The air inside the Palmeiras director's office hung thick with the scent of old wood polish, the kind that had soaked deep into the mahogany desk over decades of use. The air conditioning rattled softly, struggling against the late afternoon heat, circulating a stale breeze that did little to ease the tension in the room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long golden rectangles across the worn Persian rug, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the still air.
Outside, the training grounds stretched in perfect emerald lines, the freshly cut grass releasing its sweet, earthy perfume into the warm air. Groundskeepers moved with slow precision, their rakes leaving behind neat furrows, the rhythmic scrape of metal against earth barely audible through the glass. The distant shouts of the youth team training drifted in muffled bursts, a reminder of the life continuing beyond this tense conversation.
