The meeting room was the picture of understated luxury—deep mahogany paneling framed by soft amber lighting, a massive table of polished wood stretching toward the far end where a wall-sized screen played muted footage. The thick curtains were drawn halfway, letting slivers of Madrid's morning light stripe across the carpet patterned in red and white. The faint scent of cologne and espresso hung in the air. And on the far wall, painted proudly between two framed photos of past glories, was a large crest — the unmistakable badge of Atlético Madrid.

Around the table sat Enrique Cerezo, the club's president, adjusting his cufflinks with quiet frustration. Next to him, Diego Simeone leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and fire. Miguel Ángel Gil, the CEO, scrolled through something on his tablet, while Carlos Bucero, head of scouting, waited with a dossier at his side.

The silence was heavy except for the faint sound of the television — the replay of that penalty shootout. On the screen, Julián Álvarez slipped as he struck the ball, his shot kissing the turf twice before finding the net. The referee's whistle cut through the stadium noise, signaling a double touch. Then came Marcos Llorente's miss — the ball grazing the post and flying out. Atlético's elimination from the Champions League was sealed right there.

Cerezo muted the TV and turned in his seat.

"Tell me, Diego," he began, his tone tight but measured. "What's the problem? What do you need? Because this—" he gestured at the frozen image of Llorente on the screen "—is not acceptable."

Simeone exhaled sharply. "The problem, Presidente, is that I don't have the players anymore. Griezmann is 34; he can't run 90 minutes, let alone 120. Julián is brilliant — our best player, no question — but he's alone. Correa isn't consistent, and Sorloth…" He paused, shaking his head. "He's not the man to decide a knockout tie."

The CEO, Gil, looked up. "So, what do you propose? Who do you want?"

Simeone turned toward Bucero, who had already opened the folder on his lap. "Carlos has someone."

Bucero stood and slid a few glossy photographs and printouts across the table. "We've been tracking him for months," he began, his voice calm but excited. "A 16-year-old German. Lukas Brandt — Eintracht Frankfurt. Twenty-five goal contributions in eleven games this season." He clicked a remote, switching the screen to highlight reels: flicks, volleys, sprints down the flank, that curling finish against Leverkusen, and a thunderous strike in Europe.

"He's dynamic," Bucero continued. "Can play as a winger, a number ten, or a second striker. Composed on the ball, unpredictable in one-on-ones, very strong mentally for his age. He's become Frankfurt's heartbeat. And off the pitch — marketable. Charismatic. The city adores him."

Cerezo leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest. "A player like that… young, talented, German…" He smiled faintly. "We could build around him."

Simeone nodded. "He's the type we need. Someone to pair with Julián, someone hungry, with legs and creativity. A player who can make a difference from the first minute."

Miguel Ángel Gil frowned slightly, tapping his pen. "He's 16. His mentality hasn't been proven at the highest level yet. Great form, sure, but that could fall anytime."

"Look at Lamine Yamal, look at Doue or even Paz. These are young star players. This kid, I think is already as good, if not better than Yamal. Before the whole world notices that, we have to get him," Simeone argued.

"As good as Yamal? That's debatable. But let's assume he is, Frankfurt won't sell cheap. And you know what German clubs are like with their valuation — they'll ask for a king's ransom."

"Talent costs money," Bucero replied simply. "But he's not just talent; he's already producing. He reminds me of when João Felix first broke through."

"And see how that has ended up! Where is João Felix right now? We spent 120 million euros on him and he plays in Saudi Arabia now. We can't afford to be that reckless again. Especially with the finances being as they are. There is no way we'll be able to get him from Frankfurt for less than 100 million euros," Gil rebutted.

"Are you suggesting we don't sign a young bonafide superstar because of a single misstep previously? You think he isn't already under Perez's radar? You think Laporta isn't already thinking of ways to bring him into his club?

He's already been called up to represent Germany at 16. His already being linked to Bayern Munich. He's youngest goalscorer in the Bundesliga history. Once he, undoubtedly, gets Champions League football next season, how much do you think his valuation by Frankfurt would be? 120? 130? 150? The time to strike is now! This is for our future!" Bucero gave his fiery speech.

Cerezo's gaze flicked to the screen again, where Lukas's goal against Fenerbahçe played in slow motion — a left-footed volley that soared into the top corner. "He certainly looks like the future," he murmured. Then, after a pause: "Alright. Let's move on this."

He turned to Gil. "Contact his agency. Discreetly. Find out what it would take to make him ours."

Simeone's eyes lit up, a rare grin tugging at his lips. "Now we're talking."

The president stood, smoothing his suit jacket. "If this Brandt boy is as good as you say, I want him in red and white next season. No excuses."

Bucero nodded. "Understood."

And as the replay faded to black, the meeting dissolved — Madrid's morning sun breaking through the blinds, illuminating the Atlético crest on the wall. Somewhere in Frankfurt, Marco's phone would soon ring with the first sign that his top client's world was about to change — the first real interest from outside Germany was building.

* * *

The hum of the recovery room was low and steady — a quiet blend of rolling foam cylinders, soft chatter, and the faint buzz of an ice machine. The fluorescent lights above gave the space a calm, clinical glow. Lukas sat on one of the padded benches, legs outstretched, a compression sleeve wrapped around his right thigh. His phone rested loosely in his hand as he scrolled aimlessly through Instagram.

His feed was mostly familiar — teammates' stories, clips from the Europa League, a few fan edits tagged with his name — until one post stopped him cold. It was from Fabrizio Romano.

"A hat-trick of assists in the Europa League for 16-year-old wonderkid. Massive exclusive incoming tonight 🔥⚪️🔴 #EintrachtFrankfurt"

Attached was a photo of Lukas from the night before — still in his match kit, holding his Man of the Match award, a grin breaking through the sweat and exhaustion. The post had already exploded — hundreds of thousands of likes, tens of thousands of comments. Lukas tapped open the comment section, and it was chaos.

"He's joining Bayern, isn't he?"

"No way. Maybe City?"

"Real Madrid are gonna pounce."

"Imagine him under Slot at Liverpool or with Enrique at PSG."

"'Massive exclusive'? That's not like Fabrizio. Something's big here."

Lukas frowned, scrolling further. Fabrizio never teased news. He always dropped it. Whatever this was, it wasn't normal.

"Did Marco agree to a deal without telling me first?" Lukas thought half-jokingly.

He had heard tales of players finding out a deal had been agreed for them from Fabrizio Romano rather than from their own club. Although uncommon, it wasn't impossible for two clubs to agree to the sale or loan of a player before the player is even contacted.

"There's no way they'll do that, right? It definitely cannot be," he thought as he texted Marco.

The reply from Marco came swiftly. " Yeah, I saw it. I don't know what he's referring to either. I guess we'll wait and see. I've spoken to the club, they haven't received any official offer for you. But they're now in a hurry to get your signature for the new deal to prepare for the summer as it looks like it'll be a busy summer."

Lukas stared at the message before moving back to the Instagram post.

"Yo," came a familiar voice. "You look like you just read your own obituary."

Lukas turned to see Larsson walking over, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from the ice bath. He dropped down beside Lukas with a grin.

"Check this out," Lukas said, handing him the phone. "Fabrizio posted something about me. Says there's a 'massive exclusive incoming.'"

Larsson's brows lifted as he read the caption. "Oh boy… that's him. The man with the 'Here we go.' You sure you're not leaving and forgot to tell your best friend?"

Lukas laughed. "Come on, you know me. I'm not going anywhere. I have no clue what this is about."

"Hmm." Larsson gave him a mock suspicious look. "So, no secret Bayern deal? No midnight Real Madrid phone call?"

"No, none of that," Lukas said, still smiling. "I mean, even if someone wanted to talk, I'm not interested in leaving right now. We're doing great here."

Larsson nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because if you left, I'd have to actually start passing the ball forward instead of to you."

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