The man tilted his head ever so slightly, considering that. The city lights reflected faintly off the glass, casting moving shadows across his hands.
"And Atlético?" he asked. "Any response?"
The assistant shook her head once. "Nothing yet. It appears they’re not aware City have raised their bid."
His fingers began to tap then. Slow. Thoughtful. Not impatient.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A faint smile crept to the corner of his mouth, the kind that did not reach the eyes but stayed there anyway.
"Well," he said quietly, almost to himself, "now we have to make sure they find out, don’t we?"
The assistant inclined her head, understanding imdiately.
"Okay, sir."
She turned without another word, heels silent against the thick carpet, and slipped out of the office, closing the door with practiced care.
The man remained still for a mont longer, watching the city as if it were a chessboard slowly revealing itself. The smile lingered, thin and satisfied.
Then he reached for the phone.
One number. morized.
He pressed call.
Two rings.
The line connected.
"Markus," he said smoothly, warmth layered carefully over intent. "Hope I’m not disturbing you. We should have dinner soti."
* * *
10:30AM Tuesday morning.
The Rising Talent Agency no longer felt like the gamble it once had been.
What used to be a modest office with two desks and too much empty space had grown into sothing alive. Phones rang constantly. Voices overlapped in multiple languages. Assistants moved with purpose between glass-walled rooms, tablets in hand, doors opening and closing with quiet efficiency. Nas that once required explanation were now spoken casually in etings. Youth internationals. First-team starters. Prospects with real market gravity.
At the center of it all, Marco sat in his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes moving between an open laptop and a printed contract draft on his desk. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air, turning them briefly golden before they vanished again.
His phone buzzed once.
Then again.
Marco glanced down. Carla’s na lit the screen.
He tapped it.
Before he could speak, her voice ca through, brisk but controlled. "You’ve got an incoming call from Darmstadt. Mr. Fernie."
Marco leaned back in his chair, lips curling slightly. "Connect it."
A pause. A soft click.
"Paul," Marco said imdiately, switching to English without thinking. "Good to hear from you."
"Marco," Paul Fernie replied, warm but asured. "Hope I’m not catching you at a bad ti."
"Not at all," Marco said, glancing once around his office before settling back. "Busy is the new normal. How are things in Darmstadt?"
A bit of small talk followed. Polite. Necessary. Comnts about the season winding down, about the pressure of the final fixtures, about how quickly things moved in football when montum caught. Marco listened patiently, offering just enough in return to keep the tone friendly.
Then Fernie cleared his throat.
"I wanted to talk to you about João," he said. "Specifically, his contract situation."
Marco’s expression didn’t change, but sothing sharpened behind his eyes.
"I was planning to reach out myself," Marco replied smoothly. "I’ve been following his progress closely. I know he’s been training with the first team this week."
"He has," Fernie confird quickly. "And the feedback has been very positive. Florian likes what he’s seeing. A lot."
"That’s good to hear," Marco said. "The question is what cos next. João is 18 now. This is the mont where clarity matters."
Fernie didn’t hesitate. "The club is very interested in offering him a longer-term deal. We see him as part of the project moving forward."
Marco nodded slowly, even though Fernie couldn’t see it.
"I’m glad to hear that," he said. "Because if there wasn’t a clear pathway, there would be clubs willing to offer him minutes elsewhere. He’s at an age where playing ti matters more than promises."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Not long, but noticeable.
Fernie responded carefully. "We understand that. And I want to be clear, Marco, the intention is to keep him here and integrate him properly."
Marco leaned back further, folding one leg over the other.
He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew exactly where the balance of power sat. Fernie was young for a sporting director, barely settled into the role, and the shadow of a very public mistake lood large over everything he did. Lukas Brandt’s release had not been forgotten. Not by the fans. Not by the board. Not by the dia.
Another talent slipping through their fingers would not be forgiven.
Marco let the silence do so of the work.
"I’ll be in Darmstadt over the weekend," he said eventually. "We can sit down properly then and go through the details. I’ve got commitnts during the week, but we’ll have ti soon."
"That works for us," Fernie replied quickly, relief creeping into his voice despite his attempt to mask it. "We’d appreciate that."
"Of course," Marco said. "João deserves clarity."
They exchanged a few final pleasantries, the tone remaining cordial, professional, almost overly so. Then the call ended.
Marco lowered the phone and let it rest on the desk.
For a mont, he didn’t move.
Then he smiled.
Not broadly. Not smugly. Just enough to acknowledge the quiet truth of the situation.
Leverage had a way of finding those who earned it.
The smile was wiped off his face, though, when the door to his office flew open.
Marco barely had ti to look up before Carla was already inside, one hand still on the handle, her chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. She had her phone in her other hand, screen lit, eyes wide with the kind of urgency that made Marco straighten instinctively.
"Sorry," she said quickly, breathless. "I know you just finished the call, but—"
Marco pushed his chair back. "Carla. What’s wrong?"
She crossed the room in three quick steps and turned the phone toward him.
Fabrizio Romano’s familiar profile filled the screen. Blue checkmark. Bold headline. No ambiguity.
Manchester City have increased their offer for Lukas Brandt to €80m €10m in add-ons. Eintracht Frankfurt now reviewing the proposal.
Marco felt the shift imdiately, like a switch flipping in his chest.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, jaw tightening.
"They’ve increased their offer," he said quietly.
Carla nodded. "It’s everywhere. Sky picked it up. Bild just pushed a notification. Frankfurt haven’t comnted yet."
Marco was already standing. He reached for his jacket, gripping it by the collar and yanking it off the arm of his chair in one sharp motion.
"Cancel my next two etings," he said, already moving toward the door. "And get Hardung on standby. I’m on my way."
He didn’t wait for her response.
The door swung shut behind him as he strode down the corridor, the hum of the agency continuing around him, unaware that the center of gravity had just shifted again.
* * *
One hour earlier – 9:30 a.m., Tuesday morning.
The grass at the training ground was still slick with dew, the morning air cool and clean, carrying the faint sll of cut turf and damp earth. The players had just finished their warm-up, jogging in loose clusters back toward the center of the pitch, stretching calves and shaking out legs as the coaches gathered a short distance away.
There was no intensity yet. Not officially. Just that calm, deceptive mont before the real work began.
Toppmöller stood with Buck and the rest of the staff, voices low, final responsibilities being divided for the session. A couple of assistants pointed toward different sections of the pitch, nodding, adjusting cones.
A few ters outside the penalty area, Lukas stood with Larsson, both of them relaxed, boots planted in the grass as they talked about nothing in particular.
Then a shout cut across the pitch.
"LUKE! 50 if you hit the bottom corner with first touch!"
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