Skarra stares down the goalpost. Sweat clings to his skin, trailing down his neck and soaking into his jersey. He’s been out here longer than he should. The field’s empty, save for him and the storm brewing overhead.

He’s been running plays in his head, again and again. Every angle, every counter, every possible move his opponents might throw. But it’s just theory. Just ghosts. No teammates. No rivals. No fans. Just silence and the low hum of solitude.

He opens his palm, feeling the shift in the air as he lifts his eyes skyward. The clouds above answer him, not with thunder, but with that heavy stillness right before the rain starts falling.

Let it come, he thinks. Let it all wash away.