The sunrise was still stretching over the skyline, bleeding gold and pink across the horizon, when Thiago hit the pitch. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the damp, earthy musk of morning dew. The stadium loomed empty around him, its towering stands casting long, skeletal shadows over the field.
No cameras.
No staff.
Just him, the grass, and the dull echo of yesterday still heavy in his chest.
His lungs burned. His calves screamed. But he didn't stop.
Laps first—tight, brutal sprints across the width of the field and back, each footfall sending up tiny sprays of moisture from the turf. The rhythmic slap of his cleats against the ground was the only sound in the silence. Then quick-feet drills, his movements sharp and mechanical, the agility ladder laid out like a trap he had to escape. Resistance band sprints followed, the elastic biting into his waist as he fought against it, every muscle in his legs trembling with exertion.
