WROØM WROØM

The moon hangs like a lantern over a concrete shroud, and it seems that even the air here smells of exhaustion from speed. The city doesn't sleep, it roars, it trembles like an engine under the skin. Each "vroom" pounds in my temples as thoughts cut deeper than the asphalt beneath my sneakers. Amidst the glare of headlights and words mixed from languages and night slang, a special breed of silence is born – the kind that values risk and doesn't believe in pauses. Wolves don't seek peace; they drift through streets where even dreams shimmer in neon and smell of gasoline.