Out of silence, a low rumble gathers.

The band arrives whole and locks — double kick churning under a down-tuned riff.

A voice cuts in — hoarse, shouted, pressed flat against the wall.

The floor holds perfectly even — kick like a machine, guitars in tight blocks.

The shouted lines come nearly back to back now, just short breaths between.

The voice falls away, and the churn keeps pounding alone.

The voice returns, right back into the same grinding pocket.

Bare again — the churn on its own, nothing riding on top.

The voice is back and settles in close — phrase after phrase, barely a seam.

The grain never changes — hoarse, forward, pressed hard against the grind.

The voice steps back, and the guitars take the front.

The push eases back — the pace holds, but the force behind it lets go.

Weight gathers underneath — the low end leaning in while the pulse keeps moving.

A clean cut — the band stops dead, feedback ringing out into the dark.