Fingo&Spingo

It's as if the whole world clenched its fists and pretended everything was under control. Her face is calm, her voice steady, but her fingers are betrayingly tapping a rhythm on her thigh, as if drumming out a distress code. The air smells of iron and adrenaline, where fear pretends to be courage and fatigue is just poor lighting. Everyone pretends they're holding on. That's how it should be - fake, but confidently. Somewhere between the needle and the microphone, between duty and burnout, lies that very limit. When you no longer know what drives you - faith, anger, or the habit of survival. But you still keep going. Because you can't fall first when there's a line of people behind you waiting for you to hold on. And yes, maybe the night won't give you the answer, but it will honestly show you who's faking it and who's genuinely spinning.