P.I.B

The rough beat presses down like the concrete walls of a courtyard, and in these lines you can smell metal, a smoke-filled cell, and freedom that is too expensive. There is no gilding here, only hoarse breathing after a run and short phrases that exude coldness. Money slips through your fingers like change through a grate, but the thrill drives you on: score a goal, hit the jackpot, get one step ahead of everyone else.

Images flash like searchlight beams: tribunals and grandstands, a lawyer behind bars, streetball with NBA names, locks that are easier to break than to open. Everything sounds deliberately heavy, bold, without unnecessary embellishment. This is not a hymn to glory, but a story about how to survive - with fists, wits, and speed. And while the beat pumps, one thing is clear: there is no one to compare it to, because here they speak with the confidence of those who have already survived the hardest times and learned to turn chaos into a weapon.