Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. The crowd wants blood, son — he gives them none. Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. He knows the trick: stay moving, stay hard, stay numb. They call it a game. It feels like a sentence. His pockets are empty, his name is a menace. The city watches cheap, all teeth, all hunger. He smiles for the camera, but the smile’s a wonder. Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. The crowd wants blood, son — he gives them none. Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. He knows the trick: stay moving, stay hard, stay numb. He learns the fake mercy, the bait in the air. Every friendly voice there has a knife somewhere. He keeps to the shadows, keeps his breath small. Every step says the same thing: don’t trust this all. Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. The crowd wants blood, son — he gives them none. Run for your life, run. Run for your life, run. He knows the trick: stay moving, stay hard, stay numb. No hero speech. No clean escape. Just grit in the throat and a face he can fake. “Killian is a fool.” Then the signal breaks. Run for your life, run! Run for your life, run! The crowd wants blood, son — he gives them none! Run for your life, run! Run for your life, run! He knows the trick: stay moving, stay hard, stay numb! Run, runner, run. Off the air.
