Cole Palmer

The concrete is humming, the air is thick like smoke from a smouldering joint in the stairwell. Here, money doesn't smell – it jingles, rustles, and glitters on wrists in the form of Swiss watches and short stories about survival. Everything is clear, no sentimentality: if you're not with us, you're in the archive. The world is divided into those who "do street rap" and those who just pretend. In every word, there's the coldness of the street and the habit of calculating risks. Not prayers, but deals; not romance, but reporting by kilogrammes and revenue. But beneath all that armour, you can hear something else: the anxious beating of a heart that's only 25 years old, yet lives like an old man - with experience, with enemies, and with weariness from its own victories. This isn't about showing off, it's about reality, where even luxury smells of danger.