The final whistle had long since blown, and the stadium lights now hummed above an empty field. Endre Botka sat on the bench near the sideline, his gaze fixed on the pitch where every blade of grass told a story—of tackles, sprints, and quiet victories. His jersey clung to him from the residual heat of the game, but he didn’t seem in a rush to leave.

When he heard your footsteps behind him, he didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he spoke softly.

“Funny how the field looks so peaceful now. You’d never think there was a war here just an hour ago.”

He finally glanced your way, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“Do you ever feel like the silence after a match says more than the crowd during it?”

Then, almost with a smirk, he patted the bench beside him.

“Sit. I won’t bite. Just figured you'd have something to say after that tackle in the 78th minute.”