Fweeeeeetttttttt! Fweeeeeetttttttt! Fweeeeeetttttttt!

FULL TIME: FIORENTINA 1-2 ATALANTA

The final whistle cut through the noise of the stadium and sealed Atalanta's comeback, and players slowed to a walk across the pitch while some dropped to their knees with exhaustion and others scanned the stands searching for family or friends.

Demien exhaled deeply with his hands on his hips, and he let the moment settle over him rather than allowing it to explode into wild celebration because this wasn't his first big game anymore—the Sampdoria debut, the Napoli loss, the Cremonese demolition had all taught him how to process these moments—but tonight was one that mattered in ways the others hadn't.

Returning to Florence. Facing the academy that rejected him. Proving something.

Near the center circle, Adriano Ventresca approached him first while no cameras had shoved into their faces yet, and it was just two players meeting in the aftermath with the crowd noise fading into background static.

They shook hands firmly, and Adriano's grip was strong while his expression carried a smirk that was half-serious and half-competitive, and his voice came clearly despite the surrounding noise.

"You got this one," Adriano said, and his tone acknowledged the result without bitterness. "But next time, it'll be mine."

Demien's response came calmly, and his eyes met Adriano's directly. "I'll be waiting."

The exchange lasted three seconds before they both pulled off their shirts without ceremony, and the fabric swap was a quiet acknowledgment between two players who understood exactly what tonight meant—not just a match result, but a measuring stick for where they stood relative to each other.

Adriano's purple number ten felt heavier than expected in Demien's hands, and he pulled on the shirt while the material clung to his skin that was still damp with sweat, and when he glanced back Adriano was already walking toward Fiorentina's dejected supporters with Atalanta's black and blue draped over his shoulder.

As Demien turned toward the away section where a few hundred traveling supporters were still celebrating, he heard his name called sharply from behind.

"WALTER!"

De Roon stood near the center circle waving him over, and the captain was tapping his armband while pointing toward the touchline where someone was waiting, and Demien jogged across the grass while momentary confusion crossed his face because he didn't understand what—

Then it clicked.

Man of the Match.

The match delegate stood near the technical area holding a small trophy and a microphone, and the broadcast cameras were already positioned to capture the presentation, and the realization didn't bring a smile immediately—just a small nod of acknowledgment as Demien reached them and the delegate extended his hand.

"Congratulations," the man said in accented English. "Man of the Match. Outstanding performance."

"Thank you," Demien replied, and he accepted the trophy while the cameras flashed and the away section applauded from their position behind the goal.

The presentation was efficient and almost rushed because these things always were—shake hands, hold trophy, smile briefly for cameras, move on—and within thirty seconds the delegate was already gesturing toward the broadcast interviewer who waited with her microphone ready.

Pitch-Side Interview

The interviewer was a woman in her thirties wearing the broadcaster's credentials, and she smiled professionally as Demien approached while his breath was still uneven from ninety minutes of running.

"Demien Walter, congratulations on the victory and the Man of the Match award," she began in Italian. "How are you feeling right now?"

"Good," Demien replied in Italian, and he took a breath to steady his voice. "It was a tough match. Fiorentina played very well, especially in the first half. We had to fight back, and I'm proud of the team for showing that character."

"You created the winning goal with that brilliant pass to Hateboer," she continued. "Can you talk us through that moment?"

"The ball broke loose and I just tried to make the right decision quickly," Demien replied without embellishment. "Hateboer made a great run, I saw the space, and the finish was perfect. Credit to him for being in the right position."

"Adriano Ventresca had an excellent match as well," the interviewer said. "What did you think of his performance tonight?"

"He's an outstanding player," Demien said, and the statement was genuine rather than diplomatic. "Very talented, very intelligent. He'll only get better. It was good to compete against him."

The interview wrapped quickly after two more standard questions about Atalanta's season and upcoming fixtures, and Demien answered each without creating soundbites or headline bait—just composed, professional responses that gave the broadcasters what they needed without giving them anything controversial.

When it finished he jogged toward the tunnel where his teammates had already disappeared, and the Artemio Franchi's crowd had thinned significantly while stadium workers began their post-match routines.

Away Locker Room - Artemio Franchi

The away dressing room atmosphere was controlled as shirts were peeled off and tossed into equipment bags while ice packs were passed around between players, and satisfaction filled the space without crossing into wild celebration because this was a league win rather than a cup final.

Højlund sat on the bench with an ice pack pressed against his thigh, and Lookman was already in the showers while his voice carried through the steam, and Tolói stood near his locker retying the laces on his street shoes with methodical precision.

Gasperini walked through the room once, and he stopped briefly in front of Demien who was sitting on the bench unlacing his boots.

The manager didn't raise his voice or smile, and his expression stayed neutral as it always did after matches, and he looked down at Demien for a moment before speaking.

"Good adjustment," Gasperini said quietly, and the two words carried more weight than a longer speech would have.

Then he moved on toward De Roon without waiting for a response, and the brief interaction was over before it really began, and Demien nodded once to himself while pulling off his boot.

The room gradually filled with the sounds of recovery—shower water running, medical tape being unwrapped, quiet conversations between teammates about the match—and Demien sat and retaped his left wrist where the athletic tape had loosened during the second half.

The system window activated for the first time since the final whistle.

「MATCH MISSION COMPLETED」

「Objective: Contribute to 1 Goal ✓」

「Objective: Achieve Match Rating 7.5+ ✓」

「REWARD: 150 TP + 30 MP」

The notification hung in his peripheral vision for three seconds before fading, and a second line followed immediately—smaller, cleaner in its presentation.

「BONUS REWARD」

「Man of the Match: +10 SP」

「Current Balance: 500 TP | 12 SP | 379 MP」

No fanfare accompanied the rewards, and no sound played when they registered, and the confirmation was as understated as everything else the system did—just numbers updating in a database that only Demien could access.

He dismissed the window with a thought and finished retaping his wrist before standing to head toward the showers, and around him his teammates continued their post-match routines while the controlled satisfaction of a hard-fought away victory settled over everyone.

Later - Media Circulation

The narrative took shape without Demien needing to say anything beyond his pitch-side interview.

Analysts on the evening sports shows praised both young midfielders while calling the match a glimpse into Serie A's future, and the tactical breakdowns showed Adriano's first-half dominance through possession statistics and heat maps before shifting to Demien's second-half influence through passing networks and the decisive assist.

One pundit on Sky Sport Italia gestured at the screen showing both players' match statistics side by side.

"This is the next generation," he said, and genuine excitement carried in his voice. "Ventresca with his technical brilliance and creativity, Walter with his vision and tactical intelligence. Both eighteen years old. Both capable of controlling matches. We're watching something special develop."

His colleague nodded in agreement. "What impressed me most about Walter was the adjustment. First half he was tidy but not decisive. Second half, completely different—wider positioning, quicker decisions, and that pass for the winning goal showed maturity beyond his years."

The phrase "next generation" was repeated more than once across different broadcasts, and clips of both players circulated on social media while football accounts analyzed the tactical battle and individual moments that defined the match.

Demien's Phone - Team Bus

His phone buzzed while he sat near the back of the team bus that was pulling away from the Artemio Franchi, and the Florence streetlights passed by outside the windows while most players scrolled their phones or listened to music through headphones.

The message was from Sophia.

Sophia: Watched everything. You looked calm out there. Proud of you.

No emojis cluttered the text, and no excessive words diluted the message, and the directness was characteristically her—saying exactly what she meant without decoration or distraction.

Demien's thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he typed a simple response.

Demien: Thank you.

He sent it and locked his phone, and he leaned his head against the window while the city lights blurred past and the exhaustion from ninety minutes began settling into his muscles properly.

Unknown Location - Later That Night

The chapter closed far from the stadium and far from Florence.

In a quiet bedroom somewhere else, a young player sat on the edge of his bed with his phone held in both hands, and the screen's glow illuminated his face in the darkness while he replayed match highlights with focused attention.

He paused on a clip showing Demien receiving the Man of the Match award, and his eyes narrowed with interest as he watched the eighteen-year-old midfielder accept the trophy with understated composure, and the video showed the assist that won the match in slow motion—the touch drawing pressure, the weighted pass threading through, the clinical finish.

Beside him, draped neatly over a chair, was a blue and black striped jersey with the number and name visible in the dim light.

He smiled to himself while already imagining the day they would meet on the pitch—not as teammates, not as friends, but as competitors measuring themselves against each other the way Demien and Adriano had tonight.

"So that's the new wonderkid," he muttered to the empty room, and his voice carried quiet confidence that came from someone who believed he belonged in that conversation.

The screen faded to black.

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