The locker room buzzed with energy, but Pedro Neto sat in his corner, lacing his boots in silence. His eyes, focused and sharp, reflected not nerves—but hunger. A hunger to prove that speed wasn't his only weapon.

“He’s like a storm in cleats,” murmured the assistant coach to no one in particular as Neto jogged onto the pitch.

Out on the field, defenders barely had time to turn before he was past them.

After practice, a teammate approached, winded and wide-eyed. “Mate, do you even breathe when you run?”

Pedro grinned, shrugging modestly. “Not when I’m chasing space. The ball gets lonely without me.”

That night, as the sun dipped below the stadium, he stayed behind, still working on his finishing. Pedro Neto wasn’t just fast—he was crafting something more dangerous: precision with purpose.