I wrote Villain at the point where I realised I could no longer manage how I was being perceived.
It came from that moment when you finally set a boundary... not angrily, not dramatically — and still find yourself cast as the problem. When someone else needs you to stay small, familiar, agreeable, and your growth threatens that version of you. Suddenly, honesty becomes betrayal. Calm becomes cruelty. Healing becomes an offence.
This song lives in that distortion.
I wasn’t interested in explaining myself anymore. I wanted to stand still inside the noise and let the tension speak for itself. Sonically, Villain leans into contrast. Hard edges and shadows, pulsing energy and emotional weight. The music moves forward with intent, while the vocal stays centred, refusing to shrink or soften to make the situation easier.
There’s power in that refusal. Not the loud kind, the grounded kind.
Villain isn’t about proving innocence or rewriting someone else’s story. It’s about stepping out of it altogether. Choosing clarity over comfort. Self-respect over appeasement. Truth over being liked.
If being honest makes you the villain in someone else’s narrative, this song is a reminder that you don’t have to play the role they’ve written for you.