Serrure #5

The street smells of heat and self-confidence. Beats pound as if someone is arguing with the silence - loudly, sharply, with the crunch of fresh ice underfoot. This isn't about pretentiousness, but about survival based on intuition: when reflexes replace diplomas, and the street replaces medals, deciding for itself who to praise today and who to forget. Everything around moves quickly, but inside there is cold calculation and a habit of not waiting for applause.

Phrases fall like drumbeats - short, clear, with a hoarseness in the voice and a smirk to boot. In this sound, there is the fatigue of a winner who does not believe in fate but knows the route to success by heart. No flag, no uniform, just a plain grey hoodie - just a rhythm that knows how not to stop.