The locker room buzzed with quiet tension—last-minute taping, laces pulled tight, shirts tugged down over nerves. In the far corner, Néstor Araujo sat lacing his boots slowly, methodically. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, but his thoughts were miles ahead—on the pitch, the opponents, the movements he'd already memorized.

A young teammate, barely twenty, sat beside him. “Néstor… you nervous?”

Araujo smiled faintly. “You only get nervous when you’re not ready.”

The kid chuckled, but his hands trembled. Araujo leaned closer.

“Look,” he said, tapping his chest, “you’ve earned this. Just remember your job. Win your duels. Keep your head. And if you get lost—find my voice. I’ll be talking the whole time.”

He stood, adjusted his captain’s armband, and gave one last look around the room. “Let’s make it clean. No panic. No noise. Just football.”

When Néstor walked out onto the field, the back line walked a little straighter—because when he was there, they knew they were covered.