Zorion and Eirene sat side by side in eerie contrast to the thunderous energy of the stadium. Cheers echoed like crashing waves, but between the two, there was only silence—and an oddly fragile sense of peace.
Zorion couldn't hold it in any longer.
"…So… shouldn't you be, I don't know—angry?" he asked, voice low, words tumbling out nervously. "I mean, you're sitting here so calmly… like I didn't just barge into your life with the worst first impression known to mankind."
Eirene didn't turn her head, but her eyes shifted toward him with razor focus. She took a moment—just long enough for Zorion to sweat.
"Don't be timid," she said. "Judging from the clumsy aura you're radiating, I can assure you I know for a fact—even better than you—that it was an accident."
Zorion let out a relieved breath.
Then she added coldly:
"…But if it wasn't—if you're hiding your true colors—"
She finally turned her head to face him, a half-smile curling at her lips.
"There are still six more days left in the Equinox series. Someone's not going back to Indra. Or at least, not alive."
Zorion blinked. "…Wha—was that a joke?"
Eirene turned back toward the field, still smiling.
"Was it?"
Oh boy… Warne was so right when he said, "Behave yourself over there."
Zorion slouched a little, trying not to look too obviously out of place. His eyes drifted between the crowd, the giant scoreboard, and then—hesitantly—to Eirene.
She hadn't flinched since the match started. Eyes locked onto the field. Posture perfect. Energy intense.
Zorion gulped. Granny's gossip training… don't fail me now.
"…Hey," he whispered, leaning just a bit in her direction. "So… did you buy the ticket, or win it in a lottery like me too?"
Eirene, without even looking at him, raised a finger to her lips. "Shh. Talk at halftime."
He froze. "…Yes, ma'am."
Zaherra was in full control. From the moment the match began, the team kept possession of both balls with clinical precision. Their passes were sharp, their movements coordinated like a rehearsed dance.
The forward trio—Zahir, Levon, and Daniel—led the charge, carving through Indra's formation like blades through silk.
Indra, clearly rattled, struggled to find their footing. They were forced onto the back foot, reacting more than acting. In a desperate move to stabilize the chaos, Indra pulled one of their forwards and threw in an extra defender—hoping to contain the relentless pressure.
But you can only hold back a storm for so long.
The inevitable came.
With a brilliant setup from Daniel, Zahir broke through the left flank and slipped the first goal past the keeper—clean and unforgiving.
Minutes later, Levon capitalized on a messy rebound, slamming the second into the net before Indra could even reorganize.
2–0. Zaherra led, and their dominance didn't look like it was fading anytime soon.
Her focus was laser-sharp—eyes scanning every movement on the field. She clenched her fists once, and Zorion caught her lips barely move.
Brother… you're doing well.
Zorion's curiosity burned hotter. Brother? Wait, her brother's playing? That explains the intensity…
He tried watching the game again. But he had never seen this version of "football on steroids" before.
The rules were flying over his head, the speed gave him a headache, and the yelling from the crowd didn't help either.
Plus, sitting beside a girl whose very aura screamed "I might assassinate you after the match" wasn't exactly helping him focus.
Zorion had no idea when halftime was.
There wasn't a visible clock in the stadium, no announcer shouting time markers, and certainly no friendly indicator that told clueless visitors when to stretch their legs.
He wanted to ask Eirene. Badly. But the way she sat—completely locked in, arms crossed and eyes tracking every pass on the field—made him hesitate.
She looked… focused. Intense. Honestly? More mesmerizing than the match itself.
Of course, he didn't say that out loud.
Just then, Zaherra scored again.
3–1. The crowd roared for a few seconds—then oddly, settled into a strange quiet.
Zorion blinked. And that's when Eirene turned toward him, gaze sharp but unreadable.
"…Now speak," she said.
Zorion tilted his head, confused. "But… is it halftime?"
Eirene's eyes widened just a bit. Then she rolled them so hard, Zorion was surprised they didn't get stuck mid-turn.
"…You don't even know the rules, do you? Halftime is declared after a team reaches three goals," she muttered, voice dipped in disbelief. "Why are you even here?"
Zorion scratched the back of his head. "Umm… ten days of free food and travel?"
Eirene looked at him like she was mentally calculating his IQ.
"…Do you not value your time? Watching something you have zero clue about?"
Zorion shrugged. "Well, I'm not a big shot. It's not like I'd be running for elections in Indra if I managed my time well."
At that, something flickered in Eirene's eyes.
"Hmph," she exhaled. "Speaking of aspirations… I do want to run for elections."
Zorion stared at her for a full second. "…You're kidding."
She tilted her head. "As if I don't have anything better to do."
Eirene had expected a shift.
The moment she let it slip—"I want to run for elections"—she braced herself.
Braced for that familiar pause. The stiffening of posture. The polite smile. The cautious nod followed by something overly diplomatic like, "That's admirable," or "Best of luck."
"So… you definitely didn't win this ticket in a lottery, huh, future Prez?"
Eirene smirked faintly, half amused, half shocked. "As a matter of fact… I may have paid for your ticket too."
Zorion blinked. "Wait, what? How?"
She turned away, already rising from her seat. "That's a long story. For another day."
"Where are you going?" Zorion asked as she stepped toward the door.
"To clear my head."
"But the match?"
Eirene gave him a sideways glance and sighed, dramatic and full of flair.
"Oh right, I forgot—your knowledge about this game is equal to the number of goals Indra will score from now until full-time. Which is… zero."
She gave a sarcastic little wave. "It'll be about an hour before they start playing again. Try not to embarrass our duo box while I'm gone."
And with that, she was gone.
Zorion slumped into the seat, muttering to himself.
"…Even the bathroom was less scary than this box."
Eirene stepped out of the VIP box and leaned against the cool stadium wall.
"Everyone else either stiffens up or starts getting formal and builds a symbiotic connection the second they hear who I am," she muttered to herself.
"He… cracked a dumb joke."
There was no forced tone in his voice. No weighty pause. No idolizing glare.
Just a mildly awkward boy talking to a girl—like she was human. Like she wasn't the daughter of a minister.
Like she wasn't carrying a nation's expectations on her back.
A light breath escaped her lips, almost a laugh.
What's with him…?
She looked down at her palms, the same ones that shook hands with ambassadors, signed party pledges, and held the weight of Zaherra's future.
But for a moment, back there—she felt like just Eirene.