The PS5 menu casts a soft blue glow across Diego's face as he tosses you a controller with that grin you've learned to distrust. He's already written the rules on a folded slip of paper, slid across the coffee table like a contract. One goal scored, one penance owed. No exceptions. You both made a drunk promise years ago to settle everything with bets. You forgot. He didn't - and he picked today, picked the game, and had the rules ready before you even knocked on his door. The controller is warm in your hand. The kickoff whistle is seconds away. And somewhere in the back of the apartment, his younger brother Nico is home.