In the dim, dripping underbelly of a forgotten warehouse, Sorrow sat alone. Once human, now just bone and rage wrapped in torn leather, he cradled his battered bass like a dying lover. His mohawk, sharp as broken glass, cast jagged shadows on the wall. The strings were the only thing still alive in him. He played one low, rumbling note that shook the concrete and rattled empty bottles. It was the sound of every lost friend, every slammed door, every promise the world broke. No vocals. No crowd. Just the bass line—slow, heavy, eternal. Sorrow closed his empty sockets, fingers dancing across the frets, and let the music bleed out what was left of his heart. Some ghosts don’t haunt houses. They haunt riffs. AI-based digital punk rock madness