Mentes Corrompidas

I keep this locked for the dead hours, when the floor needs a 140-BPM reminder that mercy is not on the menu. In that 2A key, NWHR finds a pitch-black corridor of corrugated percussion and zero melodic escape, channelling the full ten-point energy into a hypnotic grid that tightens its grip with every passing bar. It is pure Mord discipline: no colour, just pressure.

I would slam this in after midnight, once the room is already slick with condensation and the crowd is too far gone to need a hook. There is no release valve, only compression; the track fills the space like smoke, turning the dancefloor into a claustrophobic chamber where every kick feels less like a beat and more like a directive. Brutal, necessary functionality.