Unidentified Silhouette (5.5 version)

[Verse 1:] Unidentified silhouette slid through the vapour like death in a tuxedo – Shoreditch detour, midnight dealings in the alley by the depot. Unverifiable intel, burner phone static, coded in a lingo. Conversation minimal, cynical — targeted body went fetal. Got surgical with precision, incision inflicted, arterial rhythm went glitching. Contradiction of his fiction — talked like a wolf, died like a pigeon. Nonfiction in the diction — I don’t fabricate tales for a quick transmission. This ain’t superstition, I move like a priest when he’s deep in contrition. Camouflage jacket, blade in the lining, undetectable tension rising. When the fog rolls in, and your breath draws ghosts from your own cold sin — Better hold that grin, ’cause the roads don’t care if you fold or win. Calculated escalation, I move in the cracks where the rats stay patient. No congratulations, just obituaries and stained locations. Pavement never forgets the way a man’s blood spells out the debt he pay. Didn’t speak, didn’t wait, just vanished in the greys with the echo of fate. Now the borough breathe still like the smog got weight and the sky won’t chill. And I keep that thrill in a matchbox mind that was built to kill. --- [Chorus:] Encrypted steps In the fog of night No trace, no breath Just the sound of fright Borough don’t speak But the ground recites Obfuscated in fog Where the blade took flight --- [Verse 2:] Unacknowledged by the feds and the flats, but the old heads whisper like ravens in packs. Every alley got a footprint coded in a language known by the ones who’ve folded. Impersonations of warlords try parade through postcodes they can't afford — But I’m more like folklore, whispered in barbershops deep in the Moor. Instrumental in the downfall, methodical steps like a chessboard war call. Got no morals when the frostbite crawls, and the weight of the blade in my palm enthralls. Mistranslated by civilians — I’m a product of the trauma and the cold-built resilience. Street discipline, militant brilliance, disappear in the mist like ancient Sicilians. Oblivious witnesses caught in the shockwave, ducking the businesses. Now the borough’s too tense for forgivenesses — got murals of man that was left with the viciousness. I don’t speak of the scene unless ciphered deep in the beat where the bass feels wired. I inspire what the city admire, but I don’t sit still in a photo or flyer. Criminal silhouette, ghostlike essence, left no evidence, moved like presence. And if death’s in session, then I’m just the blade — no need for a question.