Rio woke before dawn.
Not because of discipline this time.
Because his mind refused rest.
The Espanyol match sat quietly in the back of his thoughts, turning over itself in endless patterns. Defensive lines. Pressing triggers. Passing lanes. Risks.
Derbies changed people.
Even youth matches.
Especially in Barcelona.
At fifteen, boys still pretended football was only football.
But in Catalonia—
Barcelona versus Espanyol carried something older.
Political.
Proud.
Personal.
The academy coaches never needed to explain it.
The atmosphere explained itself.
Rio sat up slowly in the dark.
Room Twelve remained silent.
Messi still asleep.
One arm hanging awkwardly off the side of the bed again.
Always the same position.
Rio checked the clock.
5:31 AM.
Good.
Enough time.
He stood, stretched carefully, and immediately noticed the difference.
Three months ago, mornings meant stiffness.
Weakness.
Body lagging behind intention.
Now—
His legs felt stable.
Heavy in a good way.
Strong.
Not finished.
But stronger.
When he planted his feet now, he trusted them.
That mattered.
Especially today.
He crossed the room and lightly tapped the frame of Messi's bed.
"Leo."
No movement.
Again.
"Leo."
Messi groaned into the pillow.
"If you wake me up before sunrise one more time…"
"You found something."
Silence.
Then—
Messi's head slowly emerged from the blanket.
Hair completely destroyed.
Expression offended.
"…Right."
Five minutes later, both boys stood outside beneath cold morning air.
The training pitch sat empty.
Floodlights humming faintly overhead.
No coaches.
No noise.
Only frost-touched grass and the sound of footballs moving across turf.
Messi dropped a cone near midfield.
Then another.
Then two more.
Rio watched quietly.
Interesting.
Very specific positioning.
"You weren't joking," Rio said.
Messi ignored him.
Focused.
He pointed toward the left side of the pitch.
"Espanyol presses weird."
Rio immediately paid attention.
Good.
Very good.
Messi placed another cone.
"Their fullback pushes too high."
Another cone.
"Then this guy—"
He pointed toward central midfield.
"—moves too narrow."
Rio crouched slightly.
Watching.
Thinking.
Visualizing.
Messi kicked a ball through the gap.
Simple pass.
Dangerous space.
Rio's expression changed.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because Leo was right.
The spacing error created a temporary defensive disconnect.
Small.
Only three seconds.
But football lived in seconds.
Rio looked up.
"You noticed this from film?"
Messi shrugged.
"From memory."
Pause.
"We played them already."
Rio stared for half a second.
Then—
Quietly—
"You're getting scary."
Messi grinned.
Tiny grin.
Rare grin.
"Good scary?"
"Very."
Rio stepped onto the field.
"Show me again."
Messi repeated the movement.
This time Rio saw the pattern completely.
Espanyol overloaded pressure early.
Aggressive.
Physical.
Emotionally reactive.
But once their fullback committed—
The half-space behind him opened.
Briefly.
Dangerously.
Messi moved instinctively into it.
Of course he did.
Natural predator.
Rio pointed.
"You make that run."
Messi nodded.
"You hit me?"
"No."
Messi frowned immediately.
"What?"
Rio moved three steps wider.
"Too obvious."
He repositioned cones quickly.
"They'll expect direct."
Instead—
He pointed again.
"You drag the center-back."
Messi tilted his head.
Then realization hit.
"Oh."
Rio nodded.
"I go."
Now Messi smiled.
Biggest smile yet.
Because he understood instantly.
Not one move ahead.
Two.
Maybe three.
Messi grabbed the ball again.
"Again."
For the next forty minutes—
Nobody saw them.
Nobody interrupted.
Just football.
Movement.
Patterns.
Adjustment.
The partnership sharpened quietly beneath floodlights while the academy slept.
By sunrise—
They had found something.
Not certainty.
Opportunity.
Enough.
Breakfast felt heavier than usual.
Less talking.
More tension.
Even Cesc noticed.
"You two look suspicious."
Messi ate toast.
Rio drank coffee.
Silence.
Cesc narrowed his eyes.
"…You planned something."
"No," Rio said calmly.
"Yes," Messi said immediately.
Rio slowly looked over.
Messi blinked.
"…Was I not supposed to say that?"
Cesc leaned forward instantly.
"What are we planning?"
Rio sighed.
"Espanyol overcommits."
Cesc immediately straightened.
Now interested.
"Tactically?"
"Yes."
Rio grabbed napkins.
Started sketching.
Simple arrows.
Movement.
Space manipulation.
Within minutes—
Cesc stopped joking completely.
His expression sharpened.
"Wait."
He pointed.
"You're isolating their pivot."
Rio nodded.
"Then forcing rotation."
Cesc looked between Rio and Messi.
"You two figured this out already?"
Messi casually nodded.
"This morning."
Long silence.
Then—
"…I hate living with geniuses."
Fair.
Training before the match stayed light.
Guillermo preferred sharpness over exhaustion.
Possession drills.
Movement patterns.
Short tactical corrections.
But Rio noticed something immediately.
Extra eyes.
Different eyes.
Two unfamiliar staff members stood near midfield.
Not youth coaches.
Older.
Watching carefully.
Taking notes.
Barça B?
Possibly.
Dangerous.
Too soon.
Ignore it.
Football first.
Always.
Guillermo eventually gathered the team.
Hands behind back.
Expression serious.
"The derby matters."
No speech theatrics.
No shouting.
Just facts.
"They'll kick you."
"They'll foul."
"They'll test your patience."
Pause.
"Stay disciplined."
His eyes moved toward Rio.
Then Messi.
Then Cesc.
"Control the rhythm."
"We play football."
"They play emotion."
Simple.
Perfectly said.
Rio liked it.
The locker room before kickoff felt different.
Heavier.
Teenage nerves thick in the air.
Some players quiet.
Others pretending confidence.
Piqué talking too loudly.
Classic defense mechanism.
Messi tying his boots three separate times.
Nervous habit.
Rio sat quietly.
Breathing evenly.
Visualizing.
The field.
Movement.
Pressure.
Space.
Guillermo approached eventually.
No dramatic speech.
Just—
"You ready?"
"Yes."
The coach looked at him carefully.
"You don't seem nervous."
Rio adjusted tape around his wrist.
"I've already played the match."
Guillermo frowned.
"…What?"
"In my head."
Long pause.
Then—
"…You're weird."
High praise.
Again.
The coach stood.
"One thing."
Rio looked up.
"If they frustrate Leo—"
"I know."
Guillermo studied him briefly.
Then nodded once.
Good.
Trust growing.
Dangerous.
Useful.
The stadium buzzed before kickoff.
Not enormous crowds.
But enough.
Parents.
Scouts.
Local supporters.
Academy loyalists.
Espanyol families.
Noise carried differently in youth football.
More personal.
Closer.
Sharper.
Rio walked onto the pitch slowly.
Cold air.
Firm grass.
Fast surface.
Good.
He looked across midfield.
Espanyol already looked aggressive.
Bigger bodies.
Older-looking players.
Physical team.
As expected.
Messi walked beside him.
Quiet.
Focused.
Rio leaned slightly closer.
"Remember."
Messi nodded immediately.
"The second run."
Good.
He remembered.
Whistle.
Kickoff.
And immediately—
Chaos.
Espanyol pressed hard.
Exactly as expected.
Hard tackles.
Late contact.
Fast pressure.
Messi fouled twice in six minutes.
Cesc clipped once.
Rio shoved repeatedly.
The referee already overwhelmed.
Typical derby.
Messy.
Emotional.
Difficult.
Good.
Because difficult football revealed real players.
And twenty minutes in—
Rio realized something important.
Espanyol had prepared for him.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Their midfielder shadowed him constantly.
Blocking angles.
Closing space.
Smart.
Unexpectedly smart.
Which meant—
Adjustment.
Necessary.
Always adjustment.
Rio stopped dropping deep.
Stopped demanding the ball.
Instead—
He disappeared.
Drifting wider.
Dragging markers.
Creating imbalance.
Waiting.
Watching.
Patient.
Then—
Minute twenty-six.
The mistake arrived.
Exactly where Messi predicted.
The fullback stepped too high.
Pivot rotated late.
Gap.
Tiny.
Momentary.
Enough.
Rio moved.
Messi moved.
Cesc saw it.
Pass.
One touch.
Rio received under pressure—
Turned—
And saw the opening.
Not to Messi.
Not yet.
Second run.
Exactly.
Messi dragged center-back wide.
Defense shifted.
Tiny hesitation.
Rio accelerated into the empty channel.
First touch.
Clean.
Second touch.
Shot—
Low.
Hard.
Far corner.
Different now.
Not soft.
Not weak.
Real power.
The goalkeeper got fingertips.
Still not enough.
Goal.
Silence.
Then—
Explosion from Barcelona supporters.
Rio stood still briefly.
Breathing hard.
No wild celebration.
Just quiet satisfaction.
Earned.
Finally earned.
His body had caught up—
Just enough.
Messi arrived first.
Grinning.
"I told you."
Rio almost laughed.
"No."
"You showed me."
The celebration lasted less than ten seconds.
Rio made sure of that.
He wasn't interested in chest-thumping or screaming into the crowd. Youth football had a way of punishing emotional excess. One goal only made matches uglier.
Especially derbies.
Especially Espanyol.
The Barcelona supporters behind the railings roared anyway, scarves lifting into the cold afternoon air. Parents shouted names. Young academy fans hammered fists against barriers.
But Rio barely heard them.
His attention had already shifted.
Espanyol's captain stood near midfield staring at him.
Not angry.
Calculating.
That was more dangerous.
The older boy—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, built more like a seventeen-year-old than a teenager—said something quietly to his teammates.
Immediately, Rio noticed the body language change.
More aggressive.
Tighter.
Closer marking.
Good.
Predictable.
Messi jogged beside him, still grinning.
"You hit it harder."
Rio glanced at him.
"You noticed?"
"I always notice."
Simple sentence.
Honest sentence.
Rio nodded once.
The whistle restarted play.
And the match changed immediately.
The next challenge arrived in the form of pain.
Espanyol stopped pretending they wanted the ball.
Now—
They wanted disruption.
Messi took the first hit.
A heavy challenge near midfield.
Late.
Studs scraping ankle.
The crowd groaned.
Messi stumbled hard.
Stayed down.
Rio was there instantly.
Not emotional.
Not dramatic.
Just present.
"You good?"
Messi grimaced.
"…Yeah."
Lie.
Small lie.
Rio offered a hand anyway.
The Argentine took it.
As Messi stood—
Espanyol's midfielder muttered something under his breath.
Spanish.
Dismissive.
Cruel.
"Too small."
Rio's expression cooled immediately.
Not anger.
Calculation.
Because retaliation wasted energy.
Punishment came through football.
Always football.
He memorized the number on the jersey.
Eight.
Central midfielder.
Slow recovery speed.
Poor awareness under pressure.
Useful information.
Very useful.
Five minutes later—
Rio struck back.
Without touching him.
Without speaking.
Without fouling.
Barcelona regained possession deep.
Cesc found Rio centrally.
The same midfielder closed aggressively.
Confident.
Overcommitted.
Rio waited.
One touch.
Pause.
Then—
A sharp shoulder feint.
Tiny movement.
Modern.
Efficient.
The midfielder bit instantly.
Wrong direction.
Gone.
Rio turned effortlessly.
Three Barcelona players suddenly surged forward.
Crowd noise rose.
Rio accelerated.
Head up.
Scanning.
Messi drifting left.
Perfect.
Pass.
Messi turned beautifully—
Only to get chopped down again.
Another foul.
Another interruption.
Rio exhaled slowly.
This was becoming a problem.
Not tactical.
Psychological.
Messi hated repeated contact.
Not because he feared it—
Because it disrupted rhythm.
And rhythm mattered to players like him.
A lot.
Rio walked over quietly.
"Stop getting angry."
Messi blinked.
"I'm not angry."
"You are."
"…a little."
Rio nodded.
"Good."
Messi frowned.
"What?"
"Use it."
Pause.
"Not emotionally."
"Tactically."
Messi tilted his head.
Thinking.
Rio continued.
"They're obsessed with stopping you."
"They stopped thinking."
"Good players punish obsession."
Messi looked toward the defenders.
Then back at Rio.
Small understanding settling in.
"Okay."
Good.
Lesson absorbed.
The match grew uglier.
Fouls.
Shouting.
Hard tackles.
Barcelona struggling for rhythm.
Even Cesc looked irritated.
Piqué nearly started a fight.
Expected.
Guillermo screamed himself hoarse from the touchline.
"Move the ball!"
"Stop forcing it!"
"Think!"
Rio stayed calm.
Because calm spread.
And panic spread faster.
Minute thirty-eight.
Barcelona under pressure.
Espanyol pressing hard now.
Trying to force mistakes.
Rio dropped deeper.
Collected possession.
Immediately closed down.
Three players converging.
Pressure trap.
Expected.
He didn't rush.
Didn't panic.
Didn't force brilliance.
Simple touch.
Simple turn.
Simple escape.
Sometimes football genius looked boring.
And boring won matches.
He played backward.
Reset shape.
Controlled tempo.
Slow the game.
Kill emotion.
That mattered.
Especially now.
Halftime arrived violently.
Barcelona still leading 1–0.
But barely.
The locker room exploded with noise.
Heavy breathing.
Sweat.
Frustration.
Teenage adrenaline everywhere.
Messi sat quietly unlacing one boot.
Ankle slightly swollen.
Cesc pacing.
Piqué complaining loudly about referees.
Guillermo entered.
Door slammed.
Silence.
Good coach.
Didn't yell immediately.
Just looked.
One by one.
Then—
"You're letting them dictate rhythm."
Sharp.
Cold.
Accurate.
"They want chaos."
"You're giving them chaos."
He pointed at Messi.
"Leo."
Messi looked up.
"What are they doing?"
"…Following me."
"Yes."
"And?"
Messi hesitated.
Rio already knew.
Then—
Messi answered slowly.
"Leaving space."
Guillermo pointed immediately.
"Exactly."
Then turned toward Rio.
"Fiero."
"How do we punish it?"
Rio stood.
Walked to the tactical board.
No hesitation.
Marker in hand.
Interesting moment.
Players watching.
Coach allowing it.
Respect growing.
Dangerously fast.
Rio drew arrows.
Simple.
Clear.
"They're collapsing on Leo."
He tapped the board.
"Which means transition opens here."
Half-space.
Right channel.
Cesc leaned forward.
Understanding instantly.
Rio continued.
"Leo drops deeper."
"Looks involved."
"Drags defenders."
Pause.
"I attack second space."
Then—
He looked toward winger support.
"You stop standing still."
Sharp.
Blunt.
Necessary.
"If we overload the weak side—"
He circled movement.
"They break."
Silence.
Then—
Cesc nodded slowly.
"…That'll work."
Messi looked up.
Already visualizing.
Guillermo crossed his arms.
Then quietly—
"Good."
Pause.
"We do that."
The room shifted.
Subtle.
But noticeable.
Players listening now.
Not because Rio talked loudly.
Because he saw clearly.
Leadership forming.
Without permission.
Without announcement.
Natural.
As everyone stood—
Guillermo stopped Rio briefly.
Quiet enough only he could hear.
"You comfortable leading?"
Interesting question.
Dangerous question.
Rio answered honestly.
"Someone has to think."
The coach studied him.
Long pause.
Then—
"Don't grow up too fast."
Strange sentence.
Unexpected.
But Rio understood.
Maybe Guillermo saw it too.
The distance.
The strange calm.
The way Rio looked older than fifteen sometimes.
Still—
Football first.
Always.
Second half.
Cold air sharper now.
Espanyol desperate.
Aggressive.
Tired.
Good.
Tired players made mistakes.
Minute fifty-three—
The moment arrived.
Exactly as practiced.
Messi dropped deep.
Defender followed.
Again.
Too obsessed.
Perfect.
Rio moved instantly.
Second run.
Invisible run.
Space opening.
Tiny.
Enough.
Cesc saw him.
Pass.
Rio touched once—
Then—
Instead of shooting—
Slipped the ball wide.
Messi already sprinting.
Already arriving.
Already understanding.
The exact pattern from sunrise.
The exact movement.
No hesitation.
Messi struck first time.
Low.
Cruel.
Precise.
Goal.
2–0.
The stadium exploded.
Messi turned immediately.
Didn't celebrate with crowd.
Didn't celebrate alone.
Straight to Rio.
Always Rio.
He grabbed Rio by the shoulders.
Laughing.
Actually laughing.
"You saw it!"
Rio smirked slightly.
"No."
"You saw it."
Messi shook his head.
"We saw it."
Better.
Much better.
Partnership.
Real partnership now.
Not teacher.
Not student.
Something else.
Something dangerous.
Something Barcelona had never quite seen before.
And high above—
In the stands—
Two Barça B staff members stopped taking notes.
Because they no longer needed convincing.
One quietly asked:
"…How old is Fiero again?"
"Fifteen."
Silence.
Then—
"That's annoying."
"Why?"
"Because now everyone's going to want him."
To be continued…
Recommendation for Next Part
The strongest continuation:
The final thirty minutes of the derby felt longer than the first sixty combined.
Because once Barcelona went two goals ahead, Espanyol stopped playing for rhythm.
They started playing for damage.
The tackles came harder.
Late shoulders.
Heavy contact.
Little kicks when the referee turned away.
Teenage football, especially derbies, had an ugliness adults rarely admitted existed.
Pride made boys reckless.
And Espanyol had too much pride to quietly accept defeat.
Rio noticed the shift immediately.
He always noticed.
Minute fifty-eight.
Messi went down again.
Another foul.
This one heavier.
The defender clipped his ankle after the pass.
Not enough for injury.
Enough for intention.
The crowd booed.
Messi stood quickly this time, jaw tight.
Angry.
Good.
But dangerous.
Rio jogged over.
No dramatics.
No confrontation.
Just quiet words.
"You're letting him into your head."
Messi exhaled sharply.
"He keeps kicking me."
"Yes."
"He wants reaction."
Messi looked toward the defender.
Small.
Silent.
Frustrated.
Rio lowered his voice.
"So punish him."
Messi frowned.
"How?"
Rio pointed casually.
"Number four."
"The center-back?"
"He's cheating toward you."
Pause.
"Make him regret it."
The meaning clicked instantly.
Football punishment.
Not emotion.
Movement.
Messi nodded once.
Good.
Learning.
The next ten minutes became clinical.
Cruel in a way only intelligent football could be.
Espanyol's defenders became obsessed with Messi.
Perfect.
Rio started manipulating space deliberately.
Dropping deeper.
Pulling midfielders apart.
Changing tempo.
Slowing.
Accelerating.
Dragging defenders into bad positions without them realizing.
Every movement had purpose.
Every pass asked a question.
Every pause created discomfort.
Minute sixty-four.
The same defender who had fouled Messi stepped aggressively again.
Overcommitted.
Exactly what Rio wanted.
Quick exchange.
Cesc.
Rio.
Back to Cesc.
Shift left.
Messi drifting.
Defender follows.
Wrong choice.
Always wrong choice.
Rio accelerated centrally.
Ball returned instantly.
One touch.
Then—
A disguised pass.
Sharp.
Late.
Invisible until too late.
Barcelona's winger broke free behind the line.
Cross.
Chaos.
Goal.
3–0.
The stadium erupted.
This time even Guillermo shouted.
Not elegant.
Not controlled.
Just instinct.
Pure relief.
Espanyol players looked broken.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Because they hadn't been outrun.
They'd been dismantled.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Made to chase ghosts.
Rio didn't celebrate much.
Just lifted a hand briefly.
Controlled breathing.
Controlled pulse.
Match still unfinished.
Always unfinished.
The final twenty minutes became survival.
Espanyol managed one ugly goal from a corner.
3–1.
Messy.
Forgettable.
Guillermo furious anyway.
Rio remained calm.
Control mattered more than emotion now.
Tempo.
Possession.
Patience.
Messi stayed closer to him naturally.
Without discussion.
Without instruction.
Instinctive now.
Trust.
Real trust.
When Rio dropped deep—
Messi shifted.
When Messi drifted wide—
Rio compensated.
The synchronization had stopped feeling practiced.
Now it felt inevitable.
Like they had always played together.
And maybe—
In some strange way—
They were building something football had never quite seen before.
Final whistle.
3–1 Barcelona.
The sound hit hard.
Crowd applause.
Parents cheering.
Players collapsing onto grass.
Exhaustion finally arriving.
Rio bent slightly.
Hands on hips.
Breathing deeper now.
Legs heavy.
Good heavy.
Earned heavy.
His shot still replayed quietly in his mind.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
Progress.
Messi reached him first.
Of course he did.
Always.
Hair ruined.
Face flushed.
Actually smiling.
Big smile.
Rare smile.
"You were right."
Rio raised an eyebrow.
"About?"
"Punishing people."
Rio almost laughed.
Dangerous sentence out of context.
Messi continued.
"When I stopped getting angry…"
He looked toward the pitch.
"…everything slowed down."
Good.
Very good.
Rio nodded.
"That's football."
Messi hesitated briefly.
Then quietly—
"Same time tomorrow?"
Small sentence.
Unexpectedly meaningful.
Rio looked at him.
This boy.
Quiet.
Shy.
Already absurdly talented.
And still somehow hungry enough to wake up before sunrise.
Good.
Because greatness required obsession.
"You planning to become the best player in the world?" Rio asked.
Messi blinked.
Then nodded once.
Serious.
Completely serious.
"…Yeah."
Rio adjusted the strap of his bag.
"Then yes."
Messi smiled again.
Private smile.
Their smile.
The kind reserved for trust.
The locker room afterward buzzed with adrenaline.
Music.
Laughing.
Piqué shouting something dramatic.
Cesc arguing about possession percentages.
Teenagers again.
For five minutes.
Then Guillermo entered.
Door shut.
Silence.
The coach looked around slowly.
"You played football."
Simple sentence.
Important sentence.
"Good."
Pause.
"But don't get comfortable."
Of course.
Always.
"You think winning one derby matters?"
He pointed toward the crest.
"It means nothing."
More silence.
"You do it again."
"You improve."
"You stay humble."
Then—
Unexpectedly—
He looked toward Rio.
And Messi.
"Especially you two."
Interesting.
Plural now.
Partnership recognized.
Guillermo waited until everyone left.
Then—
"Fiero."
Rio stayed.
Messi hesitated.
Guillermo nodded toward him.
"You too, Leo."
The room emptied.
Door shut.
Quiet.
The coach leaned against a bench.
Expression serious now.
No football coach performance.
Just honesty.
"You're becoming visible."
Rio already disliked the sentence.
Messi looked confused.
Guillermo continued.
"Scouts."
"Directors."
"People who suddenly care."
Pause.
"They'll praise you."
"They'll promise things."
"They'll make you feel special."
His eyes settled on Rio.
"That ruins boys."
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Rio understood immediately.
Politics.
Agents.
Pressure.
Expectations.
Football destroyed more talent than it created.
Guillermo folded his arms.
"You're fifteen."
"Act fifteen sometimes."
Interesting advice.
Probably impossible.
Then—
The coach hesitated.
Rare.
"There were staff watching today."
Rio said nothing.
Expected.
"Barça B."
Messi straightened immediately.
Guillermo sighed.
"Relax."
"It's observation."
"Nothing more."
But even he sounded unconvinced.
Then—
Quietly—
"They asked about Fiero."
Messi grinned instantly.
Rio stayed calm.
Externally.
Internally—
Too fast.
Way too fast.
Dangerous.
Guillermo pointed.
"No ego."
"No shortcuts."
"You earn every step."
Rio nodded once.
"Understood."
The coach looked relieved.
Good.
Because many boys failed this moment.
Attention intoxicated.
Fame distracted.
Rio had already lived long enough to know better.
Sunday came quietly.
For once.
No cameras waiting.
No reporters.
Only home.
The smell of fresh bread greeted him before he opened the apartment door.
Safe smell.
Old smell.
Bella opened the door first.
Then immediately punched his shoulder.
Hard.
"You scored!"
Rio blinked.
"…Hello to you too."
"You scored!"
She grabbed his face dramatically.
"On television!"
Elena laughed softly from the kitchen.
"Leave your brother alone."
But her eyes looked different.
Proud.
Tired.
Hopeful.
Dangerous combination.
Dinner felt warmer.
Lighter.
For the first time in months—
Money wasn't the only topic.
Rent wasn't hanging over everything.
Fear quieter now.
Temporary peace.
Good.
Needed.
Later that evening—
Rio returned to La Masia.
Tired.
Heavy-legged.
Satisfied.
Room Twelve quiet.
Messi already asleep.
Unsurprising.
Obsessive players crashed hard.
Rio dropped his bag near the bed.
And paused.
Because something waited there.
An envelope.
Club seal.
Official.
Short message.
Simple.
Cold.
Professional.
Mandatory Observation Session
Barcelona B Staff Evaluation
Attendance Required
Rio stared at it.
Longer than expected.
His expression unreadable.
But inside—
One thought surfaced clearly.
Too fast.
The first team had stopped feeling impossible.
And that—
That was dangerous.