KETCHUP

The city breathes exhaust fumes and self-confidence. People don't smile here - they measure themselves by their scars, new crossovers, and the number of ‘mates on the line.’ Every evening is like a mini-premiere: red headlights, red bandanas, red flags on the map. But this isn't about glamour. It's about those who have learned to get up after every fall, even if you get up with bruises under your eyes and anger instead of coffee.

There is something hypnotic about this bravado - as if confidence can be moulded from mud and blood. Between the lines, there is not just boasting, but a stubborn ‘I live because I know how to fight.’ Everything around pulsates to the beat: aggression, humour, self-respect. And yes, this sauce is definitely not ketchup.