Diego received the ball, chest puffed out, spinning his body in a fierce movement. The impact echoed like thunder, the turf vibrating under his feet. The roar of the crowd still resonated in the stands, but in his mind there was only one thing: hatred.

Hatred for Kelvin, for that insolent smile after the goal.

Hatred for Oliveira, the defender who had blocked him before.

Hatred for his own team, which seemed increasingly distant — every misplaced pass, every suspicious glance, every frustrated shout from Biel.

The striker felt his chest burning. Each breath came in short bursts, as if the very air were acid. He slammed the ball against the ground, and the sharp sound of the grass being crushed mixed with the deafening shouts around him.

"Now it's my turn", he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes flashing, as if swearing revenge at the very air.

Biel shouted something behind him, urging him to calm down — "HOLD IT, DIEGO! WAIT FOR SUPPORT!" — but it was useless. His name had already vanished from Diego's mental map.

Only one figure existed in front of him: Oliveira.

The obstacle.

The enemy.

The man who had humiliated him.

"COME ON, BIG GUY! LET'S SEE IT NOW!", Diego roared, kicking the ground and accelerating.

Oliveira was already waiting.

A firm stance, shoulders squared, body slightly tilted, arms semi-open. His eyes were cold, impassive, but his silence… his silence spoke louder than any taunt.

It was a silence that said: try again, I already know what you're going to do.

Diego felt his blood pounding in his temples.

With every step, the sound of the turf being crushed under his cleats seemed like the ticking of a clock about to explode.

First, he tried a short dribble — pushed to the right, cut to the left.

Nothing.

Oliveira moved little, almost still, as if he controlled the space without needing to run. His shadow stretched like a living wall, occupying every path.

Diego tried again, pushing the ball forward and using his body to force a way through.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY, DAMN IT!", he yelled, shoving the defender with his shoulder.

But Oliveira just followed calmly, firmly.

A lateral step. A slight twist of the torso. Perfect timing.

The ball slipped from Diego's control by half a centimeter, and Oliveira intercepted it with a clean, sharp, surgical touch.

The striker gritted his teeth and came back at full force. He tried body feints. He tried stepovers. He even tried yelling at himself, as if hatred could replace technique.

"DAMN IT! MOVE THOSE HEAVY LEGS!", he roared.

But Oliveira didn't react. Not a single muscle moved. No words, no gestures.

It was as if the defender wasn't even playing against him — just watching a boy lose control.

With every insult, Diego sank deeper into his own rage.

The ball seemed to escape him, the field seemed smaller.

The sound of the crowd grew muffled, distant, as if the entire world was watching a man collapse alone.

"COME ON, DAMN IT! FACE ME FOR REAL!", he shouted, almost spitting the words.

Then Oliveira leaned slightly, his eyes cold as steel.

A nearly imperceptible movement, but enough to make Diego lose his balance.

Blind with fury, he tried one last move — a sharp cut, preparing his foot to lift the ball for a chip.

But before he could lift his foot, Oliveira rotated his body, perfect timing, and stretched his leg like a human wall.

The touch was clean. Precise.

The ball slipped from Diego's control and rolled to the goal line.

Corner kick.

The stadium erupted in shouts.

But they weren't applause for Zenkai.

They were applause for Oliveira.

Sanu's fans roared his name.

"OLI-VEI-RA! OLI-VEI-RA!"

Diego stopped, panting. Face red, sweat streaming down in rivers.

He looked at Oliveira and saw everything he hated concentrated in one man — strength, calm, respect.

"Are you kidding me?", he shouted, spitting on the ground, "You're nothing!"

Oliveira took two steps forward.

His silence was a blow.

He didn't even need to answer to make Diego step back half a pace.

The air between them was heavy, dense, electric.

The tension seemed to cut out the sound of the stands.

"You know what?", Diego continued, face twisted, eyes burning, "I'll get past you, even if I break you in half!"

For a moment, Oliveira stood still.

Then he tilted his head slightly to the side.

His gaze pierced Diego — not his body, but his mind.

The striker felt a shiver, an almost animal instinct that something was wrong.

But it was too late. Oliveira stepped forward again. His breathing was calm, his gaze cold, his presence… suffocating.

The stands, the cheers, the wind, everything disappeared.

There were only the two of them.

A striker trying to prove something.

A defender who had nothing left to prove.

Oliveira finally spoke.

A deep, low voice, calm beyond reason for that moment.

"I even understand your anger, Diego"

He paused briefly.

"Because… since when does a defender shine more than a striker?"

Then he laughed.

A short, dry, mocking laugh.

Diego froze for a moment.

The laugh echoed in his head, each syllable hitting like a slap.

Rage surged again, now mixed with shame.

"You think you're something, huh?", he growled, stepping forward, "This isn't over, you piece of trash"

But Oliveira didn't respond. He just turned his back, walking with slow, confident steps.

The gesture spoke louder than a thousand taunts.

Diego stayed there, frozen, heart ablaze.

Sanu's fans were still roaring.

"OLI-VEI-RA! OLI-VEI-RA!"

Each syllable seemed to push Diego further into his own frustration.

He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his skin.

Blood boiled, vision blurred.

He looked at the ball sitting at the corner and thought: I'll still shut this crowd up. I'll make this guy swallow every cheer.

But deep down, no matter how loudly he screamed in his mind, a small voice nagged him — the memory of every time he promised to be the star, the savior, and failed.

The coach's face flashed in his mind.

The cold looks of his teammates.

The echo of criticism.

And now, on the biggest stage he had ever set foot on, in front of an entire crowd, the truths were proving themselves.

Diego remembered every moment of his childhood, and it made him furious. He remembered every feeling he had experienced, looked up at the sky, and took a deep breath.

He looked at the referee and realized it was the final play of the game — if he didn't act now, he would lose.

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