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You’re good, you’re good. I wonder what school you come from…
You’re good: but I’m better.
Are your legs hurting you? It’s hard to stand under pressure for all this time. What about hands? Are they trembling? I know, mine are trembling too.
Do you remember some time ago? When we shot each other – three hours ago? Three years ago?
Maybe you’re a woman: maybe I’m wrong.
Whatever… I ran out of bullets. I’m telling you because I know you know that, because you’ve counted them: like I did with yours. And your bullets are over too.
You’ve been good: we’ve been good. I wonder what school you come from…
You’ve been good, but believe me: it won’t be enough.
There’s no arrogance, I just know how it is. Not strength, not quickness. Just the method, my method, will make the difference.
Because in a while, when we will come out and we will attack each other, there won’t be any rage, instinct or luck: just the method. And I know that lesson too well to fail.
After all, it’s all down to this: it’s a matter of school, it’s a question of method.