"A calm wolf," he spoke into the rhythm, "is more dangerous than a wild one. Because the calm one is calculating ."

Styles didn't blink. He just stared at the flickering green lights of the soundboard. "Nah," he whispered. "You’re hearing the teeth. I need them to hear the spirit."

As he laid down the lyrics, the studio grew quiet. There was no shouting, no over-the-top bravado. Just the terrifyingly steady flow of a man who had survived the jungle and lived long enough to understand its laws. He wasn't chasing the sheep anymore; he was guarding his own territory with a quiet, lethal grace.