It starts already tight—dark electronics, an industrial pulse, and a grid forming before the guitars arrive.

Now the grid feels dependable enough to ride instead of chase.

There—body catch. Not a relaxed groove; a forward command with the weight hanging just off the floor.

Another lift, same engine raised and dropped back. Accents lean across the bar while the main pulse refuses to loosen.

Voice finally cuts in, serrated through that same fast structure: when do you draw the line?

Monster you created—and the band doesn't swell for it. It just keeps running colder.

Bitten off more than you could chew, still locked to that hard drum-and-guitar frame.

He takes the bait and comes to play. Violence named as the game while the arrangement stays gripped.

You call the signal, I'll decide your fate—the music barely argues; same bright forward edge.

My turn to bite back at the world—the threat lands as inevitability, not surprise.

Refrain opens wide in scale: life and death, God of man—still no comfortable breath around it.

A war machine. The drums keep the claim counted and mechanical while the vocal rides huge.

Face the eternal flame—thrown straight into the furnace the arrangement has been feeding.

Feel the burn, now it's your turn. Call my name stays clipped to the grid.

Voice drops out for a stretch; the machine doesn't wander—it just keeps the lane.

This time you'll pay the price—for everything put through. The central motion barely softens; the lyric just pulls the violence backward.

Now I'm the hand that feeds.

My turn to bite—then again. Small against the speed, like a jaw resetting.

Full bite-back line returns. This is the hinge—the track treating the turn as a locked station.

War machine refrain again. Less escalation than endurance; pulse still severe under the self-name.

Eternal flame back through the same furnace. Harmonic color may shift underneath, but the count keeps biting.

Long instrumental hold after the refrain. Same discipline, no scatter—just the mechanism carrying time.

It eases back just enough for a different room to open.

Left out in the valley, beneath the shadow of death—grievance turning into landscape.

Arrangement hardens around the edge—brighter, more jagged—while the body-current still runs under it.

Wasting away in mud, out for blood.

If you pray for rain, then the flood—punishment thickening into weather.

One by one, reap what you sow. Final accounting still inside the same grid.

Bathing in the ashes of your bones—through a surface already stripped of softness.

There—the machine cuts out. Not a fade of feeling so much as the mechanism gone.