[Style: Dark, Menacing, Lyrical Hip-Hop, Storytelling Rap] [Vocals: Male, Deep, Confident, Slightly Paranoid Tone] [Tempo: Slow, around 80 BPM][Intro] (Sound of a phone buzzing once, then silence. A low, humming bassline fades in. A single, eerie piano note repeats.) Yeah... You ever get that feeling? Like you ain't alone in the room... even when you are. Check it.[Verse 1] Used to be my sanctuary, my escape from the noise, Now this black mirror in my hand is just a corporate toy. Every swipe, every pause, every goddamn typo, Is a breadcrumb for a ghost, a digital psycho. They built a file on my soul, from the cradle to the grave, Know the secrets that I keep, and the money that I save. They know I'm checkin' crypto charts at 3 AM in bed, Know the panic in my search history, the demons in my head. It ain't a bug, it's a feature, a blueprint built on greed, They're harvestin' your habits to plant a different seed. And the terms of service? Please. A 40-page lie, You sold your digital ghost for the password to their sky.[Chorus] There's a ghost in my phone, and it knows my fuckin' name, It's wearin' my face, and it's playin' my game. It's watchin' my thumbs when I'm typin' out my pain, Sellin' tickets to my downfall, standin' in the rain. There's a ghost in my phone, it's the perfect parasite, Livin' in the background, bathed in blue light. It's the price of convenience, the deal that you chose, Now a stranger in a boardroom is wearin' your clothes.[Verse 2] Remember back in the day, a shakedown was face-to-face? Now the stick-up kids wear suits and operate from cyberspace. They don't need a crowbar when they got an open port, They'll liquidate your future and call it a "market sport." Saw a homie lose his savings on a "glitch," a single spike, While the app was sendin' data packets on a midnight hike. He said the "buy" button froze, but the "sell" went through with ease, Just another casualty, brought down to his knees. They call it "user error," "market volatility," I call it a digital hit, a planned fatality. They're riggin' the casino while they're buildin' the walls, And your data is the currency for their conference calls.[Chorus] There's a ghost in my phone, and it knows my fuckin' name, It's wearin' my face, and it's playin' my game. It's watchin' my thumbs when I'm typin' out my pain, Sellin' tickets to my downfall, standin' in the rain. There's a ghost in my phone, it's the perfect parasite, Livin' in the background, bathed in blue light. It's the price of convenience, the deal that you chose, Now a stranger in a boardroom is wearin' your clothes.[Bridge] They tell you, "It's for your safety, for a better experience," But that's the same damn lie that's been killin' us for years. They build a profile, a pattern, a predictable slave, Then sell the map to your mind to the highest bid they gave. From your heartbeat to your keystrokes, every bit is a brick, In the walls of the prison that they're buildin' so quick. And the microphone's dead... funny how that works, right? They prefer a clean transcript in the dead of the night.[Outro] (The beat starts to degrade, with sounds of static and digital artifacts. The haunting piano loop slows down and detunes.) Yeah... a ghost in the phone. My ghost. Your ghost. (A final, distorted phone buzz, followed by complete, abrupt silence.)
