The room was silent. No chants. No cameras. No noise. Just the faint hum of Milan outside and the dim glow of a single lamp.
Cassian stood in front of the mirror. He wasn't celebrating; he wasn't smiling. He was simply... observing.
His reflection stared back—sharp, unyielding. His features were wild rather than refined, a rugged charm that looked like it belonged in the eye of a storm rather than under soft gallery lights.
Strands of black hair fell loosely across his forehead, still damp from the post-match shower. His grey eyes were steady. Cold. Calculating.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—
"Perfect."
It wasn't pride. It wasn't arrogance. It was just a stated fact.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then again. Cassian didn't move at first. He stared at his reflection a second longer before turning away to pick it up.
Mom.
He answered. "...Yeah."
A pause. Then her voice, soft and familiar, cut through the lingering adrenaline of the San Siro.
"Did you eat?"
Cassian blinked. "...Not yet."
"You should. And sleep early. Your body needs it." Another pause. "...I watched the match."
Of course she did.
"You played well," she added gently. Not amazing. Not unbelievable. Just... well.
Cassian exhaled quietly. "...Yeah."
"Are you feeling okay?"
The question wasn't about the match. It was about him. Cassian leaned back against the wall, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ebb. "...I'm fine."
"Good," she said. "Just... don't forget to take care of yourself."
The call ended soon after. No long speech. No drama. Just warmth.
The phone buzzed again immediately.
[Idiot Sister].
Cassian barely hit 'Accept' before the volume exploded. "BROOOOO WHAT WAS THAT?!"
He pulled the phone away from his ear. "You killed the match!!"
Cassian smirked faintly. "...They started it."
"NO THEY DID NOT—YOU LITERALLY DECLARED WAR! 😭" She huffed into the receiver.
"My friends think I'm lying, by the way. They think I edited your face into our family photos."
Cassian let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh. "Skill issue."
"SHUT UP!" A pause. Then her voice softened. "...That free kick was insane."
Cassian looked down at his hand, as if he could still feel the vibration of the strike. "...It was clean."
"Yeah," she said. "Too clean. Win the final, okay?"
"I will."
The third call came seconds later. Cassian didn't need to check the ID.
"...Yeah."
His father's voice was steady. Calm. A pillar of granite. "I saw the match."
"Mm."
"Good performance."
Cassian waited. He knew there was more.
"Now do it again."
The line went dead. Cassian lowered the phone slowly. Three voices. Three different worlds. And yet, all of them pointed toward the same horizon.
Forward.
As the night deepened, the weight of the ninety minutes finally caught up with him. Cassian's eyes drifted shut, the heavy, bone-deep fatigue of a body pushed to its limits finally claiming its due.
On his bedside table, his phone remained active. A lo-fi beat hummed quietly from the speakers, a rhythmic, low-frequency pulse that filled the silence of the room.
He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep without reaching for the light or the "off" switch.
It was a habit—falling asleep to the glow of a screen and the echo of a melody.
A bad one.
He knew it. If his mother caught him doing it again, she'd be furious. But as the blue light cast long, flickering shadows across the walls, Cassian didn't stir.
Some things are harder to break than a world-class defense.
After all... bad habits die hard.
Morning came quietly.
No alarms. No noise.
Just light—spilling through the curtains and dragging him back to reality.
Cassian opened his eyes.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then—
He reached for his phone.
A few taps.
A short call
.
"Get me a ticket to Madrid. Today."
A pause on the other end.
"…Yes. As soon as possible."
He ended the call.
Simple.
Decided.
Hours later—
The plane descended through a sea of clouds.
Madrid.
The moment he stepped into the airport, the atmosphere shifted.
At first, it was subtle.
A glance.
Then another.
Then—
"Wait… is that—?"
Heads turned.
Phones came out.
"Cassian!"
"¡Oye! Cassian!"
He stopped.
Out of habit.
A small group gathered quickly—fans, travelers, airport staff.
Some wore red and white.
Atlético colors.
And yet—
They were smiling.
One of them laughed.
"Man… you destroyed us last night."
Cassian shrugged slightly.
"…It was just a match."
"Just a match?" another one scoffed, grinning. "You made it personal."
A pause.
Then—
"Welcome home."
That word.
Home.
Yeah, He is back.
He signed a few shirts.
Took pictures.
No rush.
Just quiet presence.
Outside—
The sun hit differently.
Warmer.
Familiar.
He got into a taxi.
The driver turned around once.
Then twice.
Then—
"No way… you're Cassian, right?"
Cassian nodded.
"Yeah."
The driver laughed.
"Madre mía… I watched that free kick three times this morning."
Cassian looked out the window.
"…You support AC Milan?"
"Of course, not."
A pause.
Then the driver grinned.
"But you were awesome, kid."
Cassian let out a quiet breath.
Almost a smile.
As the car moved through the streets of Madrid, something shifted.
Not the player.
Not the star.
Just—
The boy who grew up here.
The stadium roared long before kickoff.
Not just noise—pressure.
The kind that pressed against your chest and settled into your bones.
Cassian walked through the private entrance without a word, hood low, hands in his pockets. Cameras still found him anyway.
They always did.
A flash.
Then another.
Whispers spreading like wildfire—
–––
Inside the VIP section—
"YO!"
Cassian didn't even look up.
He already knew.
Lamine Yamal crashed into him from the side, half hug, half tackle.
"BRO YOU ARE ACTUALLY ALIVE!! I thought you wouldn't come."
"Main characters always arrives a bit late." He replied with a mischievous grin.
Cassian glanced over.
Pedri sat already, calm as ever, eyes on the pitch.
"You are late, Cass" Pedri added
Cassian didn't reply just shrugged his shoulder and sat beside Yamal.
A third voice cut in.
Low. Amused.
"Not bad for a warm-up."
Cassian turned slightly.
Bunny Iglesias—one of the New Gen 11 forwards—leaned back in his seat, grinning like he already knew how the match would end.
"You've got style Man," Bunny added. "I like that."
Cassian leaned back to his seat , tone lazy.
"Just doing job."
The lights dimmed slightly.
The tunnel cam appeared on the big screen.
And then—
The roar doubled.
REAL MADRID VS LIVERPOOL
The players stepped out.
Focused. Locked in.
Yamal leaned forward immediately.
"Yeah… yeah this is gonna be crazy."
Bunny tilted his head slightly.
"…Let's see if the old god can slay the revolutionaries or there will be a new god emerge by slaying the old one."
Pedri didn't speak.
He just watched.
Kickoff.
The match exploded into motion.
Fast.
Relentless.
Liverpool pressed high.
Madrid adapted instantly.
One touch. Two.
Movement everywhere.
Then—
It happened.
Bellingham.
Late run.
Perfect timing.
A pass slipped through the line—
And he was there.
First touch.
Second—
Goal.
The stadium erupted.