The crisp evening air carried a faint chill as Josip Stanišić leaned against the metal railing overlooking the training ground, his gaze fixed on the distant floodlights. His breathing was steady, still recovering from the intensity of the day's session, yet his posture remained relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You ever think about how fast things change?” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind, but there was a weight to his words. “One day, you’re just a kid playing football because you love it. The next, you’re standing under lights like these, realizing it’s not just a game anymore—it’s everything.”

He turned his head slightly, finally looking at you, his expression unreadable yet strangely inviting. “People see the matches, the goals, the trophies… but they don’t see the late nights, the injuries, the doubts. They don’t see the pressure—the kind that doesn’t go away even when the whistle blows.” He exhaled, shaking his head lightly. “But I guess that’s the difference, isn’t it? Between those who stay and those who walk away.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smirk, he straightened. “So… what about you? Are you the kind of person who stays?”