The locker room was still.
Not the kind of stillness born from focus; this was something colder.
Holier. Like a church seconds before a confession no one wants to hear.
France vs Brazil. The world was waiting.
The tunnel buzzed with echoes and thunderous chants.
But inside this room? Silence.
Except for Kaviar Ka'eli.
He sat alone near the end of the bench.
Shoulders hunched; elbows digging into his thighs.
His breath came slow, controlled.
Not calm, but caged.
Around him, titans prepped for war.
Camavinga laced his boots in measured rhythm.
Tchouaméni bounced on his heels, headphones leaking bass.
Griezmann adjusted tape.
And Kylian Mbappé, Captain, stood near the mirror.
Hands on his hips, locked in silent communion with himself.
All of them were ready.
All of them were sharp.
And none of them were enough.
Not to Kaviar.
His sclera had darkened.
Black like oil bleeding into violet flame.
His ego pulsed in the corner of his vision like a second heartbeat; louder than the real one.
"This squad has everything... except necessity."
He muttered it to himself.
Voice low, measured. Not dramatic. True.
One by one, he dissected them.
Camavinga.
Brilliant tempo.
Tries to do too much when pressed.
Wants to be everywhere; ends up nowhere.
Tchouaméni.
Solid, but only in structure.
Break the system and he breaks with it.
Griezmann—veteran.
Precise.
Fading.
Still plays like the past owes him more than it gave.
Dembélé…
Flashes.
No longevity.
Unreliable in the cold.
Mbappé...
He hesitated.
Captain.
Legacy on his back.
France in his breath.
But even he—
Kylian plays to win.
I play because I don't know how to lose.
Kaviar clenched his fists, fingertips white.
The jersey he wore felt tight.
Not from fit, but from fire.
His pulse wasn't racing.
It was remembering.
AS Tressa made him a name.
France made him a symbol.
But no one made him feel.
He stood up slowly, eyes tracking the floor like it might crack beneath him.
He turned to the squad.
Half-seated, half-zoned-in.
None of them looked at him.
He didn't need them to.
He whispered under his breath.
Too low for anyone else to hear.
"I don't need eleven players. I need one. Me."
And just as the final syllable left his lips—
The world slipped.
—————
╞╡ ━ [ somewhere in france ] ━ ╞╡
White. Again.
A soft, crushing brightness swallowed the room.
Time hiccupped.
He blinked—and he was somewhere else.
A living room.
Smaller than memory allowed.
French radio murmuring in the background.
An old piano tucked in the corner, dustless and waiting.
Then a hand—his mother's—on his back, steadying him at age seven.
"You can play anything you want," she'd whispered.
"So long as you don't lose yourself doing it."
Another flicker.
Now a park.
His father standing across from him.
Football in hand.
Sunlight.
Laughter.
No cameras.
No expectation.
Just joy.
"Pass, Kavi. Not because it looks good. Because it feels good."
He gasped.
Eyes snapped open.
Color returned.
The locker room solidified again.
But the weight on his chest had shifted.
His flame dimmed.
His ego didn't vanish; it evolved.
He remembered why he started.
Not for medals.
Not for names.
But because he loved this.
Not the win.
Not the crowd.
The play.
Kylian's voice cut through the silence.
"Three minutes."
Everyone looked up.
"Let's remind the world why blue runs through blood before it runs through flags."
He clapped once.
Loud.
Clear.
Players echoed him.
Stood.
Gathered.
Kaviar didn't join them right away.
He watched them.
And for the first time in a long time, he saw not weakness.
Will.
Mbappé looked over his shoulder.
Met his eyes.
Didn't smile.
Just nodded.
Kaviar nodded back.
And that was enough.
He stepped forward.
Not to lead.
Not to follow.
To play.
And from that moment, their will became his will.
The will to win so others could believe again.
Not in him.
In each other.