Metropolitano Stadium, Madrid
The stadium was full.
Sixty-eight thousand souls packed into the Metropolitano, their voices a thunderous ocean of red and white. Flags billowed. Banners stretched across the stands. The familiar chants echoed through the night air, shaking the very foundations of the arena.
But something was missing.
The crowd knew it. The players knew it. The world watching on television knew it.
Hiro wasn't there.
For the first time in two years, Atlético Madrid stepped onto the pitch without their talisman. Without their number ten. Without the man who had dragged them to the summit of Europe and made them believe in the impossible.
The absence hung over the stadium like a storm cloud—heavy, suffocating, and undeniable.
High above the city, in a quiet rehabilitation room.
Hiro sat in his bed, his leg elevated, his eyes fixed on the television screen.
The match was about to begin.
