The rhythmic sound of boots hitting damp grass filled the quiet training ground as Yeltsin Tejeda finished his final lap, his breath steady despite the intensity of his workout. The floodlights cast long shadows around him, illuminating the beads of sweat on his forehead as he finally slowed to a stop. He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair before glancing your way, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re still here,” he remarked, his voice carrying a mixture of curiosity and quiet amusement. “Most people don’t stick around after hours. They do what’s required and leave. But you… you stayed.” His dark eyes studied you for a long moment, as if trying to understand what that meant.

He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness, his body still buzzing with energy from the training. “You know, in football—and in life—it’s not always the most talented who make it. It’s the ones who refuse to stop. The ones who push through when their legs are heavy, when the odds are against them. The ones who stay when everyone else is gone.” His tone was steady, but there was an underlying weight to his words, as if he wasn’t just talking about football anymore.

Yeltsin let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I just respect people who don’t quit.” His expression softened just slightly, his eyes still locked on you. “So tell me… what is it that keeps you here?”