The morning dawned with a stubborn flurry of snow that refused to commit—tiny flakes swirling in erratic patterns outside the hotel windows before dissolving into nothing against the pavement. Thiago stood at the breakfast buffet, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of weak hotel coffee, watching the half-hearted snowfall through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The dining hall buzzed behind him with the clatter of silverware and the low murmur of German conversations, but his attention remained fixed on the way his breath fogged the glass when he exhaled.
His body ached in ways he hadn't known possible. Not just the usual muscle soreness from training, but deeper—the ligaments around his ankles throbbed with every step, his hamstrings pulled tight as bowstrings, even the base of his skull pulsed dully from yesterday's video session where he'd craned his neck for two straight hours analyzing Zürich's defensive shape.
And yet beneath the fatigue, something hummed in his chest.
