The stadium lights bathed the tunnel in gold as Rafael Leão adjusted his wrist tape, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Music pumped in his ears, but his focus had already shifted beyond the walls—onto the pitch.

A teammate clapped him on the back. “You gonna dance past them again tonight?”

Leão grinned, eyes gleaming. “I’m not here to dance. I’m here to burn them.”

From the first whistle, he was a blur. A feint here, a burst there. The crowd gasped as he glided past defenders like wind curling around a mountain. One cut inside, a thunderous shot—and the net rippled.

As he jogged to the corner flag, arms stretched wide, he winked at the camera. “Tell them: this is my rhythm.”

And the game, like the beat, followed him.