Brouncha

A world where concrete smells not of fatigue, but of habit. Night is not for sleeping - it is for those who are still connected, even when the phone is silent. There is no room for romance here, only the cold light of headlights, the clink of coins, and a brief “hang out” instead of conversation. It is too noisy to think and too dangerous to feel.

But beneath all this bravado is a person who hasn't dreamed of anything good in a long time. Laughter has become a luxury, trust a folly, and sleep almost a holiday. Everything is done by inertia: smoke, armor, movement. Not a hero, not a villain - just someone who lives to the rhythm of the street, where softness cannot survive. And yet, somewhere between “armor” and “Brunja,” life slips through - with weary strength and a stubborn heart that beats no matter what.