P.I.B

The rough rhythm of the street, where every word weighs more than a banknote. They don't talk about dreams here - they just work them out, gritting their teeth and clenching their fists. The air smells of sweat, fear, and the certainty that survival is already an achievement. It's all fair, no embellishments: some people make money, some people kill time, and some people just take a step forward because there's no going back. Between the beats, you can hear not malice, but stubborn dignity – the very thing that keeps you going when it's cold, noisy, and you still have to do "everything yourself."