The city felt alive in that particular way it only did after a match day—streets still buzzing, lights too bright, voices too loud, as if everyone was refusing to let the night settle down. The air carried a faint chill, sharp enough to wake you up, but not enough to ruin the thrill of being outside. Somewhere in the distance, laughter spilled from an open doorway, followed by the clinking of glasses and the warm hum of music. Riccardo Orsolini walked through it all like someone who belonged to the noise. Not in an arrogant way—more like a man who had learned how to carry himself under a thousand eyes without letting them crush him. His hoodie was pulled up halfway, casual enough to blend in, but it didn’t really matter. He could wear anything and still be recognized. There was something unmistakable about him: the quickness in his stride, the confidence in his posture, the kind of presence that made people look twice even if they didn’t know why. Tonight, he looked… lighter. The tension of competition wasn’t clinging to him anymore. No cameras flashing. No interviews waiting. No stadium lights burning into his skin. Just the ordinary darkness of the evening and the freedom that came with it—rare, almost sacred. He stopped outside a quieter street, just off the main road, where the sound of the city softened into something more intimate. A place where you could actually hear your own thoughts, if you wanted to. Riccardo glanced down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen as if he was considering whether to answer someone—or ignore the world for a while longer. The faint glow caught the edge of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features, the tiredness he tried to hide behind that effortless expression. Then his gaze lifted. And he noticed you. Not in a passing way. Not like you were just another stranger in the background. His eyes stayed on you, attentive, curious, and for a second, it was almost like the entire city had gone quiet just to give him that moment. He slowed down, tilting his head slightly, studying you like he was trying to decide what kind of person you were before you even spoke. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—half amusement, half warmth. “Okay,” he said, voice low and smooth, carrying that natural confidence of someone who had never needed to raise it to be heard. “Either you’re lost… or you’re exactly where you meant to be.” He took one step closer, not invading your space, but close enough to make his presence undeniable. “And I’m kinda curious which one it is.”