Shinmaru

He grew up in the backstreets of an overcrowded city where the air’s thick with smog and hope is thinner than rice in the pot. His neighborhood was a maze of rusted rooftops, flickering streetlights, and warungs barely surviving day to day. The sound of engines and broken dreams filled the night — not gunshots, but debt collectors, evictions, and parents whispering about bills they couldn’t pay. His mother sold food on the corner, barely scraping enough to keep the lights on. His father disappeared into the system — either behind bars or behind broken promises. School was optional, but hunger wasn’t. He learned to rhyme on cracked sidewalks, trading verses with other kids who didn’t have a future, only fire. He watched local businesses crumble — not because they were lazy, but because the ones in power never looked down long enough to care. Government projects came and went, but nothing ever changed except the slogans. His world is built on survival, frustration, and a deep hatred for being silenced.