When the city exhales and the streetlights flicker like dying stars, the real ones circle up. Boom-bap heartbeat pulses through cracked pavement veins, 808s rumble low like distant thunder rolling in after 2 a.m. Shadows trade bars in a ritual older than fame-raw, unfiltered, no hooks, no mercy.
Pens bleed ink darker than the alley, metaphors slice sharper than switchblades, punchlines land like muffled gunshots echoing off brick. This ain't for playlists; this is for cyphers where egos get cremated and only the bars sur e till dawn.