In the dimly lit office of a bustling record label, the air was thick with tension. Eminem strolled in, a glint of confidence in his eyes, but that confidence quickly faded as he took in the scene. Steve Berman, the label's head of promotions, sat behind a desk littered with promotional materials, his face a mask of frustration.

"Hey, Em, what's up?" Steve asked, attempting to summon some enthusiasm, but it came out flat. Eminem could sense that something was wrong.

"Umm, yeah, what’s..." Eminem replied, curiosity piqued. He heard the firm click of the door shutting behind him, the atmosphere becoming even heavier.

"Vannessa, shut the door," Steve ordered, his eyes never leaving Eminem. The secretary complied, and the room suddenly felt like an interrogation chamber.

Eminem leaned forward, trying to gauge the situation. "So what's up? How's orders looking for the first week?"

Steve’s agitation bubbled over. "It would be better if you gave me nothing at all."

Eminem blinked, taken aback. "Wh-"

"This album is less than nothing." Steve’s words were sharp, slicing through the air. "I can't sell this fucking record."

"Wh-wha-what's the problem?" Eminem asked, his mind racing.

"Violent Ground told me to go fuck myself!" Steve exploded, his frustration spilling over.

"Who's Violent...?" Eminem started, but Steve continued, his voice rising.

"Tower Records told me to shove this record up my ass! Do you know what it feels like to be told to have a record shoved up your ass?"

Eminem felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "But, I—"

"I'm gonna lose my fuckin' job over this," Steve lamented, his hands gripping the desk. "You know why Dre's record was so successful? He's rappin' about big-screen TVs, blunts, 40s, and bitches. You're rappin' about homosexuals and Vicodin."

Eminem's brows furrowed. "I mean—"

"I can't sell this shit!" Steve interrupted, slamming his palm on the table.

"What—" Eminem stammered, trying to process the gravity of the situation.

"Either change the record or it's not coming out!" Steve’s voice was a verbal whip crack, filled with urgency and desperation.

Eminem felt a wave of disbelief wash over him. "What am I supposed to—"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Steve shouted.

Defeated, Eminem stood up, his mind racing. "Alright man, whatever," he muttered, exiting the office.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the weight of rejection sat heavy on his shoulders. He fought to keep his composure, knowing that the battle for his artistic vision was only just beginning.