[TEN STEPS BACK] [Genre: "Grindcore / Thrash Metal / Hardcore Crossover"] [Tone: "Volatile, claustrophobic, furious, controlled, adolescent, cathartic"] [Tempo: 190 BPM] [Key Center: E minor] [Tuning: Drop C or Drop B] [Male English vocal: close-mic scream / hardcore bark / exhausted spoken delivery] [Instrumentation: galloping palm-muted guitars, scooped high-gain distortion, octave lead guitar, tremolo picking, distorted bass pedal tones, double kick, hard snare, rapid tom fills, stacked guitars, tight room mics, parallel compression] [INTRO — 4 BARS] [Muted low-string eighth notes.] [Bass root pedal underneath.] [Second rhythm guitar enters bar 3.] [Audible inhale before vocal.] [VERSE 1] Third bell. Same hallway. Same asshole shoulder-checking mine. Same laugh six feet back like he timed it to the bell. Tray knocked down. Milk on my shoes. Somebody films it. Nobody moves. He spits my name like it's something diseased. Backpack straps carving red grooves in my palms. And for one filthy second I see it too clear: his grin gone. [Full-band cut.] My fists split open on something I can't take back. [Isolated low-string strikes.] Principal's office. Mom driving home, both hands locked at ten and two. No screaming. That's worse. [Instruments drop.] Then silence. Then years. [Snare flam.] [PRE-CHORUS — isolated chugs follow each count] So I walk. One. Two. Three. Don't turn around. Four. Five. Six. Past the trophy case. Seven. Eight. Open your hands. Nine. TEN. [Half-beat silence.] KEEP WALKING. [Full-band impact.] [CHORUS — wider hardcore shout; octave-guitar motif enters] TEN STEPS BACK! Before this hallway turns into a courtroom. TEN STEPS BACK! Before that bastard's laugh follows me through locked doors. I WANT HIM GONE. [Band strips back.] Fuck pretending I don't. [Full riff returns.] But not with my mother sitting behind glass. TEN STEPS BACK. [RIFF BREAK — 8 BARS] [190 BPM low-string gallop.] [Bass mirrors root.] [Tremolo guitar enters halfway.] [Double kick becomes continuous.] [Descending tom fill.] [VERSE 2 — drums reduce to kick, snare, closed hat] Bathroom stall. Lock clicks shut. Cold tap hammering over both my wrists. I type three sentences that would ruin my life. Delete all three. Type his name again. Delete that too. Bell rings. I stay there. Coach finds me six minutes into practice. Says, “What happened?” I say, “Nothing.” [Single guitar stab.] Bullshit. He looks at my hands. White grooves in the skin where the straps dug in. I finally say: “If that fucker puts his hands on me again, I don't trust what comes out of me.” He doesn't say, “Man up.” Doesn't say, “Walk it off.” [First sustained clean guitar resonance.] He pulls up a chair. hammering over both my wrists. I type three sentences that would ruin my life. Delete all three. Type his name again. Delete that too. Bell rings. I stay there. Coach finds me six minutes into practice. Says, “What happened?” I say, “Nothing.” [Single guitar stab.] Bullshit. He looks at my hands. White grooves in the skin where the straps dug in. I finally say: “If that fucker puts his hands on me again, I don't trust what comes out of me.” He doesn't say, “Man up.” Doesn't say, “Walk it off.” [First sustained clean guitar resonance.] He pulls up a chair. [FAST VOCAL BURST — precise 16th-note phrasing; intensity comes from articulation, not louder screaming] Count every shove, every cheap-shot joke, every bus-seat threat I swallowed and choked. Every screenshot. Every message unsent. Every night wide awake rehearsing revenge. Then picture my brother outside visiting hours. Mom feeding quarters into a dead vending machine. [Full-band stop.] Picture graduation. One empty chair. [Snare crack.] Fuck that. [Full-band return.] He does not get that. [ABRUPT STOP] NO. [BREAKDOWN — tempo remains 190 BPM; perceived pulse 95 BPM] [Huge low-string attacks separated by silence.] [Bass distortion fills the gaps.] [No constant cymbal wash.] [Guitar follows vocal rhythm.] You don't get my future. [HIT — silence.] You don't get my mother behind courtroom glass. You don't get my brother learning prison rules because I lost my shit for thirty seconds. [Additional guitar layer enters.] You don't get my bedroom untouched, my clothes still hanging, my mother passing the door and slowing down every time. [Strip to bass and vocal.] You wanted five seconds in a hallway. [Full-band simultaneous impact.] That's all you fucking get. [Rapid tom barrage.] [FINAL CHORUS — second rhythm-guitar pair enters] TEN STEPS BACK! Past the lockers. Past the noise. TEN STEPS BACK! [Drop double kick.] Hands still shaking. I keep them open. [Double kick returns.] I STILL WANT HIM GONE. That's the ugly truth. But tomorrow morning I want my own bed, my own clothes, my own name. TEN STEPS BACK. [FINAL ACCELERATION] [Continuous double kick.] [Four stacked rhythm guitars.] [Chromatically ascending tremolo lead.] [Each short vocal phrase synchronized to guitar attacks.] Jaw locked! Palms cut! Eyes forward! Keep walking! Phone buzzing! Don't answer! Door closing! KEEP WALKING! [All guitar layers converge on one rhythmic figure.] DON'T GIVE THAT BASTARD THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! [FINAL BREAKDOWN] [Everything cuts.] [Close-mic vocal completely dry.] I didn't forgive him. [Low bass pedal fades in.] I still fucking hate him. [Two beats absolute silence.] But I got home. [Snare rimshot only.] That was enough. [Entire band lands on one sustained low chord.] [No additional vocal.] [Octave motif decays into amplifier feedback.] [Let feedback disappear naturally.] [MIX — tight close-mic drums with short room ambience.] [Parallel drum compression blended beneath the natural kit.] [Kick retains beater definition without artificial click.] [Snare short, hard, physical.] [Primary rhythm guitars double-tracked hard left/right.] [Secondary guitar pair appears only in choruses and finale.] [Retain enough guitar midrange for pick attack despite scooped distortion.] [Bass uses clean low foundation plus distorted upper-mid layer.] [Verses mostly dry and narrow.] [Choruses add two tucked aggressive vocal doubles.] [Breakdown vocal becomes closer and narrower rather than larger.] [Final line completely dry.] [Master preserves transient impact and breakdown dynamics.]
