"They say lightning never strikes the same place twice.

But you... you don't even strike once.

You’re just the static on a dead channel.

Sit down, 'Your Highness.' The court is adjourned."

Four bars in and your throne’s already shaking,

Every 'royal' breath you breathe is hollow and aching.

You talk about a storm like you control the weather,

But you’re a wet matchstick tied to a feather.

I looked for your reign in the scrolls of the greats,

All I found were your debts and your empty plates.

You’re a Prince of the shadow, a King of the dust,

With a crown that’s held together by spit and by rust.

The table is a mirror and it’s showing the truth:

A man who wasted his luck and his youth.

Check the dice in his hand—see how they quiver?

The Prince of the Lightning has a permanent shiver.

He’s terrified of the roll, he’s scared of the seven,

Trying to climb a ladder that don't reach to heaven.

You’re a fuse that’s blown, you’re a wire that’s frayed,

Watching the colors of your legacy fade.

You’re the 'Prince' of the alley, the 'Lord' of the trash,

A high-voltage dream that’s turned into ash.

I’ve seen more fire in a bucket of slush,

While you’re standing there playing a 2-high flush.

THE GRID IS GONE! (Sound of a massive iron door slamming)

The Prince is out of breath.

THE GRID IS GONE! (Distorted electrical explosion)

It’s a digital death.

The dice are cold stones in a dead man’s grip,

Watch the crown fall, watch the scepter slip.

You’re a short-circuit king in a world of LED,

And there’s no room left for your fantasy.

(The beat gets denser, layering in industrial clanking and a deep, growling synth)

Let’s talk about your 'power'—it’s a AA cell,

A flickering light at the bottom of a well.

You walk into the room and the energy drops,

Like a failing engine when the piston pops.

You’re not the bolt, you’re the smell after the hit,

The lingering stank of a man who should quit.

You’re a 'Prince' like a pigeon is a 'Prince' of the sky,

Just a bird in the dirt with a glass in his eye.

Your dice are weighted with the lies that you tell,

Welcome to the bottom of your own personal hell.

(Beat starts to warp, slowing down even further)

If you’re the lightning, then why is it dark?

If you’re the fire, then where is the spark?

You’re a walkman playing in a world of fiber-optic,

A tragic little trope, almost microscopic.

You bet on your name and you lost the whole pile,

Now you’re walking the plank with a fake-gold smile.

The 'Prince of Lightning'—it’s a comedy sketch,

A desperate reach that you couldn't quite fetch.

You’re grounded. You’re buried. You’re done. You’re through.

The storm didn't come... because the storm was never you.

(Everything cuts out except for a slow, mechanical ticking—like a bomb or a clock.)

Ten for the ego.

Nine for the fall.

Eight for the Prince...

Who had nothing at all.

Seven for the dice.

Six for the grave.

Five for the soul...

That you couldn't quite save.

(The beat returns with a deafening, distorted roar)

THE GRID IS GONE! (Sound of a transformer melting)

The Prince is out of breath.

THE GRID IS GONE! (Heavy sub-bass pulse)

It’s a digital death.

The dice are cold stones in a dead man’s grip,

Watch the crown fall, watch the scepter slip.

You’re a short-circuit king in a world of LED,

And there’s no room left for your fantasy.

(The music begins to disintegrate into static and white noise.)

Voiceover: "Check the meter, Prince.

Reading: Zero.

No more 'Lightning.'

Just...

Silence."