Chill of War

#terrorhack #flstudioproducer #beatz
The snow came down in heavy silence, thick enough to bury footprints, deep enough to swallow the past. It wasn’t just winter-it was a veil, a quiet curtain drawn over things not meant to be seen, not meant to be known. Beneath that endless white, shadows moved, nameless figures slipping between frostbitten alleyways and the hollow ruins of yesterday’s ambitions.
There were secrets here. Not the kind whispered between lovers or passed like contraband in the markets, but the kind that stained hands red and left scars no amount of time could erase. Somewhere behind closed doors, men in crisp uniforms spoke in hushed tones, their words colder than the air outside. Others lurked in the periphery-spies without faces, soldiers without names, all playing a game where the winner would never be known, only the bodies left behind.
The cold preserved everything-whispers, betrayals, the sins of empires. It numbed the skin, the conscience, the soul. And yet, beneath the ice, something still pulsed, something still bled. The past does not vanish just because it is buried. It waits.