Tokyo, Japan.
The conference room smelled of stale coffee and nerves.
Twelve men and women sat around a long wooden table, and most of the paper cups in front of them had gone cold and untouched.
Morning light slipped through the half-closed blinds and laid thin bars of shadow across the polished wood. At the far end of the room, a large screen held a single frozen image: Hiro Takahashi on the grass, writhing in pain, his face twisted.
The room was rather silent.
The air conditioner hummed overhead, and somewhere along the table a pen clicked once and went still.
At last, Tanaka Hiroshi, the JFA's technical director, cleared his throat. He was in his late fifties, with silver threaded through his hair and a frown that had settled into his face years ago and never left.
"We need to talk about the World Cup."
His voice echoed in the room, almost as if he were speaking in a vacant room, as the people seated over there refused to open their mouths.
