It began in a forgotten city that hums like a broken neon sign. Somewhere between the last train home and the first lie of the morning, there was a fire in a basement venue that no one claimed responsibility for. The place was called The Arcade Funeral — part zine shop, part squat stage, part myth. Every band that played there left a piece of themselves behind: broken strings, smeared lipstick, bloodied drumsticks, or just… silence.
One night, five strangers showed up, each carrying a stolen sound.
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A runaway poet with glittered brass knuckles and a mic wrapped in wire.
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A girl who painted her songs on concrete with gasoline and flame.
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A drummer who only played in bursts, like lightning strikes.
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A boy who never spoke, but looped samples from dreams and sirens.
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And a figure with no name, no face, just a black glove, always watching.
They didn’t rehearse. They erupted.
They played one set. Just one.
The crowd didn’t clap. They howled. Cried. Tore down the walls.
When the lights came on, the stage was empty — but painted across the shattered back wall, in dripping red and black spray, were two words:
RICE THIEF
Nobody knows who wrote it. Nobody admits they were there.
But ever since, whenever a heart breaks too loud, or a tape melts in a Walkman, or a skeleton dog is seen barking at midnight rain —
someone whispers:
"They’re back."
"Rice Thief rides again."
And if you press your ear to a brick wall in the right alley, you might hear a chorus out of tune, playing just for you.