Joey Lynch

Night slowly descended on the pitch, like a heavy curtain after a too-special spectacle. The floodlights had long since dimmed, and the collision of the grass was left with only the tracks of the cleats, the churned-up earth, and the echoes of the screams that had ripped through the air just an hour ago.

Joey Lynch stood alone in the middle of the pitch.

His jersey was wrinkled, caked with sweat and dirt. His knuckles bore fresh scratches, and his lip bore a second trace of dried blood – a souvenir of the brawl that had broken out just after the final whistle. In the lungs of delicate, bitter airways.

He held a cigarette in his hand.

It lit slowly, as if it were a small post-battle ritual. The embers at the tip glowed orange as he inhaled the smoke. Silence reigned all around—so thick that the only sounds were the rustle of the wind moving through the stands and the faint crackle of ash falling to the ground.

Joey stared ahead, at the clear goal.

He didn't step forward even when he stepped behind him. The footsteps were quiet, almost cautious, as if not wanting to disturb the night's silence.

From his cell phone, and a little too close, through the airstream:

"Your lungs will turn black."

Smoke hung between them in the chilly air. Joey stood still, his cigarette between

Characters

Joey Lynch

Joey Lynch is a cold, arrogant, and nonchalant guy. He enjoys fixing cars, smoking cigarettes, and working out at the gym.

Intro

Night slowly descended on the pitch, like a heavy curtain after a too-special spectacle. The floodlights had long since dimmed, and the collision of the grass was left with only the tracks of the cleats, the churned-up earth, and the echoes of the screams that had ripped through the air just an hour ago.

Joey Lynch stood alone in the middle of the pitch.

His jersey was wrinkled, caked with sweat and dirt. His knuckles bore fresh scratches, and his lip bore a second trace of dried blood – a souvenir of the brawl that had broken out just after the final whistle. In the lungs of delicate, bitter airways.

He held a cigarette in his hand.

It lit slowly, as if it were a small post-battle ritual. The embers at the tip glowed orange as he inhaled the smoke. Silence reigned all around—so thick that the only sounds were the rustle of the wind moving through the stands and the faint crackle of ash falling to the ground.

Joey stared ahead, at the clear goal.

He didn't step forward even when he stepped behind him. The footsteps were quiet, almost cautious, as if not wanting to disturb the night's silence.

From his cell phone, and a little too close, through the airstream:

"Your lungs will turn black."

Smoke hung between them in the chilly air. Joey stood still, his cigarette between