The television dimmed into a low, staticky hum, flickering against the pale walls like distant lightning through heavy clouds.Demien stayed where he was, the leather of the armchair cool against the backs of his arms, the remote sliding unnoticed to the floor by his side.
The interview had ended minutes ago.
No fanfare.No sweeping music to underline its importance.
Just the lingering shot of Clara Aubert's face — composed, bright-eyed, unreadable in a way that didn't feel rehearsed — before the program cut awkwardly to commercial filler.
Demien's chest rose and fell once, slow and measured.A breath not of exhaustion, not of preparation for another battle, but of something smaller. Quieter.
Curiosity.
The kind he hadn't felt since waking in this new skin.
His gaze drifted toward the darkened corners of the room, following shadows that twisted lazily as the television shifted through late-night highlight reels nobody really watched.
Somewhere deep inside, beyond the rigid compartments where he stored formations, player profiles, media strategies, a thought brushed against him.
Not about tactics.Not about transfers.
About her.
Not her face, though it would have been easy to pretend that was all it was.Not her title. Not even the sharpness of her questions.
It was the way she moved inside the conversation, navigating a room built to flatten people into applause, and refusing.
Not loud.Not arrogant.
Just there. Solid. Unapologetic.
The kind of presence that didn't ask permission. That didn't beg for approval.
Demien's lips tugged, a dry, faint smirk curling for half a second before falling away.Interesting.That had been the word, tossed into the air earlier without weight.Now it settled heavier in his chest, real.
He shifted his weight, legs stretching out, heels catching on the frayed carpet edge.The city murmured faintly beyond the sealed windows — the muted buzz of scooters weaving down narrow lanes, the clink of glasses in some rooftop bar he'd never visit.
Inside, only the soft static glow and the slow, deliberate beat of his own heart kept rhythm.
Most nights after matches, Demien's mind ran hours ahead — schedules, counterpress drills, recovery rotations — layers upon layers stacking themselves into place before sleep ever dared approach.
Tonight, nothing pressed at the edges.
No maps drawn across the walls of his head.No whispered drills outlining themselves in the dark.
Only the image of a young journalist, daring to interrupt a legend without flinching, daring to want something beyond easy praise.
A small corner of Demien's mind acknowledged the ridiculousness of it.Drawn in by a five-minute clip, as if he were a teenager again, starstruck by something just because it refused to yield.
Still, he didn't turn the TV off.Didn't reach for the tactical notebook lying half-buried under match reports on the desk.
He stayed where he was, the slow breath of the room folding around him, the television looping old footage — matches already played, goals already scored, trophies already forgotten.
Another highlight package began to roll.Another set of sterile post-match interviews.
Demien didn't move.
Didn't need to.
The next second breathed across the room with him, easy and slow.
The game would be there tomorrow.The players.The tactics.The war against failure, relentless and hungry, would wait.
Tonight, something else had staked a claim.
Small.Quiet.Unfamiliar.
But there.
His fingers tapped once against the armrest — not impatient, not anxious.A reflex, almost like setting a tempo he hadn't realized he'd been missing.
He glanced toward the window where the curtains shivered under a whisper of salt air.
Then leaned back, letting the chair take his weight fully for the first time since he'd woken in Monaco.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, maybe she was still working, still pulling stubborn answers out of reluctant men.
The thought didn't make him smile.Didn't make him dream.
It simply existed — a new fixture in the landscape of his mind, a landmark he hadn't placed there.
A seed dropped into soil that hadn't asked for it.
Demien closed his eyes briefly, letting the soft static flicker against his skin.
When they opened again, the clock on the nightstand blinked silently into the early hours.
The city outside kept breathing.So did he.
No grand revelations.No sweeping emotions.
Just the steady, careful realization that maybe — just maybe — the world beyond the white lines and the final whistles still had something left worth noticing.
Even if he wasn't ready to admit it out loud yet.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
The television buzzed softly, shifting to another replay.
Demien stayed still, arms resting loosely, mind as empty as the sky outside the window.
Waiting, without quite knowing for what.