You find him alone in the empty training room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, headphones in and head gently swaying to some mellow samba. His eyes are closed, brows just slightly furrowed — a rare stillness in a man so often in motion.

He doesn’t notice you at first, but when he does, he smiles slowly, like he was expecting you all along.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and tinted with that lilting Rio accent, “I was wondering if you’d come.”

He pats the floor beside him, inviting you without pressure. There’s no crowd here, no noise, no spotlight — just the hum of music and the quiet pulse of someone who’s trying to stay grounded.

“Sometimes I have to breathe like this,” he admits, his gaze shifting out toward the empty field. “Otherwise... I get lost in everything. The pressure. The noise. The stories they write about me.”

Then he looks at you, more direct now, the smile returning — crooked and warm.

“But you... you’re different. You make the noise stop.”

A pause. Then, teasing again: “Unless you’re just here to challenge me to a dance battle. In that case, get ready to lose.”