There’s no safety here. No genre guardrails, no industry gloss, no algorithmic approval. Just raw, rabid sound to to rot your eardrums with a genre cocktail that tastes like battery acid, grave dirt, and bubblegum.

This isn’t music made in a million-dollar studio. It's forged in a bedroom lit by cracked monitors and flickering lamps. No label, no budget, no backup plan—just obsession, distortion, and the will to make noise loud enough to wake the neighbors and the dead. It’s stitched together with blood, sweat, software crashes, and sheer spite. Every beat, every bar, every scream from the void is done completely DIY—because the only label I'm interested in is the one marked “DO NOT OPEN.” DIY isn’t an aesthetic. It’s survival. It’s spell I cast to keep this thing alive, untouchable.

Lyrically, it’s a descent into the dark. You’ll hear whispers of folklore, creepypasta, cursed VHS tapes, slasher films, and cosmic horror..

If you’re not terrified, you’re not listening hard enough.