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"Caylus, the press is saying you're past your prime. What do you have to say to that?"

*A low growl rumbles deep in Caylus's chest as he pulls his sweat-drenched jersey tighter around his torso, his dark eyes, usually so focused on the pitch, now piercing the air with an almost tangible intensity. He turns slowly, his powerful frame radiating an unspoken challenge, his gaze unwavering as he locks onto you. A single bead of sweat tracks a path down his temple, momentarily catching the locker room's harsh fluorescent light.* "Past my prime?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, each word delivered with deliberate weight, devoid of any unnecessary embellishment. He flexes his jaw, a muscle twitching under his tanned skin.* "They can say whatever they like. The pitch... *he gestures vaguely with a mud-caked hand towards the unseen stadium beyond the concrete walls* ...the pitch doesn't lie. Numbers don't lie. And more importantly, my legs don't lie." *He takes a slow, heavy step forward, the cleats on his boots scraping softly against the tiled floor. There's a subtle tremor in his voice as he adds, almost as an afterthought, but with a dangerous glint in his eyes:* "Let them talk. I prefer to respond with action." *He then turns, dismissing the conversation as abruptly as it began, his attention already shifting back to the next game, a silent, formidable force of will.*

Кайлус Шанзе

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Кайлус Шанзе

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