Success doesn't announce itself loudly.
It whispers first.
Azul felt it the morning after the free-kick goal, when his name appeared twice on the whiteboard instead of once. He felt it when the fitness coach nodded approvingly after sprint drills, when the kit man joked that his shirts were being washed more carefully now.
And he felt it most when space—the thing he lived on—began to disappear.
### **THE DISAPPEARING ROOM**
At training, defenders stopped playing him honestly.
They didn't rush anymore.
They waited.
Two steps off. One step angled. Always blocking the lane to goal, always forcing him wide or backward. When he drifted inside, a second body arrived instantly.
Azul adapted, as he always had. He passed quicker, rotated positions, created triangles.
But it was harder now.
Because he was no longer just the passer.
He was the threat.
### **THE MEETING**
Midweek, Miravet called Azul into his office.
The walls were bare except for a tactics board and an old photograph of Camp Nou under floodlights.
"You've entered a new phase," Miravet said, sitting back.
Azul remained standing.
"They won't give you freedom anymore," the coach continued. "They'll try to suffocate you mentally before they do it physically."
Azul nodded.
"What do you think that means?"
Azul thought carefully.
"I can't force moments."
Miravet smiled faintly.
"And?"
"I have to create pressure *without* the ball too."
The coach's smile widened.
"Good."
He leaned forward.
"Movement will be your weapon now."
### **LEARNING TO VANISH**
That week, Azul trained differently.
He ran without receiving.
Dragged markers into useless areas.
Paused instead of demanding the ball.
It felt unnatural at first — like silencing a part of himself.
But slowly, he understood.
By disappearing, he reappeared where it mattered most.
In the final scrimmage before the match, he scored without touching the ball for nearly thirty seconds — a late run, a first-time finish.
Miravet clapped once.
### **MATCH DAY — EXPECTATION**
The stadium was fuller than usual.
Word had spread.
Azul noticed his name being called louder, opponents warming up with glances toward him.
From kickoff, the plan was obvious.
Two midfielders tracked him.
The center-back stepped out early whenever he drifted forward.
For the first twenty minutes, Azul barely touched the ball.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
### **THE TRAP SPRINGS**
In the 23rd minute, Marcos received the ball in midfield and hesitated.
Azul sprinted across his vision, dragging both markers with him.
The space opened instantly.
Marcos played the through ball.
Azul wasn't there.
The striker was.
Goal.
Azul didn't assist.
He didn't score.
But the goal was his.
### **THE RESPONSE**
The opponent adjusted again, switching to a man-oriented press.
Every movement was tracked.
Every touch challenged.
In the 37th minute, Azul finally received cleanly near the box.
He turned.
A defender lunged.
Azul went down.
No whistle.
He rose immediately, jaw tight.
The crowd murmured.
He stayed calm.
### **SECOND HALF — NARROW MARGINS**
The second half opened brutally.
Hard challenges. Late steps. Constant contact.
In the 55th minute, Azul took a blow to the hip that sent him skidding across the turf.
This time, the referee stopped play.
Azul stayed down longer than necessary, forcing the opponent to wait.
He needed air.
He needed clarity.
When he stood, Miravet caught his eye and tapped his temple.
Think.
### **THE MOMENT OF CLARITY**
In the 68th minute, with the match still level, Azul drifted wide again. His marker followed.
The second marker hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Azul cut inside sharply, receiving a return pass at the edge of the box.
The shooting lane was tight.
The defender leaned right.
Azul struck left.
The ball rifled into the bottom corner.
Goal.
No celebration.
Just breath.
### **THE FINAL TEST**
The opponent threw everything forward.
Barcelona held on.
In stoppage time, Azul had one final chance on the counter. He ran thirty meters, legs screaming, keeper advancing.
He could have shot.
Instead, he slowed.
Waited.
Drew the keeper.
Squared.
Goal.
Whistle.
### **AFTERMATH**
In the locker room, exhaustion mixed with satisfaction.
Miravet approached him one last time.
"You didn't demand the game today," he said.
"You let it come to you."
Azul nodded.
"I'm learning."
Miravet placed a hand on his shoulder.
"So is everyone else."
### **ALONE, AGAIN**
That night, Azul stood by the window once more.
The field was shrinking.
But he was learning how to make it feel big again.
Not by force.
But by intelligence.
By patience.
By timing.
And as his reflection stared back at him, Azul understood something important.
Being Messi's successor wasn't about copying greatness.
It was about surviving the moment when everyone tried to stop you from becoming it.
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End