Like too many people, Obie Trice III was born in Detroit and shot in Detroit.

Seven months after a bullet nearly ended his life, the rapper is wearing a yellow Zoo York polo shirt with a green T-shirt underneath, the perfect complement to the spiffy green and yellow throwback Nikes on his feet. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of oversize sunglasses, and there's a diamond earring resting in his left ear lobe.

Less than 6 inches away from his shiny diamond, that bullet is lodged in the back of his skull.

Trice is a product of Detroit who saw his fortunes skyrocket when he hooked up with Eminem, the biggest rapper in the world, and signed to his Shady Records label six years ago. His debut album, 2003's "Cheers," sold 1.2 million copies worldwide, and he collaborated with some of the most famous rappers in the business, from Dr. Dre to 50 Cent to even 2Pac and the Notorious B.I.G.

Turning point

But getting shot while driving along the Lodge Freeway a night before the ball dropped on 2006 changed everything for Trice. "I used to be carefree before New Year's Eve," he says.

Now, as Trice, 28, prepares to issue his long-delayed sophomore album, "Second Round's On Me," he is attempting to balance two lives: One as a streetwise rapper who "keeps it real," and one as a concerned father who knows there's more to life than the violent trappings of the hood.

On Dec. 30, Trice attended an after-party at Envy nightclub in downtown Detroit to meet up with comedian Mike Epps, who was in town for a concert at the Fox Theatre. By the time he got there, Epps -- whom Trice wanted to put on his new album -- had already left. Around 1 a.m., Trice and his girlfriend started heading home on the Lodge Freeway.

About 10 minutes into his drive, bullets started flying.

Trice said he was driving in the far left lane on the northbound Lodge when a car pulled up in the middle lane, kitty-corner behind his white Range Rover.

Four shots were fired. The first put a hole in his back window, the second shattered it.

Trice was hit in the back of the head either by the third or fourth bullet.

"It hit me," Trice says, "and my [head] was like an instant watermelon."

Blood was pouring out of the wound, and his girlfriend was screaming hysterically. But Trice remained conscious and continued driving until dizziness overcame him, and his car jumped the curb. His girlfriend flagged down a police officer. An ambulance took Trice to Providence Hospital, where the frightened looks on the nurse's faces scared him more than his bullet wound.

"I was just like, `Damn, what is about to happen?'" Trice says. "Thoughts were just like electric volts -- a different thought every second. They're cutting off my clothes. There's blood everywhere. Nurses are looking at me crazy, so I'm trying not to look at nobody.

"And then the doctor was like, `He's fine.' When I heard that, I was like, `What? '" The doctor told Trice if the bullet had traveled less than an inch deeper, he would have been dead. Because of the bullet's position in his skull, doctors were not able to remove it, and Trice says he rubs that spot on his head so much he fears he might go bald there.

The shooter or shooters were never found, and Trice doesn't think the shooting was random because of the number of rounds fired. He knows he's lucky to have survived, but he also says he's fortunate the brush with death was his first.

"I come from Cadillac Middle School in Detroit, Cooley High School. A lot of people who grew up in my area ain't here today," he says. "I can name on my hand and your hands people I know that have deceased from violence. I'm surprised I just got shot."

Trice raps about the shooting on "Cry Now," a single from his new album. "X-rays show I was this close to heaven," he says, "so for future reference, I stay this close to a weapon."

There are many violent boasts on the album, despite Trice's public decrying of violence since his shooting and the April death of Detroit rapper Proof. Proof, who was shot in an altercation at an after-hours club, was a close friend and the one who once told Trice to rap under his legal name, as opposed to the name he was using at the time, Obie Won.

No badge of honor

Trice spoke at the Shady Bowl Super Party at the State Theatre in February, one of his first public appearances since the drive-by shooting. He told the crowd getting shot isn't cool, and it's nothing he wishes on anybody -- a stark contrast from the rappers who tend to wear their bullet wounds like badges of honor.

And after his statements at Proof's funeral -- his quote, "We're killing each other, dawg ... and it's about nothing" was splashed across the front page of The Detroit News -- Trice emerged as the consciousness of a city fed up with black-on-black violence.

Trice grew up in a broken home; his father left home before Trice turned 7. His mother kicked him out at age 16 when she found out he was selling drugs.

Rap was always his savior. He would squirrel away whatever money he could to spend at the recording studio making demos. One of them eventually caught the ear of Eminem, and Trice became the first solo artist signed to Shady Records.

When "Second Round's On Me" finally hit stores, it was nearly three years since the release of his debut album, an eternity in the fickle world of hip-hop.

"That's a little too long," Trice concedes. "I want to come right back with another album. I think I can make an album every 14 to 16 months."

Salam Wreck, Trice's DJ since he signed with Shady Records in 2000, says the shooting not only changed Trice as a person but also as a rapper.

"Musicwise, it's like he's got a new hunger," Wreck says. "Now that he's got a new chance at life, he's just smashing out. He really says what he feels."

Trice, who has a 7-year-old daughter, says he continues to talk about violence on his new album because it's a reality of day-to-day life in the streets.

"It's not going to change overnight," Trice says.

"In these Detroit streets, you have to do what you have to do. It's violent. The value of life is depreciated."