"Alright," he said.
The first days were thodical.
Every movent had purpose. Every session was structured. There was no idle ti, no wasted motion. The system guided him through diagnostics first—detailed scans, movent analysis, stress mapping across his leg. It broke the injury down completely, not just identifying it but explaining how it behaved under pressure, how it responded to load, and what it needed to recover properly.
Then ca the work.
Recovery wasn’t passive. It never had been.
Cold therapy, controlled mobility, resistance drills, progressive loading—the intensity increased gradually, always within limits, always monitored. TT remained present throughout, adjusting, correcting, observing with constant precision.
[Reduce force output by eight percent.]
[Your alignnt is off. Correct it.]
[Again. Controlled this ti.]
There was no room for guesswork. No room for shortcuts. Everything was exact.
By the second week, the pain had mostly faded.
Lukas was moving freely again, testing his range, pushing slightly harder with each session. Running drills ca back, then changes of direction, then acceleration work. Each stage returned naturally, like pieces falling back into place.
But the space never changed.
It remained quiet.
Too quiet.
There were no voices beyond TT. No background noise. No distractions. No interruptions. The facility functioned perfectly, but it existed in isolation, detached from everything else.
At one point, during a break between sessions, Lukas sat down on one of the recovery benches, resting his forearms on his knees as he looked out across the empty space.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
But it wasn’t natural either.
Three weeks without a single real human presence had a way of stretching ti differently. Not slower, not faster—just... heavier. The kind of weight that didn’t co from effort, but from the absence of sothing that should have been there.
TT hovered nearby, its golden form steady.
[You have paused.]
Lukas didn’t respond imdiately. He simply exhaled, then straightened slightly.
"Just resting."
TT didn’t question it further.
By the third week, his body felt complete again.
There was no pain left. No resistance. No hesitation in movent. Every step felt balanced, every motion controlled. The final sessions pushed him through full intensity—sprinting, cutting, reacting—and nothing held him back.
The recovery had been thorough.
Complete.
Earned.
At the end of the last session, Lukas sat on the floor, stretching forward, fingers reaching his toes as he held the position for a few seconds longer than necessary.
No discomfort.
Nothing.
He released the stretch slowly, leaning back on his hands as he looked around the facility one last ti.
It hadn’t changed.
But he had.
And then—
it ended.
The system disengaged.
The space dissolved.
And Lukas returned.
* * *
Back in the real world, only hours had passed.
But as he walked down the hallway now, hearing the distant noise of the city preparing to celebrate, he carried sothing that didn’t match that tiline.
Because for him—
it hadn’t been hours.
It had been ti spent alone.
The noise grew louder the closer Lukas got to the main gathering area.
What had started as a distant hum in the dical wing had now beco sothing alive—chants rolling through the air, drums beating sowhere in the distance, voices layered on top of each other in a constant wave of celebration. Even inside the building, you could feel it pressing in from the outside.
When he stepped into the room where the squad had gathered, the energy was already there.
Players were scattered around, so sitting, so standing, most still talking over each other, replaying monts from the night before like it hadn’t fully settled yet. dals still hung around necks, a few shirts already swapped out for lighter fits for the parade, but the mood hadn’t changed.
It was still celebration.
Larsson was mid-story when Lukas walked in, arms moving wildly as he reenacted sothing from the match, while Knauff interrupted him every few seconds to correct details he clearly didn’t agree with. Ekitike sat nearby, shaking his head, laughing under his breath as he watched the two of them go back and forth.
"There he is," Larsson said, spotting Lukas. "The man of the hour."
"Of the year," Knauff added imdiately.
Lukas rolled his eyes, but the small smile didn’t leave his face as he walked over, exchanging quick handshakes and light shoulder bumps.
"Still standing?" Ekitike asked.
"Barely," Lukas replied.
"Liar," Larsson said. "Doctor probably said you can play another ga right now."
Lukas didn’t answer that one, just shook his head as he leaned back slightly against one of the tables.
Before the conversation could go any further, the door opened again.
The room shifted slightly.
Not quieter—but more aware.
Topmöller walked in first, followed by mbers of the coaching staff and then the club executives. Markus Krösche was there, composed as always, Timo Hardung just behind him, and Christoph Preuß alongside them. The presence of the hierarchy didn’t kill the mood—it just redirected it.
Krösche moved first.
He walked straight into the group, greeting players one by one, shaking hands, exchanging a few words, his tone lighter than usual, a clear reflection of the occasion.
"Good work," he said to one.
"Strong performance," to another.
"Enjoy this," to a third.
When he reached Lukas, he didn’t stop at a handshake.
He pulled him in briefly, one hand patting his back.
"Well done," he said, his voice low but firm. "Very well done."
Lukas nodded once. "Thank you."
Krösche held his shoulder for a second longer before moving on, continuing down the line.
Behind him, Hardung and Preuß followed a similar path, offering congratulations, a few smiles, a few words about bonuses, about rewards, about enjoying the mont. Nothing heavy. Nothing complicated.
Just acknowledgnt.
Topmöller stood slightly to the side, watching his team, a faint smile on his face as he let the mont belong to them.
The room filled again with chatter almost imdiately after, the brief formality dissolving back into celebration.
None of them knew.
Not fully.
Not in that mont.
That decisions had already been made above them.
That plans were already in motion.
That for one of them—
this had been the last ti.
* * *
The buses were waiting outside.
Open-top.
White and red.
Already surrounded.
The mont the players stepped out, the noise hit them like a wall.
Fans filled the streets—lining sidewalks, leaning over barriers, standing on anything they could climb just to get a better view. Flags waved everywhere, scarves lifted high, chants rising in waves that seed to echo off every building in sight.
Police lined the routes, guiding movent, holding back the crowd just enough to keep the path clear.
Barely.
"This is insane," Knauff muttered as he climbed up onto the top deck.
"This is Frankfurt," Larsson replied.
Lukas followed them up, stepping onto the open top of the bus, the city stretching out in front of him—and behind him—and everywhere in between.
And when the fans saw him—
the reaction changed.
It lifted.
The volu doubled.
His na spread through the crowd like a ripple, voices picking it up from one end of the street to the other.
"LUKAS! LUKAS! LUKAS!"
He didn’t even need to move yet.
They were already there.
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