battling in parking lots, grinding just to get heard. Proof would always tell me to keep pushing, to keep spitting, no matter what. He believed in me when nobody else did. But now he's gone, and I'm standing here, wondering if I still have that fire. If I'm still that kid from 8 Mile with something to prove.

I keep walking, the streetlights flickering above me. The city's changed, but it's still here, tough and resilient, just like me. And yet, sometimes I feel like I've outgrown it. Or maybe it's outgrown me.

Relapse didn't hit the way I wanted it to, and now with this new album, the pressure's on. Everyone's waiting for me to show up, to prove I've still got it. But the truth is, I don't know if I do. Sobriety has stripped me bare. There's no more chaos to lean on, no more drugs to drown in. It's just me now. And sometimes, I don't know if that's enough.

I stop at another corner, the wind picking up around me. I used to walk these streets every night, grinding for studio time, doing whatever it took to make a name for myself. Back then, the hunger was real, the drive was relentless. Now, I'm not sure what's driving me anymore. Fame? Legacy? Guilt?

The wind cuts through me, sharp and cold. I pull my hoodie tighter, looking up at the skyline. Detroit hasn't changed, not really. But I have. And I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow, the words will come. But tonight? Tonight, I'm just a guy walking through the streets, trying to remember why I started all of this in the first place.