The second-half whistle sliced through the stadium like a warhorn—sharp, echoing, and undeniable. Zahrra was on the back foot. But Zahir… Zahir was fire.
Zorion and Eirene—mid-banter, mid-chaos, mid-snack—snapped their attention back to the pitch.
There he was. Number 7. The pride of Zahrra. One ball, one mind, one mission.
With a flick of his foot and a burst of wind behind him, Zahir dashed forward, his silhouette dancing between defenders like a spark dodging raindrops.
One Indran defender lunged—missed.
A second swept in—turned too slow.
A third reached for his shirt and only caught air.
He was flying.
Behind him, his team wrestled for control of the second ball. Zahrra's midfield pressed high—fierce, hungry—and they won it.
The stadium gasped as possession turned.
From the left flank, Zahrra's second forward exploded down the wing like lightning meeting the horizon.
Zahir kept his eyes forward.
One man left. The keeper.
He didn't hesitate.
Shot fired.
Net rippled.
GOAL.
A second later—before the Indrans could even organize their disbelief—the second wave hit.
Four defenders scrambled toward the winger, panic written on their backs.
He panicked too—took a rushed strike, the ball veering off-course.
Wrong direction.
Wrong angle.
Wrong—
No.
Zahir. Out of nowhere, he leapt.
Like a star ascending.
Header.
GOAL. Again.
The stadium exploded. Not in sound. In spirit.
Cheers roared from all four corners like a single breath finally released.
Flags flew.
People screamed names of the players like their life depended on it.
3 – 3.
29 minutes to go.
Anyone's game now.
Alethea, for once, didn't roll her eyes or curse the gods.
She just sat there, stunned, palms clasped under her chin.
"…That presence of mind," she murmured.
Back in the VIP box, Eirene leaned in toward Zorion, elbow on the desk, chin in hand, a sly smile dancing on her lips.
"Told ya. Comeback was due."
Zorion, mouth half-open in disbelief, could only nod.
The snacks in his hand forgotten.
The flavor in his mouth irrelevant.
Even he—chaotic, clueless, occasionally clever Zorion—knew he'd just witnessed something poetic.
---
The match raged on.
Tension thickened with every pass.
Every whistle felt heavier than the last.
Both sides pressed. Fouled. Dared.
But fate… was cruel.
With just two minutes left on the clock, Indra found a gap.
A perfect through ball. A sprint. A chip over the keeper.
GOAL.
4 – 3.
The final whistle followed soon after.
The air didn't quiet—it sighed. Like an exhale after holding your breath for 64 minutes.
People looked at one another with the same expression:
"What a game."
Because it was. Not just a match. A moment.
Zorion mirrored Eirene's smug grin, resting his cheek on his knuckles.
"A comeback was due?"
Eirene rolled her eyes, though the upward curve of her lips betrayed her amusement.
She stood, dusting off her pants.
"Anyway, I'm heading to the party office now. See you tomorrow, lucky charm."
Zorion let out a lazy yawn, stretching as he waved a hand.
"Byeee~"
---
Meanwhile, a few rows down…
Phylax leaned against the railing.
His gaze was fixed on the girl who continued to dodge his every emotional advance like a seasoned matador.
Eucliea, however, wasn't even looking in his direction.
Instead, her attention was fully on the boy beside her.
"So, Raga," she said gently, kneeling to his level, her voice as soft as silk against skin. "Would you like to take a walk with me? I'll drop you back at the hospital safely."
The boy hesitated for a second, then turned his head toward his therapist—his silent way of asking permission.
Eucliea took the cue. She rose, walked over to the therapist with the grace of a diplomat, gave a courteous bow, and said with calm confidence:
"Hello. I'm Eucliea. Manager of Eirene Zaherra, the Zaherran Liberation Front's presidential candidate."
It wasn't a casual introduction—it was crafted to leave an impression. One that made people sit a little straighter.
The therapist blinked.
Then, before he could say anything, she continued:
"I'd like to take this little one for a walk around the stadium. He seems to want to stretch his legs. I promise to drop him back to the hospital by night."
The therapist looked at Raga.
The boy's eyes sparkled—not the kind of sparkle you fake. It was real. Honest.
After a sigh, the man handed over a small black Volva device.
"Use this to contact the hospital if anything happens. And…" he locked eyes with Eucliea, "make sure he's back before 8 p.m. Kids aren't allowed outside after 9."
Eucliea saluted lightly, a rare flicker of energy breaking through her usually composed demeanor.
"Understood. I'll wait until the stadium clears out a bit. Too crowded right now."
The therapist gave a subtle nod, oddly impressed by her clarity and poise.
A few meters away, Phylax let out a long exhale, having watched the entire exchange.
"If she's with that kid till 8…" he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face, "…then there's no way she's listening to me before that."
He sighed again.
It was going to be a long wait.
Eucliea glanced at Raga, her voice as warm as a blanket on a chilly night.
"Wanna go sit in the VIP box until the crowd thins out?"
Raga nodded instantly, eyes wide with a quiet kind of joy.
A few meters away, Phylax watched the two of them with an amused look.
He couldn't help but mumble to himself,
"Aren't you mad at Eirene too…?"
There was a small pinch in his chest—not jealousy exactly, but something close.
The kind of feeling that made you wonder why someone else got off easier than you did when you both made the same mistake.
But the truth was softer than he thought.
Eucliea trusted both Eirene and Phylax equally.
With Eirene, that trust came with a quiet confidence—"She wouldn't have done it unless something was truly off."
With Phylax… well, her heart didn't work on logic as much as it did on rhythm.
When it came to him, her default reaction was to get upset—even when she knew it was just a mistake.
Why?
Maybe she liked seeing him try, just a little.
Maybe she liked the way he'd follow her with those sorry eyes, trying to fix things.
Or maybe, just maybe, with him… her heart set a little timer every time it broke, and she wouldn't forgive him until it ticked back down to zero.
It wasn't spite.
It wasn't coldness.
It was just Eucliea's way—soft, sincere, and a little stubborn.
The kind of cute unfairness that made her Eucliea.
Eucliea and Raga strolled toward the VIP box, their pace unhurried, their footsteps soft against the concrete floor of the stadium corridor.
A short distance behind them, Phylax followed in silence—his gait steady, his eyes flicking now and then toward the two ahead.
When they reached the entrance, Eucliea opened it gently, letting Raga step in first.
The noise of the crowd outside dulled behind them like waves retreating from shore.
Inside, the VIP box was mostly empty, save for one presence.
Zorion.
He sat in his seat, head leaned against the desk, lips moving in a quiet mutter as if arguing with a thought or maybe re-living a conversation.
His presence was so still, he almost blended into the room's hush.
Eucliea's eyes scanned the familiar space, calm but alert, and then without a word, she moved to the seat that usually belonged to Eirene.
Lowering herself into it with quiet authority, she gave Raga a small, gentle nod—like a mother swan inviting her cygnet to rest in her lap.
Zorion's eyes drifted towards the girl who'd guided him here—now casually taking Eirene's seat as if it were hers.
And with her… a kid?
His mind was already spinning theories when the girl—Eucliea—looked at the boy and said softly,
"Let's wait here until the crowd thins out."
Zorion, true to his habit of saying things better left unsaid, blurted,
"Is that your child? You're kinda young to be a mom."
At that exact moment, a dull thud interrupted the air.
The VIP box door flung open from behind as Phylax—who'd been eavesdropping with his back pressed against the door—lost balance listening to this outrageous question and fell backwards into the room, landing with a startled grunt.
Zorion blinked. Then pointed dramatically.
"Whoa. You've got a stalker on your back."
Without hesitation, he stepped in front of Eucliea and Raga, arms slightly spread like a one-man human shield.
"Who are you?"
Eucliea tilted her head.
And then—unexpectedly—burst into laughter.
"It's okay," she said, patting Zorion's shoulder as if calming a guard dog. "He's not a stalker. He's my friend."
That single word—friend—hit Phylax like a sunbeam after a week of clouds.
He straightened up with the dignity of a knight.
"Yes, my name is Phylax," he said proudly. "And who might you be, sir?"
"Zorion," he replied, still standing protectively in front of the two, just in case.
Then came Eucliea's voice from behind him, dry and sarcastic.
"And I'm Eucliea. This is Raga. And he's not my son."
The way she said it… it didn't just correct him. It roasted him. Gently.
Zorion scratched the back of his head.
"…Noted."