The referee's whistle cut through the cold morning air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
The hunt had begun.
Julian's cleats bit into the turf as he exploded forward.
The ball rolled to meet him, each touch smooth and alive under his foot, as if it had been waiting for him all morning.
The cold in the air didn't just bite—it burned along his lungs with every inhale, making his breath hiss between clenched teeth.
Each sound in the stadium seemed magnified: the snap of a banner in the wind, the faint thud of boots on the far side, the crackle of voices shouting instructions across the pitch.
San Dimas didn't rush. They didn't press.
They stalked.
Compact lines, patient spacing, their midfielders drifting like wolves—never lunging, just shadowing, waiting for the one mistake that would give them blood.
From the corner of his vision, Julian caught Elijah Kwon's eyes. Calm. Unblinking. Calculating.
