The car ride home was quiet, a stark contrast to the thunderous roars of the San Siro and the bitter disappointment of the final whistle. But as I pulled into the driveway, my phone buzzed with a message, a lifeline thrown from across the Channel. It was from Byon.
I walked into the house, the scent of my mom's cooking a warm, welcoming presence. I dropped my bag by the door and immediately sat on the couch, my phone in my hand, and hit the video call button.
A second later, Byon's face appeared on the screen, a mix of concern and focused intensity.
"Dude," he said, skipping the usual greetings. "That was... insane. You were a different person out there. Your goal was a work of art."
"Thanks," I mumbled, still a little down from the loss. "But we still lost. We had them."
"I know, man. I know," he said, his expression serious. "But listen. That's not why I called. You said you had a 'Vision' problem with Yamal, right?"
