'Heh… you guys are cooked.'
The thought slid through Damien's mind like the grin that followed it—slow, razor-edged, inevitable.
He flexed his fingers once more. His breath was steady now, no longer strained. The hum in his limbs wasn't fatigue. It was readiness. His eyes scanned the field, and then they dropped—
To the ball.
It rolled across the grass, nudged lightly between two players exchanging a casual back pass. Nothing urgent. Nothing threatening.
But Damien was already moving.
He didn't charge. He didn't sprint. He closed in like a ghost—silent, efficient, a shadow dressed in cleats. And the moment the ball was within reach, he stepped in with surgical precision.
The touch was clean. No fumble. No scramble.
Tap.
Outside of the foot. Just enough to redirect it into open space.
Thp-thp.
