Klopp's order to "be a teenager" was a liberation. It was the lifting of a weight Mateo hadn't even realized he was carrying: the weight of being a professional, a prodigy, a phenomenon.

For one weekend, he was allowed to be just… Mateo. And with Lukas as his enthusiastic guide, he dove headfirst into the bewildering world of normal adolescence, a world that began, as all modern journeys must, with a trip to the shops.

Their first stop, inevitably, was the shopping street. But this time, the atmosphere was completely different.

The anxiety that had crippled Mateo before the fear of being seen, of being judged, of being a fraud in clothes that didn't fit his identity was replaced by a hesitant curiosity. Klopp's words had given him a new lens through which to see himself.

He wasn't a fraud for feeling awkward; he was a normal sixteen-year-old. The pressure to be the "Hybrid Terror" was gone, replaced by the simple, achievable mission of finding a pair of jeans that didn't make him feel like a circus performer.

Lukas, sensing the shift in mood, also changed his approach. He was no longer the overbearing fashion guru.

He was just a friend, helping a buddy out. He understood that this was more than just clothes; it was about finding a physical identity that matched the psychological one Mateo was trying to build.

"Okay," Lukas signed, his hands moving with a fluid grace that mirrored the way Mateo moved the ball. "New plan. Forget style. Forget fashion. We have only one goal: comfort. We will find the most comfortable clothes in this city. If you end up looking like a stylish god of football, that is just a happy accident."

This time, in the changing room, Mateo didn't look for the stranger in the mirror. He focused on the feeling.

He tried on a pair of simple, dark-wash jeans. They were a straight cut, not the skinny, distressed style from before.

They fit his muscular legs without clinging to them. He could move in them. He could breathe in them. He looked in the mirror, and saw not a fashion statement, but just… a guy in a pair of jeans. It was a revelation.

The System, which had been silent on the matter of fashion, offered a quiet, internal confirmation: "Somatic Comfort Level: Optimal. Psychological Integration: Positive."

They found a soft, thick hoodie made of a fleecy material. It was a size larger than he thought he needed, but it draped over his new frame in a way that felt comfortable, not sloppy. It was a shield, but a soft one.

A comfort, not a costume. He bought it in two colors. The act of choosing, of spending money on something purely for his own comfort, was a small, quiet act of rebellion against the hyper-disciplined life he had been living.

They spent hours just wandering, with no goal other than to exist in the world.

They went to a cinema and watched a loud, stupid American action movie, sharing a giant bucket of popcorn. Mateo didn't understand all the dialogue, but it didn't matter. For two hours, he was just a kid watching things explode on a giant screen. It was glorious.

It was later that evening, back in the quiet of his dorm room, that the mundane reality of his life collided with the extraordinary reality of his profession.

He was trying to order a new pair of noise-canceling headphones the old ones had finally given out and the online store required a payment method he hadn't set up.

He had always used the club's administrative assistant for anything financial. His life was a bubble of efficiency: food was provided, clothes were sponsored, accommodation was a dorm room.

Money was an abstract concept, a number on a contract that he had signed but never truly internalized. He knew he was one of the least paid players on the first team, but that was like saying the sun was one of the smaller stars in the galaxy it was still a colossal, overwhelming fact.

He opened the banking app for the first time. The screen loaded, and the number that appeared was so large, so utterly divorced from his reality, that he had to close his eyes and reopen them.

€1,560,000.00

The figure was a silent, screaming testament to the last year of his life. He stared at the seven digits, the decimal point a tiny, insignificant barrier between him and a fortune. He knew the number: €30,000 a week including his signing bonus and weekly goals and assists bonus.

He had signed the contract, but he had never seen the accumulation.

"Financial Status: Extreme Surplus. Current Savings Rate: 99.8%," the System reported, its clinical analysis only amplifying the absurdity. "Subject's weekly income exceeds the annual income of 95% of the German population. Subject's current balance is sufficient to purchase 26 high-end sports cars or 15 average-sized Dortmund homes."

Mateo felt a strange mix of detachment and shock. He was sixteen. He lived in a dorm room. His biggest expense was a shared cinema ticket and a bag of popcorn. He had no rent, no bills, no dependents.

The club provided his food, his training gear, his travel, and even the basic bicycle he used to ride the short distance from the dorm to the training pitch. He had never looked at the balance because he had never needed to. Money was simply not a variable in his equation for happiness or success.

He thought of the worn-out football they had bought for ten euros in the park. He thought of the simple, comfortable jeans. The contrast was staggering. He was a millionaire many times over, yet the things that brought him genuine joy were the cheapest, simplest things.

He closed the banking app, the number burned into his retina. The headphones were forgotten. Instead, a new idea formed, a small, personal rebellion against the club's all-encompassing provision.

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