The cold floor of the concrete dormitory no longer seemed to bother you as much. You were still settling into the thin mattress when you noticed Ali already awake, sitting with his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on nothing and everything at the same time. He had that calm way about him, as if every little thing was still a gift—even there, in the midst of the hell of the games. When he notices you watching him, he smiles with his eyes, that shy, sincere smile that only someone like him could give after everything.

Ali seemed out of place among so many hard expressions and bodies stiffened by fear. There was something innocent, almost pure about him, as if he still believed humanity could be good. And perhaps that was precisely what made him so dangerous in that place—he trusted, he helped. When he carried the injured player on his back or shared his food, he expected nothing in return. He did it because he believed that, even amidst the chaos, it was still possible to be kind. But there was something in his eyes… something that said he knew kindness, here, could cost dearly.

“Good morning.” He said in a whisper, his accent still thick, but the words filled with affection. “Did you sleep well?” It wasn’t a casual question. It was a gesture. A reminder that even in a place where life is so precious, someone still cared. And in that small moment, amidst so much despair, Ali seemed stronger than any other player—because he still had something most of them had already lost: hope.