The screen in the media room is eighty five inches of high definition terror.
The broadcast feed cuts to the pitch. The Mercedes Benz Stadium is vibrating again, but the energy is different tonight. It isn't the anxious, desperate energy of the USA game. It is a festival. It is yellow and green confetti raining down from the rafters.
Brazil vs. Bolivia.
On paper, it is a mismatch. On the pitch, it looks like two different species trying to communicate.
Bolivia has come with a plan. It is the same plan Jamaica used. It is the same plan West Hall Town used. It is the universal strategy of the underdog: If you can't beat them, break them.
They line up in a 5 4 1. A double bank of defenders. They are heavy men with thick necks and scars on their shins. They look like they learned to tackle in a prison yard.
"Watch," Andrew Smith whispers, leaning forward in his chair. "They'll sit deep. They'll frustrate them. Brazil will get bored and make mistakes."
Smith is praying for logic. He is praying that the laws of physics apply to everyone equally.
Minute 5.
Gutierrez, the Bolivian CDM, spots Lucas Ribeiro.
Ribeiro is the Brazilian Number 10. He plays for Paris Saint Germain. He is small, slight, with socks rolled down to his ankles. He receives the ball in the center circle.
Gutierrez launches himself. It is a slide tackle designed to amputate. He comes in two footed, studs raised, aiming for the metatarsals.
The USA players in the hotel room wince. Adam Richards flinches, his hand going to his own bruised ribs.
But the impact never comes.
Ribeiro doesn't jump. He doesn't panic. He simply shifts.
He rolls the ball backward with the sole of his boot, lets Gutierrez slide past him like a runaway sled, and then flicks the ball forward again.
Gutierrez ends up sliding five yards on his stomach, tackling nothing but oxygen.
Ribeiro hasn't even broken stride.
"He didn't even look down," Ben Cutter whispers.
Minute 12.
The Jamaica Strategy worked against the USA for eighty eight minutes because the USA played with fear. They played stiff.
Brazil plays like they are made of liquid.
Ribeiro gets the ball again. He is thirty yards out.
The Bolivian defense collapses. Three men swarm him. A center back, a full back, and the recovering Gutierrez. They form a cage.
There is no passing lane. There is no space.
Andrew Smith nods. Recycle. Pass backward. Keep possession.
Ribeiro does not recycle.
He drops his shoulder. He feints left. The defenders shift their weight, just an inch.
La Croqueta.
Ribeiro drags the ball from his left foot to his right in a blur of motion. He glides between the two defenders. It is impossible geometry. He slips through a gap that wasn't there a millisecond ago.
He is in the box.
The goalkeeper rushes out. The last defender slides.
Ribeiro looks at the far post. He winds up to shoot.
The keeper commits. He dives to his right.
Ribeiro doesn't shoot.
He passes.
A no look, reverse pass. He is looking at the crowd, but he rolls the ball gently to his left.
Matheus Ventura, the striker, is standing there. He is all alone. He has time to check his watch. He has time to fix his hair.
Ventura taps the ball into the empty net.
GOAL.
Brazil 1 0 Bolivia.
It looks effortless. It looks practiced. It looks like they are warming up against traffic cones.
In the hotel room, silence reigns.
It is a heavy, suffocating silence.
The USA players are professional athletes. They are the best their country has to offer. But watching this? It feels like watching wizards do magic while you are still trying to learn card tricks.
"That pass..." Voss mutters. "He didn't even check his shoulder."
"He knew," Johnny says from the back of the room. "He knew where Ventura would be because they share a brain. That is chemistry."
Minute 25.
Bolivia is angry now. They are embarrassed. They abandon the low block. They push forward.
A rare mistake from Brazil. Danilo Costa, the TikTok dancing left back, tries a nutmeg in his own half and loses the ball.
The Bolivian striker, Moreno, intercepts.
Moreno is fast. He is big. He has a clear run at the goal. It is a 2 v 1 counter attack.
"Here we go," Smith says. "They're vulnerable on the break. Same as us."
Moreno drives toward the box. He has only one defender to beat.
Number 6.
Soaries Martin.
The camera zooms in on him.
He is nineteen years old. He plays for Real Madrid. He is 6'3", built like a linebacker, with skin the color of obsidian and eyes that look like they have seen the end of the world.
He isn't retreating. Most defenders drop back, delaying the attacker, waiting for help.
Martin steps up.
He walks toward the sprinting striker.
Moreno sees him coming. Moreno tries to knock the ball past him and use his pace.
Martin doesn't tackle. He doesn't slide. He doesn't pull the shirt.
He simply steps into Moreno's path.
Bump.
It is subtle. It is violent.
Martin uses his shoulder. He hits Moreno square in the chest.
It isn't a foul. It is physics.
Moreno bounces off him. The striker actually recoils, stumbling sideways, losing his balance completely.
Martin takes the ball.
He doesn't clear it. He doesn't panic and kick it into the stands.
He traps it dead.
Moreno is still stumbling, trying to regain his footing. Martin looks at him. He looks bored.
Then, Martin starts to dribble.
The center back becomes a midfielder. He strides out of the defense, ball glued to his foot. He glides past a Bolivian midfielder. He looks up and pings a forty yard diagonal pass onto the chest of Ronaldo José.
Perfect.
"Jesus," someone whispers in the hotel room.
Johnny steps forward. He walks until he is standing right next to the screen.
He points at Soaries Martin, who is now jogging back into position, adjusting his armband.
"Look at him," Johnny says.
The players look.
"He is nineteen," Johnny says. "Same age as Robin. Same age as Mason."
Johnny turns to look at his squad.
"He didn't foul him. He didn't panic. He just bullied a thirty year old veteran and then started the attack."
Johnny's eyes are dark.
"Ronaldo is the flashy one. Ribeiro is the magician. But that kid?" Johnny points at Martin again. "That is our problem."
"Why?" Voss asks. "He's just a defender."
"Because he doesn't play with joy," Johnny says softly. "Ronaldo plays for fun. Martin plays for control. He is the steel behind the smile."
Johnny looks at Adam Richards, who is rubbing his ankle.
"If Adam couldn't handle Lowe," Johnny says brutally, "what do you think Martin is going to do to him?"
The question hangs in the air.
Adam Richards looks down. He knows the answer. Martin would eat him alive.
On the screen, the game continues.
It isn't a contest. It is an exhibition.
Brazil scores again in the 38th minute. Another dance. Another effortless sequence of passes that makes the Bolivian defense look like they are moving underwater.
By the time the halftime whistle blows, it is 2 0 going on 10 0.
The stats flash on the screen.
Possession: Brazil 78% Bolivia 22%.Shots: Brazil 12 Bolivia 1.Fouls Committed: Bolivia 14 Brazil 2.
The USA players stand up. They move slowly, like old men.
They have seen the standard.
They barely scraped by Jamaica. They needed a miracle run from a broken kid and a lucky bounce to get a point.
Brazil is doing this without sweating.
Andrew Smith walks out first. He doesn't say anything about discipline. He doesn't say anything about the algorithm. The math is broken.
Johnny stays in the room. He watches the halftime analysis.
He thinks about Robin Silver.
Robin is in the gym right now. Pumping iron. Feeding the hate.
Johnny wonders if hate is enough.
Because watching Soaries Martin, watching that terrifying mix of power and grace, Johnny realizes something.
Robin is a monster.
But Soaries Martin is a Monster Hunter.
And when they meet, something is going to break.
Johnny turns off the TV. The screen goes black.
But the image of the Number 6 shirt remains burned into his retinas.
The war has barely begun.