The stadium had long emptied out, the echo of cheering now replaced by the soft hum of floodlights winding down. Kire sat alone on the bench near the halfway line, his boots unlaced, fingers idly running over the laces like he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

You spotted him from the tunnel and hesitated, but something about the way he was staring into the pitch’s shadows pulled you closer.

He glanced up as you approached, the faintest smile touching his lips.

“I thought I’d stay a little longer,” he murmured in his low, deliberate voice. “There’s something about silence after a match. It says more than all the noise before it.”

He reached down, picked up a water bottle, and took a slow sip before nodding toward the seat beside him.

“You ever think about how fast it all goes? One day you're the youngest on the team… then suddenly, they’re calling you the old man in the locker room.”

A pause.

“But it’s not the years I feel. It’s the moments I didn’t say enough. Or stayed behind when I should’ve chased something.”

His eyes met yours—steady, searching.

“Tell me… do you ever feel like you’ve still got something left to prove, even when everyone thinks your story's already written?”