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The door closed softly behind them.

Silence returned to the suite.

Khaldoon remained standing for a moment, his gaze fixed on the door as if replaying the conversation in his mind.

Then he spoke.

"What do you think of him?"

There was no visible answer.

Just the phone on the table.

And then—

Pep’s voice.

Calm.

Unhurried.

"I guess..."

A slight pause.

"We’ll see."

Meanwhile outside.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft click.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

The hum of the lift filled the silence as it began its descent, smooth and controlled, mirroring the composure they were all trying to maintain. But the room—the suite, the words, the number—lingered heavily in their minds.

Twelve point five million pounds a year.

Even now, it didn’t quite settle.

Marco stood with his arms loosely folded, the business card still tucked between his fingers, his gaze lowered slightly as he ran through everything that had just been said. Javi stood beside Lukas, steady as always, though his eyes betrayed the weight of what they had just walked out of.

Lukas leaned lightly against the side of the elevator, his hands in his pockets, his head slightly tilted down—not overwhelmed, not shaken, but thinking.

Processing.

Marco finally broke the silence.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Lukas didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned his head slightly and looked at Javi.

His father met his gaze.

No words.

Just presence.

Then Lukas looked back at Marco.

"This is my future," he said, his voice calm, measured. "I want to take my time."

Marco nodded once, slowly.

Lukas continued, his tone steady, clearer now.

"For now, I’m focusing on the Nations League," he said. "That’s what matters right now."

He shifted slightly, straightening.

"You should speak to Atlético as well. See what they’re offering properly. Keep everything open."

Another small pause.

"I haven’t made up my mind yet."

Marco studied him for a second, then gave a slight nod. "Alright," he said. "We’ll keep both sides active."

Javi stepped closer then, placing a firm hand around Lukas’ shoulder, pulling him in slightly—not forceful, just enough to ground him.

"It’s going to be fine," he said quietly. "I know it feels like everything is moving fast... but it will settle. You’ll make the right decision."

Lukas looked at him.

Held his gaze for a second.

Then nodded.

The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

And Lukas stepped out first.

* * *

Monday June 2nd

The training pitch at the Bayern campus carried a different kind of intensity that morning.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Every pass had purpose, every movement was timed, every instruction from the coaches cut clean through the air without needing to be repeated. This wasn’t the kind of session where players eased themselves in. They were already a few steps ahead of that.

By the time Lukas stepped onto the pitch, most of the squad had already started their warm-up circuits—short sprints, dynamic stretches, quick passing patterns in pairs. The ball moved constantly, never still for more than a second or two.

Kimmich was already organizing one of the rondo groups, clapping his hands lightly as he called players in. "Let’s go, quick touches. Don’t let it die."

Lukas joined the circle without saying much, slipping into position naturally. The ball came to him almost immediately, zipped across from Groß. He took it with his right foot and released it just as quickly with his left, threading it between two pressing players before either of them could react.

"Good," Kimmich said, not looking at him directly but acknowledging it all the same.

The rondo tightened as the defenders pressed harder. Andrich stepped in with more aggression now, trying to cut off angles rather than just chase shadows. The ball came back to Lukas again, this time with Andrich already closing from his blind side. Instead of forcing a turn, Lukas let the ball roll slightly across his body, shifting just enough to open a lane before poking it through with the outside of his boot.

Andrich pulled up half a step, shaking his head. "Too easy," he muttered.

Lukas didn’t respond. He was already moving, already repositioning for the next pass.

After a few minutes, Nagelsmann called them out of the rondos and into positional drills. The pitch expanded, cones marking zones, mannequins set up to simulate defensive lines. The focus shifted to build-up patterns—how the ball moved from the back into midfield, and then into the attacking third under pressure.

"Keep it clean," Nagelsmann called. "No extra touches. Move the ball."

The sequence started with Tah playing out from the back into Kimmich, who turned and fed it forward. The ball moved quickly through Groß before arriving at Lukas just ahead of the halfway line. He checked his shoulder once before receiving, already aware of Goretzka stepping in to close him down.

He took the ball on the half-turn, letting Goretzka’s momentum carry past him slightly, then slipped a quick pass into Wirtz between the lines. Wirtz didn’t hold it either—one touch, then out wide, continuing the pattern as instructed.

"Good, again!" Nagelsmann said, clapping once.

The next repetition came faster. This time, the pressure arrived earlier, with Undav stepping up aggressively to disrupt the build-up. The ball reached Lukas again, but tighter now, less space to work with. He didn’t try to force anything complicated. One touch to control, one to release, back into Kimmich, resetting the rhythm before the move rebuilt itself.

There were no unnecessary risks.

Just control.

They transitioned into small-sided games next, compressing the space and raising the tempo. The pitch was cut into thirds, with quick transitions between attack and defense. The instructions were simple: move the ball fast, react faster.

Lukas found himself in the middle of it again, receiving under pressure from both sides. Pavlović stepped in from the front this time, trying to close the angle early. Lukas dropped his shoulder slightly, shaping as if to go right before nudging the ball left at the last second, slipping past him in one motion.

"Hey!" Pavlović said, turning quickly to recover.

Lukas didn’t stop. He carried the ball a few more steps before releasing it wide to Adeyemi, who took it forward and fired a low cross into the box. The move didn’t result in a goal, but the pace of it forced everyone to react quicker on the next sequence.

The intensity kept climbing.

Passes became sharper.

Challenges came in stronger.

There was less space, less time, more urgency in every action.

At one point, Lukas received the ball with his back to goal near the edge of the small pitch, Andrich tight behind him again. He held it for a split second, drawing the pressure in, then turned sharply, slipping past just enough to create a yard of space before lifting a clipped pass over the defensive line.

Sané chased it down and finished cleanly.

Nagelsmann nodded slightly. "That’s better. Faster decisions."

They reset again, but there was a noticeable shift now. The tempo hadn’t dropped, but the awareness around Lukas had increased. Players closed him quicker, tracked his movements more closely, tried to cut off his angles earlier than before.