They stood back-to-back, two titans of the word, bridging the gap between the living and the eternal. Almighty didn't flinch. He leaned into the fire, his verses becoming a bridge. He rhymed about the pain of the streets, the betrayal of the industry, and the immortality of the message.
Suddenly, a second voice joined his. It wasn't through the headphones. It was a resonance, a vibration in the marrow of his bones. A figure emerged from the gloom, draped in a simple hoodie, his face etched with the weary wisdom of a man who had seen the "All" and the "Nothing."
"Es épico," Almighty whispered, the words tasting like copper and ash. He hit 'record.'
As the final notes of the tribute faded, the spectral figure nodded—a silent passing of the torch—and dissolved into the incense smoke.
He started to rhyme, his voice a gravelly tribute to the man who fought the devil in his lyrics and won, even in death. With every bar, the temperature in the room plummeted. The equipment flickered. He could feel the weight of Canserbero’s legacy—the raw honesty, the nihilism, and the desperate search for light in a dark world—pressing against his chest.
The city was a graveyard of neon and concrete, a place where the air felt heavy with the ghosts of poets who died too young. Inside a dimly lit studio, the air was thick with incense and the hum of an old tube amp. Almighty sat at the desk, his eyes fixed on a mural of Tirone Gonzalez—Canserbero—whose gaze seemed to pierce through the paint and into the soul. He wasn’t just recording a song; he was opening a portal.
As the beat dropped—a haunting, rhythmic pulse that sounded like a heartbeat in an empty cathedral—the walls of the studio began to bleed away. The shadows elongated, twisting into the familiar architecture of Canserbero’s underworld. Almighty wasn't in San Juan anymore; he was standing at the edge of the Styx, where the water was made of ink and lost verses.