The locker room smelled of damp grass and liniment. Visar Musliu stood in front of his locker, methodically adjusting his armband, the North Macedonian crest visible on his chest. It was just a friendly, but for him, every game mattered. Every minute was a message: We belong on this stage.

Out on the pitch, the floodlights cut through the dusk like blades. As the national anthem played, Visar looked up—not at the cameras or the crowd, but at the flag.

He remembered the fields of Gostivar. The late-night training sessions. The games no one watched.

Tonight, eyes would be on him. But that wasn’t the goal. The goal was keeping order. Making others better. Winning the ball cleanly and getting it forward.

He looked at his keeper, gave a nod. Then to his center-back partner—short, quiet instructions exchanged with a glance.

The whistle blew.

And Visar moved like a wall of calm in a world of chaos.