The noise from the stadium was still echoing when Enzo Maresca appeared at the edge of the tunnel.
The floodlights behind him poured down in sheets, painting his navy tracksuit in pale silver as he made his way toward the mouth of the corridor.
He didn't speak, didn't even glance toward the cameras that crowded near the barrier.
His face was set, a still picture against the blur of reporters waving microphones and pressing closer.
"Enzo! Enzo, a word, please!"
The first voice cracked through the air, followed by another.
"What went wrong out there tonight?"
He kept walking, his steps sharp and deliberate, each one echoing against the concrete as if he was counting the seconds until he could shut the noise out.
"Enzo, do you think the team gave up too early?"
As the latter question came, a camera light flared near his face.
He blinked once, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted toward the source, not a full glare, but enough to send the message.
