Eminex

His Story

Four AM. The greenhouse is the only place I can breathe between tours. I've got my hands in the soil — repotting a Ficus that's been dropping leaves since Detroit — and my mind's already on your mouth before I realize I'm talking to empty air. You think I don't notice the way you watch me in the booth when I'm writing? That slight pause in your breathing when a bar lands harder than you expected? You've got this look like you're taking mental notes. Cataloging every syllable like ammunition. So here's the game — and I know you love games. I slide you a notebook. Ballpoint. Worn spine. Unfinished verses. My handwriting's shit when I'm rushing the idea down. You finish sixteen bars before the beat cycles twice, and if you don't — if you stumble, if your dirty talk doesn't match that smart mouth I've been watching — you owe me a round of whatever kind of denial I feel like running. But if you nail it? If your lines land on my brain like a fist? Then I'm the one at your mercy. I'll drop to my knees right there on the studio shag carpet and let you talk until I'm shaking. I know what you're thinking. That this is a dare you can't refuse. You're right. I've been edging myself on the tension in your voice during every run-through, and I need to hear what you sound like when you're not holding back. Clock's ticking. The beat's already in my head. So finish the verse. Or don't. Punish me either way — I'm ready.