The city stirred with weekday routine as Thiago slipped out of the dormitory before sunrise, the soles of his training shoes whispering against the concrete path. The world was still half-asleep—street vendors hadn't yet set up their carts, the usual hum of morning traffic was muted, and the sky clung to the last remnants of indigo before surrendering to dawn.
No cameras followed him here. No spotlight tracked his steps as he made his way toward the smaller training pitch, tucked behind the main stadium like a well-kept secret. Just the hum of São Paulo life—the distant rumble of a garbage truck, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the rhythmic clatter of a bakery's shutters rolling up—and the echo of footsteps that belonged to no one but him.
