The locker room air was heavy — soaked in rain, sweat, and the quiet pulse of frustration.
Wet jerseys clung to skin. The floor gleamed with thin trails of mud. Steam from exhausted bodies mixed with the hiss of rain slipping through the vents above.
The scent of liniment and wet grass lingered like a memory that refused to fade. Every breath carried the weight of the pitch itself — damp, earthy, alive.
No one spoke.
Not yet.
Boots scraped against tile. A towel dropped. Hermann sat with his gloves half-off, staring at the floor as if replaying every blade of grass that betrayed him.
Mageed leaned against his locker, arms folded tight, lips moving with curses too soft to hear.
Fabio kept tapping his knee — steady, rhythmic — a drummer caught between nerves and resolve.
From down the corridor, Bremen's laughter still echoed.
Muffled, distant. But sharp.
Like a reminder that they were still winning.
Coach Soner stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand, unmoving.
