PREVIEW

... se wasn't sound—it was shape. Thick. Weighty. Alive. Smoke drifted down from the north stand like low fog, backlit by red flares and angry orange. Everything felt heavier. The shirts. The breath. Even the grass.

Bradford stepped into it as one.

White kits, heads up, no gestures. Just movement. Controlled. Like they'd rehearsed walking into fire.

Costa led the line, jaw tight. Behind him, Vélez scanned the stadium with slow eyes—reading not the crowd, but the angles behind ...

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