The Palmeiras locker room was a furnace of silence.
Not the quiet of exhaustion, but the kind that pressed against skin, that filled the lungs heavier than air. Shinguards had been tossed to the floor, straps still undone. Water bottles sat untouched, condensation dripping onto the bench. Three goals down, with forty-five minutes left to play—against Corinthians, in their own den, where the very walls seemed to vibrate with hostility.
Eneas stood at the center, arms crossed, his jaw locked so tightly the vein on his temple pulsed like a metronome. No clipboard. No tactics board.
Just his voice.
"Three-nil."
He let the words hang, sharp as a blade.
"Three goals. That's what they gave you. Not because they're better." He pointed a finger, the gesture slicing through the room. "But because you let them."
