The lights split my vision open.
The stage swallows me in a single step.
I grip the microphone and feel the cold climb up my neck… but it doesn't stop me.
In front of me: a sea of faces.
My hands are shaking—yeah. So what?
Let them look.
Let them wait.
Let them doubt.
Because in this second, I understand it with brutal clarity:
there's always a moment when the world demands proof.
And I give it.
I'm going to cut straight through them with my voice.
Because when I sing, I'm not asking to be heard—I'm saying: I'm here.
With everything I have.
I didn't come to look pretty.
I came to burn.