Laurent Virelli stood by the window, drink in hand, the lights of London sprawling out beneath him like a chessboard he wasn't done playing with.
He stared for a long time, jaw flexing slightly as the silence settled thick around him.
"That's the thing about kids," he muttered, voice low but firm.
"They think it's all about heart. About moments. They believe if they just play well enough, run hard enough, the world will hand them everything."
He turned from the glass, pacing slowly, controlled—measured.
"They don't understand the machine. That it's not the boots or the stadiums. It's the hands behind the curtain. The ones who know who to call before the questions are even asked. The ones who can bury a headline… or build one."
He stopped at the bar and set his glass down gently.
"And this kid? He doesn't get that. Not yet. He thinks talent is enough. That charm and highlight reels will protect him."
He chuckled, but it was hollow.
