The phone rings.

No one speaks at first.

Only breath.

Only pulse.

Only the low hum of electricity crawling up the walls.

HAND TO PHONE is not a party, it’s a transmission.

Red light spills across the room like a fresh wound. Shadows stretch, distort, and dance on their own. Synth lines drip with menace. Italo rhythms shimmer like chrome knives. EBM pounds with the inevitability of footsteps behind you in an empty street.

You are watched.

You are wanted.

You are already too deep.

The DJs act as operators, patching signals from dark synth to sleazy disco futurism, from mechanical desire to raw body heat. Each track is a clue. Each beat pulls you closer. The dancefloor becomes a scene—sweat, leather, lipstick, and static charged air.

The phone cord coils at your feet.

The night tightens its grip.

There is no safe word. There is no escape.

Answer the call.

Or let it haunt you forever.

HAND TO PHONE

Dark synth. Italo. EBM.

No cover. No mercy.