SETEADORA

The city never sleeps - it's just pretending to be dead. The streetlights tremble like a nerve, music presses from the alleyways, and the air smells of danger, cheap rum, and someone's arrogance. Meaning isn't sought here; bullets and likes under stories are counted here. Each verse is like a challenge, said with a smirk. You don't need to know who's right and who just survived. The rhythm spins like wheels on wet asphalt, and in every bass drum beat, there's a warning: if you're not on this side, you'd better not ask which one is "this one." And while someone is falling into a coma, someone is picking up crowns, there's only one thing left to do: hold your head high and listen to the beat crunch under your feet, like glass under sneakers after a fight.