Alex walked in at seven forty five. It was not the usual Monday morning tiredness. It was not the happy buzz of a win.

It was quiet. It was sharp. It was cold.

Bastian was in the locker room, at his locker. He was not stretching. He was not reading. He was just... staring. He was watching a video on his tablet.

Alex got closer. He could hear the sound of a crowd. Roaring. Angry.

On the screen, two players in red and white were screaming at a player in all white.

"Morning, Professor," Bastian grunted. He did not look up.

"Morning, Bastian. What are you watching?"

"Homework," Bastian said. He pointed at the screen. "This is from last year. The derby. I got a red card. It was... a good red card. He tried to kick Antoine."

Alex just stood there. Bastian, the calm, giant rock... got a red card.

"This game," Bastian said, finally looking up, his eyes serious, "is not about your brain. It is not about your boots. It is about... your heart. And how much you hate them."

Alex swallowed. He had never hated anyone. This was a new feeling.

The room filled up. It was silent. Harry, the captain, was not whistling. He was just... taping his ankles. Taping them very, very tightly.

Mark was the last to walk in. He was not wearing his shiny suit. He was in his full kit. He was already sweating.

He did not say "I am chaos". He did not say anything. He just went to his locker, put his silver boots down, and started to stretch. He looked... cold.

This was the "controlled fire" the manager wanted. It was scary.

The team meeting was in the video room. It was dark.

Steve, the manager, stood next to the giant screen.

"Magician," Steve said to Antoine. "You are new. You do not understand. So today... you get a history lesson."

Steve pressed a button.

The screen lit up. It was not tactics. It was not formations.

It was... a war.

For ten minutes, they just watched. They watched twenty years of the North London Derby.

They saw bad tackles. They saw players fighting. They saw red cards. They saw managers screaming at each other.

They saw Arsenal score. The crowd was a sea of red.

They saw Tottenham score. The crowd was a sea of white, all of them laughing, all of them... arrogant.

Then, Steve played a new clip. It was from the U18 game. Alexs first game.

He saw himself. So small. So slow.

And he saw... the tackle.

He saw the Tottenham defender launch himself, studs up, at Mark. He saw Mark go down. He saw him scream.

The whole room was silent.

Mark was in the back row. He was not moving. He was just... watching. His breathing was fast and shallow.

Steve turned off the TV. The room was dark.

"That," Steve said, his voice a low growl, "is what they think of us. They think we are soft. They think they can break our kids. They think they can laugh."

He turned on the lights.

"Today, we train for them. Today, we learn how to be... a weapon. A guided missile."

He looked at Mark. "And a missile... must follow orders. It cannot just... explode. Understood?"

Mark just nodded. His face was pale.

On the training pitch, the manager was a machine.

"NO!" he roared. "FASTER! HARDER! TACKLE HIM!"

It was not about 'smart' passes. It was not about 'magic' moves.

It was about... winning. Winning every ball.

Steve put Alex on one team. He put Mark and Antoine on the other.

"Professor!" Steve yelled. "You are the angry rock! Your job is to stop the magic! Do not let him breathe!"

Alex was marking Antoine. His hero. His partner.

It was awful.

Antoine got the ball. He tried his magic spin.

Alex did not go for the ball. He just... got in the way. He was stable. He was a rock.

He took the hit. He won the ball.

"Good, Professor!" Steve yelled. "Again!"

Antoine got the ball. He looked at Alex. He was frustrated.

He tried to pass it to Mark.

Alex saw it. His analyst brain was working. He intercepted it.

"YES!"

Antoine was getting angry. "Professor! Stop this! Let me play!"

"I am playing!" Alex yelled back. "I am being a rock!"

On the other side, Mark was a disaster.

He was trying to be "controlled". But he was just... slow. He was thinking too much.

He would get the ball, and instead of running, he would... stop. He would look for a pass.

Bastian just... took the ball from him.

"You are not a rock, Speed," Bastian grunted. "You are... a confused pidgeon. What are you doing?"

"I am being controlled!" Mark yelled back.

"You are being boring!" Bastian said.

The whistle blew. Steve was bright red.

"MARK!" he roared. "What was THAT? That was not 'controlled fire'! That was... a wet match! You are a striker! You are 'Speed'! You are 'Chaos'! You are supposed to be a WEAPON! You look... scared!"

"I am NOT scared!" Mark roared. He was shaking. "I am... I am... I hate them! I want to kill them!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU PASSING BACKWARDS?"

"BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME TO BE COLD!" Mark screamed. He was losing it. "You told me to be a 'guided missile'! I do not know how! I am not a 'brain' like him!"

He pointed at Alex.

"I am just... ANGRY! I am just... FAST! Let me be fast!"

The pitch was silent.

Steve just... stared at Mark.

Alex held his breath. He saw his partner. He was not a rival. He was a kid. A scared, angry kid.

Alex walked over.

"Coach," Alex said, his voice quiet.

Steve looked at him. "What, Professor?"

"He is right," Alex said.

Mark looked at him, shocked.

"He is not me," Alex said. "He is not a shield. He is not a rock. He is... he is the Arrow. You cannot ask the arrow to be the bow. It is not his job."

Steve crossed his arms. "So what is the solution, Professor? He is a 'bomb'. He is a 'mess'. I cannot trust him."

Alex looked at Mark. He saw all that fire. All that rage.

He turned back to the manager. "You are right, coach. He is a bomb. So... you do not 'control' a bomb. You... you aim it. And you wait."

"Wait?" Steve asked.

"Yes," Alex said. His analyst brain was on. This was a new plan. "You do not start him. You put him on the bench. You let him watch. You let him... simmer."

Mark looked like he was going to cry. "The bench? Again?"

"Yes," Alex said, looking at him. "You sit. You watch. You watch me. You watch Antoine. You watch Harry. You watch them... fight. For sixty minutes. You let all that... that fire... build up inside you. You let it get so hot you cannot even sit still."

"And then," Alex said, looking back at Steve, "at sixty minutes... when their defenders are tired... when their legs are heavy... that is when you let him go. That is when you aim the bomb. Not for ninety minutes. For thirty. Thirty minutes of pure, uncut, fast, angry... chaos. That is controlled fire."

The whole team was listening.

Steve was just... staring at Alex.

Mark was... quiet. He was thinking.

"Thirty minutes," Mark whispered. "Thirty minutes... to run until they cry."

Steve looked at Mark. He saw the fire. But now... it had a target. It had a plan.

A slow smile spread across Steves face.

"Professor," he said. "You are... a very smart, very scary, sixteen year old kid. That is... a brilliant idea."

He looked at Mark. "You. 'Speed'. You are on the bench. You are my weapon. My 'thirty minute bomb'. You will wait. You will watch. And when I call your name... I want you to explode. But... only at them. Got it?"

Mark looked at Alex. Alex just nodded.

Mark looked back at Steve. "Yes, coach. I... I can do that. I can wait."

"Good," Steve said. "Now, Bibs versus No Bibs. Again. Professor... you are with the Magician this time. Let us see the Hurricane. Let us see the real war."

Alex and Antoine stood side by side.

"So," Antoine said, a grin on his face. "You are a manager now, Professor? You are... the 'bomb aimer'?"

"I am just... the partner," Alex said, looking over at Mark. Mark was on the sideline, watching. He was not sulking. He was... studying.

"Okay," Antoine said. "Lets play. I want to show them... what a real fight looks like."

Alex just smiled. He looked at his hero.

The derby was coming.

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