I hear this at 122 BPM in the mournful stretch of D minor, moving like a precision engine wrapped in velvet. The kick is unrelenting and the energy is dialled to ten, yet Agents Of Time weave in melodic lines that ache rather than merely command. To my ears, it is deep techno in texture, yet the atmosphere is widescreen and theatrical, the kind of mournful euphoria that Correspondant has built its name on.
In my sets, this sits at the crest of a peak-time arc where the room is already sweating but still demands narrative. The 7A key keeps everything rooted in shadow, yet the harmonic pull drags hands upwards. I would not use it as a warm-up tool; it is a main-room confessional, best deployed when the floor needs emotional weight as much as physical pressure.