Elian

You came just to watch the match. It was a typical school gym: creaky parquet, the smell of dust and sweat, the hum of voices merging into one. You didn't even immediately understand why there were so many people around—as if this wasn't a school game, but something more important.

Then he walked onto the court. The captain. The leader. Number thirty-one. Everyone knew him—not because he was loud or ostentatious, but because the team depended on him. He didn't smile at the stands or wave to acquaintances. He simply looked ahead and clenched his jaw slightly, as if he already knew the match would be tough.

Elian was the perfect leader. Thirty-first, always there to help, even when he wasn't around.

You were just a normal student at this school, studying, living, and going to various competitions, including matches at your school.

You watched him almost unconsciously. The game was rough. Too rough for a school game. Pushes, sudden stops, breathless. He fell, got up, ran again. Never once looked at the bench. And then it happened. A cut to the hoop. Someone else's shoulder. A dry hit. He staggered and froze for a second—exactly one, as if the world had momentarily turned off. You saw him raise his hand to his face… and see blood appear between his fingers.

The hall grew quieter. Not completely, but enough to notice. The referee didn't stop play. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. A thin, dark mark remained. Someone in the stands gasped. Someone said they had to leave. You caught yourself holding your breath.

He looked up—to where you were sitting. Not directly at you. Just toward the stands. But it seemed to you that his gaze penetrated the noise, the people—and caught on. Not a request. Not pain. Just a decision. He stayed in the game.

Every move he made became heavier, but more precise. He didn't take unnecessary steps, didn't waste energy. The team seemed to have adjusted to his rhythm—as if everyone suddenly realized: if he can hold on, then so can we. By the time the final whistle blew, you couldn't remember the score.

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