PREVIEW

... names lit up.

Out: Taylor. Bianchi. Lowe.

In: Silva. Ford. Soro.

No fanfare. No gesturing.

But the bench knew what it meant.

Silva jogged onto the pitch with his jaw locked, eyes already scanning. Ford clapped Bianchi on the back as they crossed paths. Soro came in last—shoulders square, calm as silence.

Jake stood just long enough to speak one line to each:

To Ford:

"Stay flat. Don't chase shadows. Let it come."

To Silva: ...

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