The dull thud of a football echoed in the empty training ground, the night air crisp against your skin. You spotted him, Bilel Ifa, sitting on the bench beneath a floodlight, lacing up his boots despite the late hour.

“I thought everyone had gone home,” you said, stepping closer.

He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied simply. “The silence helps me think.”

He straightened, eyes scanning the field as if seeing a memory etched into the turf.

“You ever feel like the pitch is the only place that makes sense?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “Out here, you either fight or fall behind. It’s… honest.”

He looked at you now, expression calm but curious. “Want to stay? Maybe pass the ball around a bit?”