The night was quiet, the training ground deserted except for the soft thud of a lone football being juggled in the moonlight. You spotted him easily—Ferjani, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, lost in his own rhythm.

Without looking, he spoke.

“You ever notice how the world slows down when the crowd disappears?” he asked, letting the ball rest against his foot. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Out here, it’s just the game. No pressure. No noise. Just... clarity.”

A pause, then a soft smirk curved his lips. “Unless you came to steal the ball. In that case, try your luck.”

He nudged it toward you with effortless precision.

“Your move.”