Lukas's eyes widened as he read the note, the last vestiges of his morning excitement draining away like sand through his fingers. A cold knot of genuine concern tightened in his stomach. He knew Mateo.

He knew his friend's pain tolerance was inhumanly high, a stubborn resilience forged through years of silent struggle and physical demands on the pitch. For Mateo to admit to Muy mal very bad meant the situation was far more serious than a simple illness. It was a distress signal of the highest order.

"Headache? Like a migraine?" Lukas asked

Mateo nodded, a slow, agonizing dip of his chin. He then pointed to the phone, then to the notepad, and then made the sign for call and teacher.

Lukas immediately understood. He picked up the phone, his voice now hushed and serious. "Okay, okay. I'll call the academy and the school. I'll tell them you're sick. You need to rest. Just lie down, okay?"

Mateo managed a weak, grateful smile. He watched Lukas walk to the door, already dialing the number, his back a reassuring presence.

He knew this was the right decision. He couldn't go to training. He couldn't face the tactical analysis session, the noise, the lights, the demands.

He had pushed his System and his mind to the breaking point, and now he had to pay the debt. The world would have to wait for its Maestro.

Lukas's call was quickly followed by a knock on the door, but it wasn't Lukas returning. It was Sarah, his translator and guardian, accompanied by Dr. Claus, the team physician. Klopp, with his characteristic intensity, had clearly been informed immediately and had dispatched his two most trusted personnel.

Dr. Claus, a man whose calm demeanor was a balm to the chaos of the football world, sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't ask questions; he simply observed. He checked Mateo's pupils, his pulse, and gently palpated the muscles in his neck and shoulders.

Sarah, meanwhile, sat quietly, her presence a silent anchor. She watched Mateo's face, her own expression a mixture of concern and understanding.

Mateo, his movements slow and deliberate, lifted a hand. He signed, his fingers forming the words with a weary precision: My head… it feels like it's full of bees. And the light… it hurts.

Sarah nodded, then turned to Dr. Claus. "He says his head feels like it's full of bees, and the light hurts his eyes."

Dr. Claus listened, his gaze never leaving Mateo. He then spoke in low, measured German, his tone gentle but firm. Mateo could pick out a few words: Kopfschmerzen, Erschöpfung, Gehirn, but the full meaning was lost in the fog of his headache.

Sarah immediately turned back to Mateo, her hands moving with a fluid grace that was a stark contrast to his own pained movements. "Dr. Claus says it's not a physical injury," she said. "It's extreme mental exhaustion. Your brain has worked too fast. It's like you've run a marathon with your mind."

Mateo watched her hands and mouth, a sense of validation washing over him. He wasn't weak; he was simply depleted. The System's analysis was confirmed by the external world.

Dr. Claus then spoke again, his tone firm and authoritative. Sarah translated his instructions into sign language: "Complete day off. No school. No training. No tactics. No television. Only silence and water. You must recharge your mind. This is an order."

Sarah then added a personal note, her words softer, more reassuring: "Klopp agrees. He is proud, but he wants you to recover. I will take care of everything. Rest, Mateo."

Mateo gave a slow, deliberate nod. He trusted them. Dr. Claus understood the physical body, and Sarah understood the unique demands of his life. He was not alone in managing this new, terrifying power.

As Dr. Claus administered a mild painkiller and Sarah drew the curtains, plunging the room into a soothing darkness, Mateo felt the tension begin to ease. The buzzing in his head subsided to a dull throb. He lay back, the soft pillow a welcome relief.

Meanwhile, the world outside his darkened room was a whirlwind of noise and adulation. In Barcelona, the sports pages were a study in cognitive dissonance.

Mundo Deportivo, once so quick to dismiss him, now ran a full-page spread with the headline: "THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY." The article was a masterpiece of revisionist history, claiming that Barcelona had always known of his potential but had been forced to let him go due to "complex contractual issues."

In Madrid, the tone was one of undisguised glee. Marca's front page was a simple, brutal image: a photo of Mateo celebrating his goal, with a tiny, inset photo of Barcelona's president, Sandro Rosell, looking grim. The headline: "BARÇA'S €100 MILLION MISTAKE."

Online, the reaction was even more intense. Twitter was a firestorm of memes, gifs, and hot takes.

The hashtag #DerMaestro was trending worldwide, alongside #BarcelonaReject. Fans created side-by-side comparisons of Mateo's stats against those of Barcelona's current midfield, and the results were not flattering for the Catalan giants.

One particularly viral tweet, from a prominent English football journalist, summed up the sentiment perfectly: "Barcelona spent years and millions searching for the 'new Iniesta,' and they had him in their own backyard all along. They just didn't know how to turn him on."

The irony was not lost on Mateo, even in his depleted state. He was the ultimate paradox: a player whose value was now being measured in the tens of millions, but whose internal "battery" was at a critical low.

He was a phenomenon, a maestro, a generational talent. But he was also just a boy, lying in a darkened room, with a headache that felt like it could split the world in two.

The world outside was still screaming his name, celebrating Der Maestro. But in the quiet darkness of his room, the Maestro was just a boy, learning the immense, terrifying price of his genius.

The Champions League campaign was secured, but a new, more personal battle had just begun: the battle to control The Zone, and to survive the mental toll of being the one on whom everyone constantly relied.

***

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