The red folder from Liverpool sat on Leon’s coffee table like an unexploded bomb.
For two days, it had been the silent, dominant presence in his apartnt.
He’d walk past it and feel its gravitational pull. He’d be watching TV and find his eyes drifting to its sharp, crimson corners.
That night, unable to sleep, Leon found himself sitting on the sofa in the dark, the folder open in his lap.
He stared at the profiles of the two players Liverpool were offering in exchange, Ibrahima Konaté and Trent Alexander-Arnold.
Both were world-class superstars. But it wasn’t their faces he was thinking about. It was the two n he would be playing with.
He closed his eyes, and with the full, unfiltered power of his Vision, he ran the simulation.
He saw the iconic red of Anfield, a roaring sea of sound and passion. He saw himself in that famous jersey, the ball at his feet. To his right, a blur of motion, the Egyptian King, Mohad Salah, a living legend with the speed of a lightning bolt and a left foot that could score from anywhere. To his left, the Swedish giant, Alexander Isak, a hamr forged in the north, a striker with the power of a battering ram and the grace of a ballet dancer.
And in the middle, there was him. Leon.
He saw himself sliding a perfect, defense-splitting pass to Salah, who would cut inside and curl an unstoppable shot into the far corner.
He saw himself chipping a delicate ball over the defense for Isak to smash ho with a thunderous volley. He saw the three of them, a perfect, terrifying trinity of speed, power, and intelligence, tearing the Premier League apart, lifting the Champions League trophy together.
The vision was intoxicating. It was a vision of pure, unadulterated footballing glory.
It was the path of the machine.
Then, another vision flooded his mind.
The black and blue of the San Siro.
The feeling of Lautaro’s arm around his shoulder. The sound of Julián’s ridiculous questions. The quiet, profound respect in Coach Chivu’s eyes.
The vice-captain’s armband. The promise of being a king in his own kingdom. The warm, easy laugh of Sofia. The proud, tear-filled eyes of his mother. It was the path of the man.
He opened his eyes, his heart a battlefield. The system had demanded he choose a priority. And now, the world was doing the sa.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through the news.
The top story was about Inter’s new president, Flavio Briatore, who had given a typically flamboyant interview, promising a "new era of glamour and success," and cryptically hinting at a "major, high-profile sumr signing to show our ambition." The article was filled with speculation.
Was he going to replace a player?
Was Chivu’s job safe under this new, unpredictable regi? The stable, family atmosphere of the club suddenly felt... fragile.
A wave of frustration washed over Leon.
A feeling of being a pawn in a ga played by billionaires and presidents.
He was the guardian of Inter’s future, but that future was now a complete unknown. Liverpool, on the other hand, was a perfect, well-oiled machine, with a clear, simple, and incredibly tempting vision.
He stood up and started pacing his apartnt, a restless, caged energy coursing through him. The pressure.
"Fuck it," he said out loud to the empty room, the words a release of all the pressure that had been building inside him.
"Fuck the responsibility. Fuck the kingdom."
He just wanted to play football. He wanted the simple, glorious clarity of the vision he’d just had: him, Salah, and Isak, tearing the world apart.
On pure, unthinking, liberating impulse, he snatched his phone from the sofa. His fingers moved with a life of their own, scrolling through his contacts, past his mother, past Sofia, past Lautaro.
He found the number his agent had forwarded him, the number for Arne Slot.
His heart was hamring in his chest, a wild, frantic drumbeat of rebellion and terror. He pressed the call button.
It rang once. Twice. Then, a calm, familiar Dutch voice answered. "Leon?"
"Mr. Slot," Leon said, his voice surprisingly steady, the decision made. "It’s Leon."
"I was hoping you would call," Slot said, his voice warm and welcoming.
"Have you had ti to think about our conversation?"
"I have," Leon said, taking a deep, final breath. He looked at the red folder on his coffee table, the doorway to his new life. "The vision you described... being the brain for Salah and Isak... that is the kind of football I want to play."
He could almost hear the smile in Slot’s voice. "I am very, very glad to hear that, Leon."
"There are details to be worked out between the clubs, I know," Leon continued, the words now flowing easily. "The fee... the player exchange... that is for the presidents to decide. But I want you to know, from my side... I’m in. I accept. I want to co to Liverpool."
The deal wasn’t finalized, but the most important part was done. He had said yes. He had chosen a path. A wave of thrilling, terrifying freedom washed over him. He had done it.
"This is wonderful news, Leon," Slot said, his voice filled with a genuine, professional excitent. "You will not regret this. We are going to make history together."
They said their goodbyes, and Leon hung up the phone. He just stood there, in the middle of his living room, his heart pounding, a wild, giddy grin on his face. He had done it. He had taken control. He had made a choice.
He felt light. He felt free. He felt like a man who had just made the best and most terrifying decision of his entire life. He picked up his phone, a new, exciting energy buzzing through him. He was about to call his agent and tell him to start the war, when a ssage notification popped up on his screen.
It was from Sofia.
His wild, triumphant grin instantly softened into sothing else, sothing warr and more complicated.
He opened the ssage.
Below the picture was a single line of text.
Sofia: "Was just thinking about this. Best ’tactical condint’ eting ever. Can’t wait for the sequel :) Goodnight, footballer."
Leon stared at the picture, at her smiling face, at the simple, perfect happiness of that mont.
The thrilling, triumphant feeling of his decision to leave evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, sickening, and utterly devastating thought.
What have I just done?
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