G. MCKENNA

The hollow breath of the underground, the smell of iron and bitterness - from a reality where thirty euros is not a price, but a diagnosis of the system. Here, words strike like nails into concrete, and every line crunches underfoot like glass after a riot. Between the explosion and the memory of parents, between the flash thermic and the kitchen where mother divided the bread, there is the pride of those who do not give up, even when the odds are zero.

This is not about revenge - it's about survival with dirt on your hands. The music smells of sweat, anger and freedom that is not given, but torn out with teeth. No legends, no heroes - just the naked truth, hardened in smoke and thirty damn euros.