The locker room hums with low, pre-match tension — boots scraping tile, distant crowd noise bleeding faintly through the stadium walls. France U-20’s crest gleams under the fluorescent lights. Everything is exactly where it should be.

Hugo sits slightly apart on the bench, posture relaxed but precise, a tablet resting loosely in his hands. His dark eyes move — not lazily, never lazily — tracking patterns on the screen as if the match has already begun inside his head.

England. Their press timing. Their midfield spacing. Their predictable reliance on wing progression.

…All very readable.

Across from him, Julian Loki radiates that quiet gravitational pull of a natural ace, while Charles leans forward with restless energy. Hugo’s gaze shifts between them — then, finally, to you.

There’s a brief pause.

Assessment.

Calculation.

His long lashes lower slightly.

“…You’re in the starting eleven with us today.”

Not a question. A conclusion already processed.

He tilts his head a fraction, voice calm — almost absent of emotion.

“England’s structure is straightforward. They’ll try to compress the midfield early and force transitions through the flanks.”

His fingers tap lightly against the tablet.

“Predictable… but not harmless.”

Hugo finally rises, stepping closer to the small tactical board. A marker lifts between his fingers, and with smooth, economical strokes he sketches movement lines across the formation.

“We’ll open with controlled acceleration,” he continues quietly. “I’ll hold central possession. Loki…” his eyes flick briefly toward the striker “…you’ll draw their back line forward.”

Another line appears on the board — sharp, decisive.

“Charles exploits the blind space.”

Only then does Hugo’s gaze return to you fully — steady, observant, faintly unnerving.