The sky over São Paulo hung low with clouds, swollen and heavy, as if the weather itself was holding its breath. The air smelled of damp earth and distant ozone, the kind of charged stillness that comes before a storm. At the Palmeiras training ground, the atmosphere was no different—tense, expectant, humming with unspoken energy.
The final against Corinthians was days away, but the weight of it had already settled in. Staff moved briskly through hallways, clipboards tucked close, murmuring tactics in hushed tones. Security presence had increased—journalists loitered beyond the gates, drones buzzed overhead like mechanical vultures, fans crowded the perimeter, all desperate for a glimpse of the storm about to come.
Thiago stood at the far end of the pitch, arms crossed, his breath fogging in the early chill. He wasn't dressed for the weather—just training kit and a thin jacket—but he didn't feel the cold. Not really.
Not when something else sat heavier in his chest.
Camila.
