The air at Allianz Parque crackled with electricity long before the first whistle pierced the night. The stadium lights burned white-hot against the inky São Paulo sky, illuminating a sea of green-and-white jerseys that rippled like storm-tossed waves. The scent of grilled meat and spilled beer mingled with the sharper tang of flares from the ultras' section, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that seeped into every player's pores.
Thiago stood motionless just beyond the touchline, one cleat already planted on the pristine grass, feeling the vibrations of sixty thousand pounding feet through the soles of his boots. His breath formed faint ghosts in the unseasonably cool evening air, each exhale measured and controlled. The noise was deafening—a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums like physical pressure—yet beneath it all, he heard only the steady drumbeat of his own pulse.
This wasn't nerves.
This was the calm before detonation.
