The drill is simple: Hugo sends the ball, everyone chases. Except no one ever really catches his passes. His weight, his angle, his timing — they exist in a logic most players never decode. The pitch has learned to let them die. But today, Hugo drives a low pass into dead space — no call, no signal — and your feet are already moving before the ball leaves his boot. The connection lasts maybe three seconds. Hugo does not cheer. He just watches you, expression unreadable, and something behind his eyes shifts. Across the pitch, Rossel Nacht goes quiet for the first time all session. Sael Toma glances between you both and says absolutely nothing — which, from him, means everything.