Serrure #5

There are days when everything around you is a match, the street is your court, and every breath is a short sprint for survival. There's no luxury here, even if a trophy shines: medals are useless to those who have become the prize themselves. Everything is moving fast, with the crunch of gravel under sneakers and a faint smell of risk in the air. Words fly like blows to a ball - precise, confident, angry, but with that same elegance that comes when you're not playing - but living. And let there be noise, dust, and the eternal "countdown" around - inside, a cold rhythm remains: inhale, lunge, victory, and then silence again.