For the first time, something cracked. Not anger. Something older. He looked at the wall where his #7 jersey hung, framed. Then back at me.

The whole stadium inhaled. Ronaldo took one touch. His left knee—the one with the chronic ligament note in the FM24 medical report—bent at a bad angle. He staggered. The defender lunged. And then, for two seconds, the physics engine of reality broke.

"You know why. The data—"

He didn't blink. "Why?"

I got the email the next morning. Retirement request. Effective end of season.

He never replied. But his last match rating was a 9.1. And in the club's legends list, his name stayed green until I quit the save in 2032.