The locker room was quiet. Bastian was already there, of course. He was not stretching. He was just sitting at his locker, drinking a black coffee, and staring at a wall. He looked like a very large, very tired statue.

"Professor," Bastian grunted as Alex sat down. He looked at Alexs limp. "You are broken."

"I am not broken," Alex said, wincing as he bent over to unlace his shoes. "I am... stable. But... sore."

"Good," Bastian grunted. "This is the feeling of winning ugly. You are not a duck. You are a small, tough... rock. This is good."

Alex felt a huge surge of pride. Bastian had called him a rock. This was a good day.

The locker room slowly filled up. It was like a hospital ward. Harry, the captain, walked in, holding his back. "Morning, lads. I feel like I am ninety years old. That was not football. That was... a fight in a car park."

Antoine was the last to arrive. He looked, as always, like he had just finished a photo shoot. But even he was limping, just a little.

"Professor," Antoine said, sitting next to Alex. "My... my legs. The mud. It is everywhere. I have found mud in places... it is not possible. I am an artist, not a... a farmer."

Alex just laughed. "Welcome to England, Magician."

The door burst open. Mark ran in. He was in his full training kit. He was not limping. He was not sore. He was... vibrating.

"Good morning!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the tired room.

Bastian just groaned.

"What is wrong with you all?" Mark said, looking at them. "We won! It was a great game! I was ready! I was on the bench! I was so fast! Did you see me?"

"You did not play, Speed," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "You just... stood on the sideline and looked cold."

"I was ready!" Mark insisted, his face bright. "I was chaos on a leash! I was..."

"You were a mascot," Bastian grunted. "Now be quiet. You are giving me a headache. Go get the balls."

Mark's face fell. "But... I am not the new kid anymore."

"You are the loudest kid," Bastian said. "Go get the balls."

Mark looked at Alex. Alex just shrugged. Be stable.

Mark grumbled, but he did it. He stomped off, his silver boots squeaking.

The team was in the canteen after a very light recovery session. Alex was just happy to be sitting down. His body was one big ache.

A big TV in the corner was on. It was showing a sports news channel.

"Alright, lads, quiet down!" Harry yelled. "FA Cup draw! This is it!"

The whole room went quiet. The players gathered around the screen.

Alex felt his heart start to beat faster. Who would they get? Another "mud" team like Lincoln? Or a giant, like Manchester City?

"I want a big team!" Mark said, bouncing on his toes. "I want to play at a huge stadium! I want... chaos!"

"I," Antoine said, sipping a tiny coffee, "want a very small, very easy team. At home. On a perfect, beautiful, grass pitch. My legs... they are still in Burnley."

The men on the TV, in their smart suits, started the draw.

"And now, ball number two," the man said. "Arsenal."

The room was silent.

"Arsenal..." the man said, "will play... at home..."

"YES!" Antoine whispered, pumping his fist. "A home game! The grass will be perfect!"

"...against..."

The man pulled the second ball.

"Ball number forty two."

"Who is forty two?" Harry asked, looking nervous.

The man on TV checked his list. He paused for drama.

"Ball number forty two... is... Tottenham Hotspur."

Alexs world just... stopped.

He could not breathe. His heart was not a drum. It was just... a rock. In his stomach.

The canteen was completely, totally, deathly silent.

Antoine looked around, confused.

"Tottenham?" Antoine asked, his voice curious. "Who is this? Tottenham? Are they good? Are they... ugly?"

Harry, the captain, just... put his head in his hands. He let out a long, slow, painful groan. "Oh, no. No. Anyone but them."

"Why?" Antoine asked. "What is this... 'Tottenham'?"

"They are not just a team, Antoine," Harry said, looking up. His face was not happy. It was... serious. "They are the team. They are our rivals. Our... our enemies. This is not a game. This is not a cup tie. This... this is the North London Derby. This is a war."

Bastian just nodded. "Derby. This is... loud. Very loud. And very... angry."

Alex was just... frozen. Tottenham.

His analyst brain was spinning. He was not thinking about the U18 game. He was thinking about their first team. Their world superstar striker. Their fast Korean winger. Their smart, tough, midfield.

This was... this was the biggest game of his life.

He looked over at Mark.

Mark was not moving. He was not bouncing. He was not shouting.

He was just... standing. His face was pale. His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white.

"Mark?" Alex asked, his voice quiet. "Are you okay?"

Mark did not look at him. He was just... staring at the TV.

"Them," Mark whispered.

"Mark?"

"They are the ones," Mark said, his voice a low, dangerous, scary growl.

Alex remembered. The U18 derby. The game that started it all. The game where a defender had tried to break Marks leg.

"Their fans," Mark said, his voice shaking. "They laughed. They laughed when I got hurt. They said I was just a... a fast kid. A baby. They..."

He turned. He looked at Alex.

His eyes were not happy. They were not excited. They were on fire.

"I hate them," Mark whispered. "I... I really, really... hate them."

He was not the "Arrow" anymore. He was not "Chaos". He was... just... pure anger.

"I am going to score," Mark said. It was not a boast. It was a promise. "I am going to score five goals. I am going to run until they cry."

Alex had never seen him like this. This was not the loud, silly Mark. This was... scary.

The manager, Steve, had been standing at the back of the room, just watching.

He walked to the front. The room was silent.

"So," Steve said. "Tottenham. At home. The FA Cup. The 'Hurricane' versus our oldest rival. The newspapers... they are going to love this."

He looked at his team.

"This is not a normal game. This is not about tactics. This is not about 'boring' or 'smart' or 'ugly'. This... this is about pride. This is about our home. This is about... them."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Your brain is good. I need it. But this week... I need your heart. I need you to be the rock. But... an angry rock."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. Your chaos is good. But I need... controlled fire. I do not want an idiot. I want a... a weapon. A guided missile. You do not get stupid. You get... cold."

He looked at Antoine.

"And you, Magician," Steve said. "You are new here. You do not understand what this game means. So you are going to learn. This week... we are not just training. We are... we are preparing for a war."

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