The locker room was quiet, filled only with the rustle of tape being wrapped around ankles and the muted thump of cleats hitting the floor. Rúben Neves sat on the bench, lacing his boots with quiet focus. The captain's armband lay beside him—he didn’t need it to lead, but the weight of it always brought a calm kind of pressure.

“Neves,” the coach said, stepping into the room. “We need you to control the midfield. They're aggressive—don’t let them rush us.”

Rúben looked up, his expression unreadable. “Let them run. The ball will do the work.”

On the pitch, he was a metronome. Every pass had purpose, every touch calculated. With one sweeping diagonal ball, he carved open the defense. Later, from thirty yards out, he struck with that trademark precision—no spin, just thunder.

The crowd roared. His teammates rushed him, but Neves just pointed to his temple.

“It’s not power,” he muttered. “It’s knowing when.”