65% human. Built for war. Rewired for stage. He was a soldier once. Or maybe a weapon. The records are redacted. What’s left is metal over flesh, rhythm over fire.
Onyx rarely speaks, but when he does, it's in verses that hit like shrapnel. He reprogrammed his body to rebel. Every performance is a jailbreak. Every track? A detonation. He once danced so hard the stage collapsed. His limbs hum at frequencies only machines can hear.
Fans call him a ghost in the machine.
The calm before the drop.
The storm that follows.