Vrais

It smells of gasoline, anger, and expensive crossovers. The air is filled with the roar of engines and a quiet “hey” in time with the beat - as if the city itself is singing along, flashing its lights. This is all about those who fell, walked, fell again, but turned their stubbornness into a craft. About those who don't pray, but count - zeros, chances, bullets.

The words fly like a burst of gunfire, but in every line there is the fatigue of someone who has seen too often how “fake” smiles nearby. And now, when the noise subsides, all that remains is the clinking of empty glasses and the certainty that you can get out of the mud, but you can't go back there for anything.

The music rocks with heavy dignity - not bragging, but a hoarse declaration of life. It's funny, of course, to think that it's just about money. It's about respect for yourself when everything around you is temporary.