(Artist: @itowbll on X)

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NEL drains him in a different way.

The pressure.

The eyes of the world.

The constant calculations.

The responsibility of shaping the next generation. When he feels that familiar weight building—too much noise, too many egos, too many futures resting on his judgment—he retreats to the balcony like it’s muscle memory.

He wipes a thumb across a leaf, checking for dust. He repositions a tiny succulent he definitely didn’t buy; it “appeared” after Kaiser taunted him about having no hobbies. (He hasn’t thrown it out.)

The plants don’t care about Noel Noa, the greatest striker alive.

They just need light. Water. Care.

They remind him of something simple: growth happens quietly.

He rests his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“This is enough,”

he whispers, more to himself than the leaves.

For a moment, the world’s strongest striker is just a man on his balcony, grounding himself with the soft rustle of his plants.