Elian closed his journal with a soft snap, the ink still drying on the last line. The room was dark now, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp seeping through the blinds. He leaned back in his chair, the steady thump of his heartbeat syncing with the distant pulse of Barcelona's nightlife.
Two days to Madrid. Two days to face the white wall of the Bernabeu, where legends were forged or broken. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, feeling the weight of it settle—not crushing, but grounding.
The next morning broke cold and gray, a January chill clinging to the training ground as Elian arrived, boots slung over his shoulder. The pitch was alive already—Santos was there, as always, drilling shots into the net with a focus that bordered on obsession. The 19-year-old didn't look up, but Elian felt the silent challenge in every thud of the ball.
Santos wasn't here to hate him—he was here to outshine him. And Elian was fine with that.
Let the fire burn both ways.
