The morning air was cold. It was just 6:00 AM, but the city had already sprung to life; the faint, distant hum of traffic began to drift through the open window.
Marco stood by the glass, staring blankly at the pale morning sky, his head swirling with thoughts.
This was it. Match day. The DFB-Pokal final in Berlin. Their opponent: the emperors of German football, Bayern Munich.
He tried lying back down on the bed, hoping to catch a few more hours of sleep to bring his body to a perfect state, but it was futile. His bloodstream was already pumping with adrenaline. It wasn't fear or anxiety keeping him awake, but raw anticipation.
The DFB-Pokal final. He was living a scenario that remained a distant dream for most professional players, standing so close to touching the crown. He felt as though this opportunity was a privilege, and to meet such a grand occasion with fear felt like an insult to it.
As his mind wandered into philosophical territory, a sudden chime from his phone pulled him out of the daze. He checked the screen—a message from Scarlet.
She knew today was the most important day of his life. Over the past week, she had carved out time from her own busy schedule, making it her mission to keep him company and help him maintain a strong, clear mentality.
"Did you sleep well?"
"I think so."
"I will be there in the stands to support you, and so will your parents. You've got this. :)"
He stared at the words for a long moment.
"I love you," he sent back.
"I love you too," the reply came almost instantly.
Marco recalled the journey of the past few months. Scarlet, his mother, his father, Krahn, his teammates, the fans... he pictured every face that had stepped forward to offer their support, not just this week, but from his very first day on the pitch.
A wave of fierce conviction washed over him, sharpening his focus. He couldn't disappoint them. He wanted to lift that trophy—not just for his own ambition, but for everyone who believed in him.
"System," he murmured. "Show status."
A holographic interface shimmered to life in the dim room.
[Player Status Profile]
Name: Marco Reus
Age: 18
Status: Healthy / Peak Condition
Overall Rating: 84 (Star Player Tier)
===Technical Skill Ratings===
Cut Inside: 10 / 10 (Mastery)
Through Balls: 9.9 / 10 tubes (Elite)
Free Kicks: 9.0 / 10 (Elite)
===Physical Attributes===
Pace: 8.7 / 10
-> Acceleration: 8.9 / 10
->Sprint Speed: 8.6 / 10
Strength: 7.1 / 10
->Upper Body: 6.7 / 10
-> Core Strength: 7.4 / 10
->Physical Duels: 6.7 / 10
Agility: 9.1 / 10
Stamina: 8.4 / 10
Balance: 8.8 / 10
Jumping: 7.7 / 10
Note: While your speed, agility, and balance are exceptional, physical strength remains a distinct shortcoming. This will naturally improve as your frame matures over the coming years.
===Mental Attributes===
Composure: 9.4 / 10
Vision: 9.4 / 10
Decision Making: 9.3 / 10
Positioning: 9.0 / 10
Work Rate: 9.2 / 10
Teamwork: 8.9 / 10
Leadership: 7.9 / 10
Note: Activating the "Flow State" will significantly amplify all mental attributes for its duration.
* * * * * * *
The hotel dining room was unnervingly quiet.
The Borussia Dortmund players were scattered across the hall. Some sat in small, hushed clusters; others sat entirely alone. They all shared the same rigid expression, lost in their own minds. It was impossible to tell whether they were imagining the glory of lifting the cup or silently bracing themselves for the crushing weight of a potential defeat.
Of course, there were exceptions. Tinga, the dreadlocked Brazilian, was practically brimming with his usual vibrant energy, entirely unfazed by the monumental test awaiting them.
But for the rest, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The footballing world had spent days declaring that overcoming a behemoth like Bayern Munich was an impossible task. The media was relentlessly pushing the narrative of David versus Goliath. The players, living under the microscope of public opinion, couldn't help but let a sliver of that pessimism breed self-doubt.
Most of this squad had never experienced a major final. Even a few of the older veterans who had stuck with the club through thick and thin had never walked into a match with stakes this high.
It was into this somber room that Jürgen Klopp strode.
Much like Tinga, he looked entirely nonchalant. His face was fixed with his trademark, toothy grin, masking the fierce passion underneath—though he couldn't quite hide the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes.
Sensing the heavy mood, he let out a sharp snort and called out loudly to the room.
"Stop acting like we're marching into a funeral! No one died here!"
The silverware clinked as players looked up. Klopp smiled, pacing between the tables.
"Why are you holding your breath? We have nothing to lose, remember? Not a single person outside of Dortmund expects us to win. No one is going to blame you if we miss out. But if we win? They will build statues of you! The pressure is entirely on them, not us."
He slammed his hand playfully on the back of Sebastian Kehl's chair.
"Come on, show me that underdog spite! We are in this final because we earned it. Not because of luck, not because anyone handed it to us, and definitely not because we bribed the referee. Hahaha!"
With a loud laugh, he walked over to the coaches' table, sat down, and immediately plunged into a hushed tactical discussion over breakfast.
Though no one openly answered him, the shift in the room was instantaneous. The stagnant energy evaporated. Players sat up straighter, their shoulders dropping. The aura of anxiety transformed into something sharp, hungry, and dangerous. They were ready.