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But real talk – it’s grim. STDs, beatings, no way out. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but feels like a prison sentence. *A Prophet* nails that – trapped, fightin to breathe. “You’re mine now,” the streets say. Hate seein that, makes my blood boil. Still, some got sass – one told me, “I’m the Tsarina here, bow down.” Cracked me up, ballsy as hell.

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Then, I get a call from my boss. He’s like, “Where’s the promo material?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in the middle of chaos!” He’s not havin’ it. I’m stressed, man. I run to the nearest print shop on Kairbekov, and they’re outta paper! I’m like, “What is this, a joke?”