Julián Álvarez, who had been staring at the ceiling with a look of profound, almost spiritual, concentration, finally spoke.

"It is simple," he announced, his voice filled with the tone of a man who has just uncovered a great universal truth.

"This is not a transfer. This is a love triangle. A very expensive, very complicated, multi-club love triangle. Liverpool loves Yamal. PSG loves Lautaro. And Inter... Inter is the angry father with a shotgun who does not approve of any of it. The question is," he said, his eyes shining with a brilliant, insane light, "who gets to marry the beautiful princess, who is also a very good winger?"

The room just stared at him for a long, silent moment before Andy Robertson, in a moment of rare, philosophical clarity, said, "Julián, you are a beautiful, beautiful madman. And I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

Arne Slot let the beautiful, chaotic speculation continue for a few minutes before he walked into the center of the room, a calm, amused smile on his face.

"Alright, you pack of gossiping housewives," he began, and the room instantly quieted, a few snorts of laughter echoing in the silence.

"As much as I would love to discuss the romantic entanglements of the European transfer market, we have a football match to play."

He looked around the room, his eyes sharp and focused. "The noise outside is just that: noise. It has nothing to do with us. Our job is to go to Brighton, play our football, and come home with three points. The rest," he said with a dismissive wave, "is for the men in the very expensive suits to worry about. Let's work."

The training session that followed was a masterclass in professional focus.

The players, their minds now clear of the transfer drama, were a blur of red, their passing a one-touch symphony. They were a machine, and the machine was beautiful to watch.

That night, Leon was in his quiet house, trying to relax before the Brighton match.

But his mind was a buzzing hive of activity.

He thought of Lautaro, his old captain, his friend, being used as a pawn in a game of giants. He felt a surge of protective anger.

His phone rang. It was an Italian number.

His heart skipped a beat. He answered.

"Leo? It's me." It was Lautaro. His voice was tired, but calm.

"Hey, Captain," Leon said, a wave of relief washing over him. "

You okay? I saw the news. It's... crazy." He heard Lautaro let out a short, humorless laugh on the other end of the line.

"Crazy is one word for it," he said. "I feel less like a footballer and more like a prize cow at a very fancy, very confusing auction." He paused.

"But listen, that's not why I'm calling. Forget the noise. Forget the rumors. You have a job to do. Go and win your league, Leo. Win it for all of us who are still fighting the good fight back here in Italy."

"We'll try, Captain," Leon said, his voice thick with emotion.

"I know you will," Lautaro said, a fierce, unwavering belief in his voice.

"Now go and get some rest. And if you see Julián, tell him that a love triangle requires three people, not three clubs and a very confused Argentine striker."

The match at Brighton was a beautiful, brutal, and utterly exhausting affair. Brighton, a team of tactical purists, played with a brave, almost arrogant, confidence.

They passed the ball with a slick, one-touch rhythm that was a mirror image of Liverpool's own style.

For eighty minutes, it was a breathtaking, goalless stalemate. A thunderous shot from Dominik Szoboszlai was brilliantly saved. A mazy, brilliant dribble from Brighton's own superstar winger, Kaoru Mitoma, ended with a shot that went agonizingly wide.

Then, in the 82nd minute, the moment of truth. A moment of pure, unadulterated, Liverpool magic.

The move started with a piece of brilliant, desperate defending from Virgil van Dijk.

The ball was worked to Leon, who glided past a tired challenge.

He looked up and saw a run, a blur of red, a ghost of a movement that only he, and the man making it, could see. Mo Salah.

Leon didn't hesitate. He played a pass that was a work of art, a 40-yard, defense-splitting, outside-of-the-boot through-ball that was so perfect, so beautiful, it deserved to be hung in a museum.

Salah was one-on-one. He took one touch, opened up his body, and coolly, calmly, ruthlessly, slotted the ball into the bottom corner of the net.

1-0. A goal of pure, world-class genius.

The final whistle blew a few minutes later. A hard-fought, and ultimately brilliant, victory.

The dressing room was a joyous, exhausted, and profoundly satisfied place.

They had been in a fight, a proper footballing fight, and they had emerged victorious.

As Leon was packing his bag, a quiet, happy smile on his face, his phone buzzed. It was his agent, Marco. His voice was not the usual excited roar. It was a low, cold, and deeply, deeply furious hiss.

"Leo," Marco began, his voice trembling with a rage that Leon had never heard before. "We have a problem. A very, very big problem."

"What is it?" Leon asked, his blood running cold.

"I have just gotten off the phone with your new President," Marco spat, the words dripping with venom. "Flavio Briatore. He has... a new plan. A new, brilliant, and completely insane plan."

"What are you talking about, Marco?"

"I am talking about the Yamal deal," Marco said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

"I am talking about Lautaro. I am talking about a three-way deal that is so complicated, so audacious, it could only have been conceived in the mind of a madman."

He took a deep, shaky breath.

"Briatore has just officially informed Paris Saint-Germain that he will agree to their player-plus-cash proposal," Marco said, his voice a monotone of pure, furious disbelief.

"He will sell them Lautaro Martínez. But he has added one, final, non-negotiable condition. He does not want the cash."

He paused, and in that single, agonizing second of silence, Leon's entire, beautiful, chaotic world seemed to tilt on its axis.

"He wants the player."

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