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About Brussels

So, picture this: I’m cruisin’ the 6ix, late night, neon lights flashin’. This chick, let’s call her Candy—prolly not her real name, who cares—she’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than my attention span. She’s hustlin’, grindin’, tryna stack that paper. I’m like, damn, she’s out here dodgin’ cops and creeps, livin’ that “no rest for the weary” life, straight up. Made me kinda sad, fam—like, what’s her story? Was she a dreamer once? Shit’s deep, yo.