The USMNT training facility is a fortress. Glass walls, manicured pitches, and air that smells like money.
Robin sits in the head coach's office. It's cleaner than the hospital room.
Johnny sits behind a massive oak desk. He looks tired. He's been fighting a war since the moment he shook Robin's hand in the ER.
"You're starting," Johnny says. No preamble. No warm-up.
Robin nods. He expected this. He didn't come here to sit on the bench.
"You should know," Johnny continues, leaning back, "the Board thinks I've lost my mind. They wanted me to change the formation. A 4-4-2 Diamond. Or a 3-5-2. Anything to avoid playing with wingers, just so they didn't have to start a Division II player who hasn't kicked a ball in eight months."
Johnny picks up a pen and spins it.
"They look at the roster and see Pulisic, Weah, Reyna. Then they see Silver. A ghost. A liability."
"I'm not a liability," Robin says calmly.
"I know that. But they sign the checks. I had to negotiate. I had to put my neck on the guillotine for you."
Johnny drops the pen. It clatters against the desk.
"The mandate is the semi-finals. Minimum. If we don't make the final four, I'm fired. And you? You'll be the joke of the tournament. The amateur who tanked the Golden Generation."
Robin stares at him. The weight fills the room. Semi-finals. Brazil. Argentina.
Robin chuckles.
It starts low, then breaks into a laugh.
Johnny frowns. "Something funny?"
"Semi-finals?" Robin shakes his head, smirking. "That's the goal? That's the ambition?"
"It's realistic," Johnny says.
"It's loser talk," Robin replies, leaning forward. "We're not going there to make the semi-finals. We're going to win the trophy."
Johnny studies him. Annoyance flashes, then something else. Respect.
"You're arrogant," Johnny says.
"I'm right."
"Maybe. But arrogance gets people hurt."
Johnny opens a folder and pulls out a tablet, sliding it across the desk.
The screen is paused on the West Hall game. Minute 88. Robin standing on the ball. Blowing a kiss to Prince.
"I watched your tape," Johnny says. "All of it. You've got flair. Skill. You like humiliating people."
"It gets the crowd going," Robin says.
"It gets your leg broken," Johnny snaps.
Robin flinches. The echo of the snap crawls up his shin.
"Showboating is a tool," Johnny continues. "Psychological warfare. I like it. I want players with personality. But listen carefully."
He points at the screen.
"If you dance, you score. If you nutmeg someone, you finish. Because if you dance and lose the ball, you're not flashy. You're a clown."
He taps the desk.
"Output. That's all that matters. Goals. Assists. Wins. Nobody remembers the flick if we lose 1–0. Nobody cares how cool you looked if you're on a stretcher."
Robin stares at the frozen frame of himself. The arrogance. The lapse. The moment before everything snapped.
"Do you understand?" Johnny asks. "You're not here to entertain. You're here to kill. Output is king."
Robin looks up. The smile is gone. The cold is back.
"I understand."
"Good," Johnny says, standing. "Training starts in ten minutes. Don't be late."
Robin reaches the door, then stops.
"Johnny?"
The coach looks up.
"I won't just be a killer," Robin says. "I'll be a monster."
He walks out.