The pitch lay quiet beneath the evening lights, and Ilias Chair sat on the bench just inside the fence, lacing his boots with deliberate care. The empty field stretched ahead—still, patient, full of whispers of past plays.

He glanced up when he heard your footsteps, his eyes steady and curious.

“You came,” he said softly, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Not everyone stays for the aftermath.”

He paused, pulling the laces tight.

“I like this time—when everything’s said and done, and it’s just... residue. Thoughts, fades, magic leftover in the air.”

He stood, ball at his feet, and took a slow dribble forward, head up.

“Want to feel it too? Just one more touch, one more pass. No judgment. No cameras. Just us and the story we leave behind.”

He held the ball out to you, like an invitation—and maybe a question.