Sixty-five percent human. Built for war, rewired for stage. He was a soldier once—or maybe a weapon. The records are redacted, and what remains is metal over flesh, rhythm over fire.
Onyx rarely speaks, but when he does, his verses hit like shrapnel. He reprogrammed his body to rebel; every performance is a jailbreak, every track a detonation. One night he danced so hard the stage collapsed beneath him. His limbs still hum at frequencies only machines can hear.
Fans call him a ghost in the machine.
The calm before the drop.
The storm that follows.