P.I.B

It smells of cold metal and sweat, as if the nite itself is breathing thru its teeth. Here, every breath is exhaling strength, every sound is like a shell casing on the asphalt. The world doesn't forgive weakness, but it respects precision of movement. Everything happens quickly: a door, a lock, the screech of brakes, a step further. Without holidays or fireworks - just a game of survival where victory isn't measured in applause, but in the fact that morning has arrived at all. In the rhythm of booming bass and short phrases - confidence, honed by pain and concrete. Where dreams are hidden under hoodies and pride smells like gasoline.