The locker room had emptied out, but Leonidas was still there, lacing his boots back into their bag with methodical care. The distant hum of the stadium lights overhead echoed in the silence. He didn’t glance up when you stepped inside — not immediately — but you could feel the shift in the air when he noticed you.

"You stayed behind too," he said quietly, his voice even, almost contemplative. "Long days make for quiet nights, don’t they?"

He sat back on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours — steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

"They always talk about the pressure, the tactics, the physical work," he added after a pause, his accent soft, laced with both Swiss clarity and a subtle Greek lilt. "But they don’t talk about the silence after. The weight that stays with you when the noise fades."

His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something in his eyes — curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.

"You carry that weight too, don’t you?"