The air outside the stadium did not carry the scent of victory, but rather the salty, bitter tang of a defeat that had clawed its way deep into the soul. The crowd—only moments ago a tidal wave roaring his name—had dissolved into a deathly silence, leaving behind only the echo of their own screams and the acrid stench of flare smoke. Juglian, wrapped in a shadow that seemed thicker than the night itself, walked like a ghost, his step heavy, his body bent under the weight of a pain he could no longer hide.
Sofia, who was waiting for him off to the side, said nothing. There were no words of comfort, no fussing embrace. Her love had no need for words. She simply took his hand. Her touch was light, almost imperceptible, but Juglian felt a shiver race through his body—not of cold, but of warmth. It was the hand of a Healer. It was the hand of a Healer who had found her king in a dark corner, on his knees.
The car ride home was an infinity of silence. The hum of the engine was the only sound standing between them and the outside world—a world that seemed to have forgotten them. Juglian gazed out the window, his eyes fixed on the blurred lights of Barcelona. He saw the banners, the signs, the faces of the fans. He saw himself in every corner: the king who had failed, the idol who had betrayed. But then... his gaze shifted to Sofia. Her face, illuminated by the reflection of the streetlamps, was an oasis of calm in a storm. And for the first time, he felt safe. Not because his armor was strong, but because it had fallen away.
In that moment of absolute vulnerability, Juglian saw not just the woman who had saved him, but her very essence—a beauty that transcended any superficial perfection. He saw her face, not sculpted like that of a goddess, but delicate, with soft features and skin as clear and luminous as the moon. Her hair, a deep, dark brown, framed her face in a natural disarray that seemed to have been crafted by an artist's hand. But it was her eyes that captured him—two pools of warm, velvety brown that seemed to hold the depths of the ocean and the tranquility of a starry night. They weren't just beautiful; they were kind. They were the eyes of someone who had seen pain but had chosen not to let it poison her. Her body, not toned like Bea's but soft and sinuous, was a sanctuary of warmth. When she sat beside him, there was nothing forced in her movements. There was an innate elegance, a silent grace that spoke of inner strength. She didn't need armor. Her beauty was her armor, but an armor forged of kindness, empathy, and a love that refused to be intimidated by his coldness. In that moment, Juglian understood that her beauty was not a matter of aesthetics, but a matter of the soul.
They arrived at the apartment. The air was still thick with the tension that had enveloped them before the match, but it was a tension that was melting away like snow in the sun. Juglian sat on the sofa, his hands resting on his knees, his head bowed as if waiting for a sentence to be passed. But his condemnation never came. Sofia sat beside him, her touch a balm for his tormented soul.
"I don't want to talk," Juglian murmured, his voice a whisper, a thread of smoke lost in the distant hum of the city.
Sofia nodded. "You don't have to," she whispered, her voice a silken thread. "You don't have to say anything. You just have to... you just have to be here."
Juglian looked at her, and his eyes—once so cold and distant—were now filled with an emotion he had never experienced before. It was an emotion that had no name. It was a mixture of sadness, loneliness, and an infinite gratitude. "You... you don't understand," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "It wasn't just the match, Sofia. It's not just football. It's... it's my life. It's a lie. An illusion. I've spent my life building a suit of armor. Becoming the King, the God of Muscles. But the King... the King is alone. The King is empty. The King is a monster. And now... now I've failed."
Sofia moved closer and held him tight, her small, fragile body pressed against his. Her embrace was a safe harbor in a stormy sea, an anchor pulling him back to reality. "You are not a monster," she whispered. "You failed. So what? You lost a match. So what? You... you are a beautiful soul, Juglian. An artist. You are the man hiding behind the mask. And that man... that man is not a loser. That man is a warrior. That man is a hero. And I... I love you for who you are. Not for what you do. Not for a trophy. I love you for your art, for your sadness, for your loneliness, for your longing to be loved. And you... you are loved, Juglian. You are loved by me."
Juglian said nothing. He simply held her tight, and his body, which was once an armor, was now only an empty shell. His sadness was a physical entity filling the room. In that moment, Sofia understood that their story was not a fairy tale. It was a war. And she, the Healer, had the task of saving the man she loved—not just from the world, but from himself.
And in that moment, Juglian understood that he had another match to win. A match more important than any Copa del Rey final. The match for his own salvation. His battlefield was not a green pitch, but his own heart. And his Healer, his Sofia, was his one and only hope.