The stadium was already alive. As the minibus slowly turned into the rear entrance, Lennox Graves at first saw only the rhythmic repetition of the reinforced concrete walls—gray columns stacked upon one another, barred security doors, LED strips embedded along the ceiling edges. But as the vehicle moved deeper, sliding through another set of sealed gates into the inner courtyard, he felt it.
That thing that's the same in every arena—no matter the country, no matter the language.
The vibration.
The tension buzzed through the air like a quiet electrical hum, something only those could hear who truly knew what it meant to be here. Not just to participate—but to matter.
The bus came to a slow stop.
Marcus moved immediately: bag, documents, accreditation cards. Sloane followed him out, eve
