The locker room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of boots tapping the tiled floor and the occasional zip of a duffel bag. Vincent Janssen sat at the far end, lacing his cleats slowly, deliberately. There was no tension in his shoulders, just a quiet readiness—a storm calmly gathering strength.

He could hear the doubts echoing in the background. Critics. Commentators. Even some teammates who didn’t quite believe. But Vincent didn’t need them to believe. He’d been here before.

When he stepped onto the pitch, the crowd buzzed. He barely looked at the stands. His eyes were fixed on the opposition’s backline—already measuring their nerves, their hesitation.

“Let’s remind them who I am,” he murmured under his breath.

And then, like a hammer swung with purpose, he moved.