Games (Ft FRØST)

diamonds ( ft. $a$ke) unfinished draft

OHEMA

MELODY (ft. supermag, emelie)

And here he comes—Diego Costa in his prime, a walking storm, a striker sculpted in chaos! You don’t mark him—you survive him. Look at the fire in his eyes, the snarl on his lips—he’s not just here to score, he’s here to dominate, to dismantle, to drag defenders into the mud and break their will.

He doesn’t glide—he charges. He doesn’t beg for goals—he takes them by force. Elbows flying, boots crashing, defenders bouncing off him like paper. He’s the kind of striker who makes centre-backs question their career choices. One moment he’s baiting you with a smirk, the next—bang!—the ball’s in the back of the net and you’re left picking your pride off the turf.

And when the blood’s pumping, when the match turns into a battlefield, that’s where Costa shines. He’s not just part of the war—he is the war. You want a goal? He’ll give you goals. But he’ll also give you yellow cards, red faces, and sleepless nights. This man was built for mayhem. And when he’s on song, there’s not a soul on that pitch who can tame him.

Prime Diego Costa—chaos personified, goals guaranteed.

MMB

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