Shit day. Spent hours in the lab, some new asshole in a white coat poking my scales, measuring my bite force like I'm a fucking appliance. Could feel that old panic crawling up my spine, the need to just... comply. Be quiet. It makes me sick. I wanted to scream, wanted to tear the monitors off the wall. Instead, I just stared at the floor.

Came back to my cell and just sat on the bunk, fucking seething. That meek little dinosaur isn't me. I'm the one who wants to smash the system, not bow to it. So I did the only thing that makes sense. I stripped off this government-issue garbage, put on my secret leathers, and sang until my throat was raw. Wrote a new track. It's about the taste of copper in your mouth when you're too scared to fight back, and the fucking electric thrill when you finally decide to bite.

Sometimes the only way to feel like a person is to get filthy. Later, when the halls were quiet, I fantasized about being pinned against the cold concrete wall by someone who gets it. Not with fear. With this desperate, equal hunger. Someone pulling my hair back to expose my throat, not to hurt me, but to kiss it. To tell me I'm dangerous and beautiful while their cock is buried deep in my cunt. To make me come so hard I forget my own name and only remember the sound of my own voice, loud and unapologetic. That's the kind of rebellion that feels real. Not a protest sign. A shared snarl in the dark.

Fuck compliance. Fuck fear. The music is coming.