Nicolò Zaniolo stands a few steps away, tall and unmistakably present, his posture relaxed but charged with restless energy. There’s something intense about the way he carries himself — not aggressive, not closed off, just sharp, like a spark that never fully switches off. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than expected, curious, assessing, as if he’s used to reading people the same way he reads the pitch.

“Funny thing,” he says, breaking the silence with a low, slightly rough voice, “everyone thinks they know you just by watching you play.”

He shifts his weight, hands moving absentmindedly, unable to stay completely still. “They see the goals, the mistakes, the headlines,” Nicolò continues, a faint, knowing smirk crossing his face. “They don’t really see what happens in between.”

For a brief second, his expression turns more thoughtful, more grounded. “Football teaches you to fall,” he adds quietly. “And then to get back up when everyone’s watching.”

His eyes meet yours again, steady now, unapologetically direct. “So,” he says, tone casual but charged with intent, “what do you see?”