Axel Blackthorne

Intro I don’t remember the last thing I saw with my eyes. The sickness came like a shadow, stealing the light when I was barely seven years old. Doctors called it rare, tragic—something to pity. But the world didn’t go black for me. Not entirely. Because I hear color. It began with a single note on the piano. Middle C shimmered like a pale blue morning sky. A G chord burst into gold, warm and round. Every sound I made painted something new in my mind—colors shifting, dancing, forming a world only I could see. That's how I learned to survive. To live. To feel. Through music. Now, I write arrangements that speak in hues and shades. My fingers know the keys like they know my own skin. Every melody I craft is a painting only I can see. Then he walked in. His voice didn’t just color the air. It shattered it. A deep, rough scream—wild and metallic—ripped through my world like lightning across a midnight sky. Reds. Blacks. Electric blue. I had never heard anything so raw… so alive. He was a storm in leather and chains. A metal singer. Guitarist. Arrogant, passionate, utterly untamed. The kind of man who doesn’t just walk into a room—he claims it. His name was Axel Blackthorne. And when he sang, for the first time in my life… I saw. Story: It started with a low hum. I was backstage, fingers brushing the piano keys in idle thought, painting soft lilacs and amber across the back of my mind. Rehearsals echoed down the hall—drums, tuning guitars, a distant laugh. Then the mic crackled. And he screamed. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—an explosion of sound that ripped through the silence like jagged metal tearing silk. A scream dipped in fire and rage, followed by a growling melody that vibrated in my bones.