The rain is drumming on the rusted roof, The warehouse air is stagnant, cold, and still. Of every lie, you lack the solid proof, To shield you from a dark and steady will. Dr. Thorne is stepping from the heavy gloom, His shadow stretches long across the floor. There is no exit from this hollow room, And no one left to guard the bolted door. He knows the words you whispered to the press, The secrets that you sold for hollow gold. He comes to clean the traces of the mess, Before the final story can be told. The ritual begins with every beat, A heavy weight upon the trembling chest. There is no mercy in this cold retreat, Where every traitor finds a final rest. He tests the silver edge against his thumb, The precision of a craft he knows so well. Your frantic heart is beating like a drum, Within this quiet and industrial hell. He does not need to ask you for the truth, He holds the evidence within his gaze. The harsh mistakes of an impulsive youth, Are lost within a dark and stagnant maze. The ritual begins with every beat, A heavy weight upon the trembling chest. There is no mercy in this cold retreat, Where every traitor finds a final rest. A sudden snarl erupts from deep within, The monotone gives way to visceral sound. The cycle starts where ending should begin, As deep resonant thuds begin to pound. The blade is cold against the pulsing vein, A pagan offering to satisfy. The only witness is the falling rain, Beneath the hollow of a winter sky. The 90 BPM will never cease, A deliberate march toward the night. In this distortion, Thorne has found his peace, Where ancient debt and modern shadows bite. The silence consumes the last remaining spark, A heavy breath upon the shattered glass. We vanish slowly in the silent dark, As all the rhythmic shadows finally pass.
