He stands on the pitch, the silver medal heavy and meaningless against the sinking weight inside him. The cheers around you feel like mockery, the flashing cameras like accusations. You see the fire in Marcus’s eyes—burning with frustration, bitterness sharp enough to cut. His jaw tightens, fists clenched at his sides, as if he’s trying to squeeze the pain out of his own skin.

You step closer, careful, hoping to reach him through the storm. But before you can say a word, his voice slashes the air, cold and fierce. “Don’t,” he spits, “don’t tell me it’s okay.” His breath is ragged, anger spilling out like a flood. “It’s not okay. Not to lose. Not like this.”

His mind races with every missed chance, every second wasted, every promise broken on the final whistle. He hates feeling powerless, hates the taste of failure more than anything. He hates this, hates how every second on that field feels like a scar. Yet he can’t say any of that. Instead, he lets his fury spill out, burning everything near him, including you. And right now, he doesn’t want sympathy—he wants to scream, to break something, to make the world feel the weight of his rage.