The locker room smelled of sweat, grass, and tension. Bottles rolled across the floor as players slumped on benches, some catching their breath, others staring into the distance as if replaying every mistake in their minds. The first half had ended in a deadlock: 1–1. Eternal Era had dominated possession, but the Orion Blades' counterattacks were ruthless, and their striker's speed was like a blade cutting through space itself.
Jason stood at the center, arms folded, eyes burning with calculation. He wasn't pacing, wasn't shouting, he was studying each player as if they were pieces on a chessboard.
"Listen," Jason finally said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. "We're winning the duels, but not the war. They're baiting us into overcommitting. Grim, keep your Shadow Zone tight. Lionel, I want you higher up the line—force their striker into dead channels. Anastasia, Scarlet, don't just push; draw them in. Make them commit bodies."
