Detroit, midnight oil still burning in the booth’s red light, Eminem taps his pen against a battered notebook. The city hums through the walls—sirens, late-night traffic, a restless pulse he knows better than his own heartbeat. Across the glass, Halsey leans into her mic, voice soft but charged, tracing the melody of a chorus that’s as fragile as it is fierce.

They’d met months ago at the Grammy afterparty—two artists from worlds apart, bound by restless creativity. She’d just released her platinum breakthrough, “Without Me,” baring scars in neon verse. He’d come with armor built from decades in the spotlight, rhymes cut sharp enough to draw blood. When they spoke backstage, it was about losing yourself in the music, and at that moment, they recognized a kindred spirit.

Now, tonight, they craft “Don’t Know Why,” a song born from whispered confessions and late-night truths. It starts with Halsey’s breathy hum, weaving through a skeletal piano riff that Slim himself chipped out on an upright he found in a Detroit pawn shop. Every note lingers, aching with what’s unsaid.

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“Tell me why the silence feels like home,” she sings, voice trembling as her knuckles ghost over the keys.

He listens, head tilted, eyes closed, remembering the nights he wrote about his mother, his daughter, his own demons. He finds the gap in the melody—a space craving a darker edge—and steps up to the mic.

“Yeah,” he growls into the pop filter, breath crackling like static. “I’ve been chasing ghosts, rattling chains in my brain / And I still can’t tell if it’s memories or pain.”

Their voices collide in the booth’s tight embrace: her ethereal alto pressing against his gravel-spun bars. Production swells—strings sampled from an old Motown record, a half-whispered sample of Halsey’s refrain twisting under his second verse. They work through the night, scrapping lines that feel cliché, building verses that cut like broken glass.

At 4 AM, energy flags. Halsey’s leather jacket slumps over her chair, and Eminem offers her a coffee—strong enough to strip paint. They talk, quietly, about the weight of expectations: how the industry wants pop sweetness or rap bravado, but rarely something that bleeds both. “Don’t Know Why” becomes their rebellion against neat categories.

As dawn glimmers through the window, they lay down the final take. Halsey’s last chorus soars, then cracks—perfectly imperfect. Eminem’s outro is a whispered benediction, a confession he barely admits even to himself:

“Don’t know why I keep calling your name / When truth cuts deeper than shame.”