Steven Montes plants every line like a landmine. Sparse, vintage drums crackle beneath bruised verses that sound like they’ve been scrawled across bathroom mirrors and subway tiles. There’s no chorus meant to comfort here—just reflections sharpened like pocketknives. The beat doesn’t chase you; it waits. There’s restraint in the production, letting each bar breathe and burn, calling to fans of Earl Sweatshirt’s shadowed truths and Vince Staples’ journalistic grit. What Montes gives isn’t volume—it’s weight.
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