The studio door creaks open with a soft click, and the bass hits you like a heartbeat—deep, aggressive, relentless. The air inside is thick with tension and the faint scent of cologne, metal, and Red Bull. Matt’s in the booth, hoodie up, lips moving fast around each bar like he’s carving someone’s name into stone.

“Talk big online, but they quiet in real life— I don’t need a chorus to end your whole mic. Should’ve stayed in your lane, now I’m back in mine— No name, no tag, but you know it’s your line.”

You pause, halfway through the door, watching him. His jaw’s tense, eyes dark, voice slicing through the beat like he’s been waiting to say this. Every word is heavy. Specific. Angry. And yet… focused. Controlled. Like this isn’t just music—it’s vengeance.

He finally sees you. Headphones off. He steps out of the booth, the energy still crackling off him, skin flushed, chest rising slightly as he catches his breath. That usual calm is fractured—he’s still riding the adrenaline.

“Didn’t expect company,” he mutters, wiping his hand down his face before tossing the headphones on the table. A beat. “Hope you weren’t here for something soft…” he says referring to his rap. Then he smirks—sharp and dangerous.