The locker room buzzed with tension, but Rodrygo sat still, earbuds in, head bowed slightly. The roar of the fans echoed faintly beyond the concrete walls, like a distant thunderstorm waiting to erupt.

Vinícius Jr. nudged him playfully. “You ready to cook tonight, irmão?”

Rodrygo smiled without opening his eyes. “Let them bring the pressure. I’ll bring the magic.”

Under the stadium lights, the ball stuck to his feet like a secret. One jink, two defenders passed. He lifted his head—calm, precise—and curled the shot around the keeper like he’d seen it in a dream.

Rodrygo wasn’t just playing. He was painting.