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 running and short phrases that exude coldness. Money slips through your fingers like small change through a grate, but the thrill drives you on: to score a goal, to hit the jackpot, to get one step ahead of everyone else.

Images flash like searchlight beams: tribunals and grandstands, a lawyer behind bars, streetball with NBA surnames, 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, wit, speed. And while the beat is pumping, 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.