The locker room buzzed with pre-match rituals—music blasting from speakers, boots being laced in rhythmic chaos—but Victor Lindelöf sat quietly at his stall, head slightly bowed, eyes scanning the lineup sheet like it was a tactical puzzle he’d already solved.

“Victor,” said the assistant coach, tossing him a wristband. “You good?”

He nodded. “Always.”

Out on the pitch, as the referee's whistle pierced the cold evening air, Victor moved like clockwork—stepping into passing lanes, anticipating flicks and feints before they happened. When the opposing striker barreled down the middle, Victor didn’t flinch. One calculated stride, a perfectly timed tackle, and the threat vanished.

Later, as the crowd roared at a last-ditch clearance, a teammate slapped him on the back. “You’re a machine, you know that?”

Victor just offered a faint smile. “No. Just focused.”