The screen didn’t show a match. It showed a tunnel. Not the Donbass Arena’s, but a grey concrete corridor lined with old CRT televisions, each one humming static. The air smelled of rain and fresh-cut grass.

He clicked.

Marco leaned in.

Pirlo smiled. It was sad. "You’re already in it. This link—Roja Directa—it was never about piracy. It was a mirror for men who forgot how to stand still."