Paris, just minutes before what would soon be known in whispers as "The Night of the Catalan Hunt" — a moment that would send shockwaves through Europe, remembered by Barça fans as a night of glory , pain, and torture and by others as the beginning of something darker.
Inside the Parc des Princes, not in the tunnel, not in the dressing room, but high above the chaos, tucked deep into the velvet-clad corridors of power, sat a chamber unlike any other.
It wasn't just an office.
It was the command center of a football empire.
Nasser Al-Khelaifi's private sanctum.
A place more akin to a luxury presidential suite than a club official's workspace—mahogany floors so polished they shimmered like glass, oil paintings of PSG legends adorning the walls, and massive windows overlooking the stadium like a king staring over his battlefield.
The faint glow of blue ambient lights cast long shadows on the carpet, while a custom-built glass case held every shirt worn by the club's icons—from Ronaldinho to Zlatan, to Cavani and Neymar—now a silent gallery of nearly men.
But tonight, even with a fresh wound carved deep into the soul of the club, this sanctum did not feel defeated.
In fact, it felt... strangely hopeful.
Because for Nasser Al-Khelaifi, the chairman and CEO of Paris Saint-Germain, tonight wasn't just a bitter European exit.
No—tonight, under the weight of humiliation, he had discovered a new vision.
A brighter path forward.
The final piece in his relentless decade-long obsession with winning the Champions League.
Mateo King.
The 17-year-old storm that had just ripped through the Parc des Princes like an act of divine footballing vengeance.
A boy—no, a phenomenon—who had danced past his defenders like they were air. Who had stared into the eyes of the PSG ultras and dared to raise his hands to the heavens in defiance. Who had left their star-studded side reeling on their own turf.
And now, in the quiet pulse of his grand office, Nasser was seeing it all again. Not on a screen. Not on the pitch.
In his mind.
The curls. The fire. The goal. The celebration. That damn celebration.
Mateo King—the missing constellation in a galaxy of stars. The spark that PSG, despite all its wealth, could never buy before.
But now?
Now, Nasser was already imagining it:
Mateo in navy blue, with the Eiffel Tower crest pressed against his chest.
The fans chanting his name.
Week after week.
Goal after goal.
Right here.
In Paris.
And in that moment—surrounded by silence, defeat, and shattered dreams—
He smiled.
"So would that work—Mbappé and Mateo up front, Neymar just behind them as a CAM? Eh? How would that go?"
The voice floated through the opulent office like a quiet ripple of madness.
Nasser Al-Khelaifi, the chairman and CEO of Paris Saint-Germain, wasn't even sitting on his grand leather throne anymore.
He was perched on its armrest, half-leaning forward, fingers steepled together, face lit not by the soft golden lights above—but by something else.
Something in his mind.
A fire.
An idea.
Opposite him, across the long glass table, sat Mauricio Pochettino—not with the posture of a top-tier manager, but more like a condemned man wondering if the executioner was late or just merciful.
The moment the final whistle had blown on that humiliating night, he had done what a manager was supposed to do—comfort his players, shake the hands of ghosts, mutter things about "next time."
And then the message came.
"The president wants to see you. Now."
He had walked the glittering, soul-less corridors of Parc des Princes like a man being summoned to the gallows.
His thoughts swirled.
I should've taken the Argentina job...
Maybe Brighton... maybe Leicester... maybe even retirement...
The man before me—Tuchel—reached the final and still got sacked. And me? I just blew a three-goal lead in my own damn stadium...
His fate was sealed, or so he thought.
But instead of a boardroom of suited men with legal documents and tight smiles, instead of somber handshakes and whispers about "mutual agreements," he found this:
Nasser. Grinning.
A bottle of still water in one hand, and a look in his eye like he had just discovered fire.
So when the CEO said it—"Mbappé and Mateo in front, Neymar behind"—Pochettino blinked and barely croaked out:
"Pardon?"
He looked at Nasser like the man had lost it.
But the PSG president just waved the reaction away with a flick of the wrist, as if Pochettino's confusion was an annoying pop-up window he didn't have time for.
"You heard me," he said, standing now, walking in slow circles like an inventor imagining blueprints in the air.
His voice was light, airy—even a little musical.
"But think about it. That trio... Mbappé's fire. Neymar's creativity. And Mateo..." he turned slowly toward the window that overlooked the still-lit pitch, now being cleaned by silent groundskeepers, "...he's lightning. Raw lightning."
Pochettino didn't respond.
He was still frozen in his seat, studying the face of the man who should have been reprimanding him. Instead, Nasser looked like a child on Christmas morning, the kind who had just unwrapped a toy he hadn't even known he wanted.
For a moment, Mauricio Pochettino's thoughts paused.
"So… I'm not fired?"
That was the first thing his mind could cling to—
Not the team sheets.
Not the loss.
Not the three goals conceded.
Just the raw, stunned realization that somehow… he might have survived.
He blinked, gaze drifting to Nasser Al-Khelaifi, who was standing now—back slightly turned, eyes gleaming in the low light of his opulent office like a man possessed.
The glimmer of expectation in his eyes wasn't just curiosity—it was demand. The silence thickened, waiting for a reply.
Pochettino cleared his throat. Lightly. Awkwardly.
"Well… sir, Mateo and Mbappé…" he began, choosing his words like one walking on shattered glass,
"…they're… quite similar, no? In terms of their profile. Their movement, instinct, pace—both of them like space. Both of them thrive when they're the spearhead."
He tried to smile, waving one hand in vague circles.
"And that works well—until it doesn't. Because… with a player like Mbappé already here… Mateo becomes a bit… redundant to my system."
A beat.
Then a small spark flickered in his tone.
"But!" he said, his eyes lighting as a different idea grabbed him, "if we're serious about shopping from Barcelona… we should go for Pedri. Yes, Pedri would be perfect."
He began gesturing now, faster, gaining momentum. The way desperate men do when they think they've found a lifeline.
"He's more what we're missing. Midfield intelligence. Incredible ball retention. Vision.
Think of it—Verratti, Pedri, Paredes—that's balance. That's tempo. That's control. He'd fit right into our 4-3-3, just ahead of Marco. Floating. Linking the lines."
His excitement spilled further. His hands moved like he was painting it out into the air.
"And… a proper center-back too—another one to rotate beside Marquinhos. Someone dominant in the air. And, sir, a new keeper. Not because Navas is bad—he's been immense—but we need someone younger. More commanding."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as if discovering treasure.
"Donnarumma."
He nodded at his own suggestion, more to himself than to the man watching him.
"He's out of contract soon at Milan. A giant between the sticks. And only 21. If we act fast…"
But then he stopped.
His breath caught.
Because when he finally looked up from his own swirling fantasy, the warmth of his pitch hit the coldest wall imaginable.
Gone was the boyish excitement from Nasser Al-Khelaifi's face. Gone was the indulgent curiosity.
In its place now was something else entirely—
A mask. A frozen, dangerous calm.
Eyes locked. Lips unmoving. The kind of stillness that makes your blood remember how to shiver.
Pochettino swallowed, straightening slightly, heart dropping. His throat dry.
He didn't know what he had said wrong, but every fiber in him told him he had.
And then Nasser finally spoke. Slowly. Clearly. No emotion in his voice.
"Mateo… is the goal of Paris right now."
The words were deliberate. Etched with iron.
He stepped forward—just a bit—his presence filling the room like smoke.
"Him and Mbappé... they are the core.
The new axis. The new future.
And every move this club makes from now on is going to be built around them."
Then he paused.
And his gaze sharpened like the edge of a blade.
"What isn't set in stone… is who leads them."
That sentence was softer—but far deadlier.
It hung in the air like poison.
Pochettino blinked, his jaw stiffening, breath thinning, the silence roaring in his ears.
The message was loud and clear.
Mateo King wasn't a maybe. He was the plan.
And if Mauricio couldn't see that—if he didn't want to be the man to build that future—
Someone else would.
Pochettino's throat bobbed.
A single loud gulp echoed through the towering, chandelier-lit office of the Parc des Princes, cutting through the heavy silence like a crack in ice. The tension was suffocating, almost thick enough to touch.
Then, out of pure reflex—he laughed.
A small, forced, awkward chuckle.
"Heh… well, yeah… of course, Mateo… Mateo's a bit more… technical in his style of play," he said, trying to sound confident but failing miserably as the words tumbled out of his mouth.
"Very refined touches, smart movement between the lines. If we switch to a counter-attacking setup—maybe a fluid 4-3-3 or a narrow 4-2-3-1—we could utilize his ball-carrying ability in the half-spaces, right?"
He nodded a little too eagerly.
"Use his gravity to draw defenders, let Mbappé exploit the channels. Mateo has that eye for the final pass, the disguised reverse balls, the sharp give-and-go combinations… it could work. A dual-edged sword. Fast transitions with both him and Kylian up front could be… deadly."
He let out another breathy laugh, one hand running along the edge of the desk beside him.
"Plus, he's only seventeen. There's no telling how much more he could grow. Technically, tactically, even physically. His ceiling is… limitless. No matter what, he'd be an excellent acquisition."
He smiled nervously at the end, as if that would soften the edges of everything he'd just said.
For a few seconds, Nasser Al-Khelaifi said nothing.
He simply stared.
Then, at last, he hummed.
A long, deep "Hmmm."
His eyes didn't blink as they studied Pochettino's awkward grin, watching every twitch, every shift in posture like a hawk observing a mouse.
Then, finally, the CEO sighed—low, deliberate—and leaned back in his chair.
"You don't have to be so tense, Coach," he said flatly, "about the Mateo situation. We're already on it."
Pochettino's eyebrows arched slightly.
"His agent—Andrew. We know him. Discussions have already begun. That part is out of your hands."
The Argentine coach gave a slow nod, unsure whether to feel relieved or more anxious.
"The reason I brought you here," Nasser continued, "was not to hear scouting reports. It's to remind you of what now matters."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words drop like stones.
"We're out of the Champions League."
His voice sharpened.
"But that does not mean this club will end the season with empty hands. Lille is ahead, yes, but that must change. The Coupe de France—win it. And the league—do not let it slip. There must be silverware in Paris this year. That's not a request. That's a requirement."
The temperature in the room felt like it dropped ten degrees.
Pochettino stood a little straighter, nodding quickly.
"Yes, of course, Président. Neymar should be back in a week or two. We'll be at full strength. We're already in the Coupe de France final—and if we win it, plus the league…"
He gave a hopeful little shrug.
"That's a domestic treble. Not the Champions League, but still a strong finish. You can count on me."
But the words seemed to hit a wall.
Nasser didn't nod.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even blink.
He just watched him. Cold. Unamused. Silent.
It was the kind of stare that told you exactly where you stood—nowhere near safe.
Feeling the chill in the air, Pochettino gave a faint laugh, more of a nervous tick than actual humor, and started stepping back from the desk.
"Well then," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "I should head back. Need to check on the boys."
He turned toward the exit, pausing as he passed by Leonardo, the club's sporting director.
The Brazilian gave him nothing—no smile, no nod—just that same unreadable stare he always wore when deals were being discussed behind closed doors.
Pochettino gave a polite nod, muttered a stiff "Director," and stepped through the grand double doors of the office.
Just before they shut behind him, he looked back.
Two men.
Two powerful figures.
Both staring at him like chess masters watching a piece they were ready to replace.
And then—
Click.
The door closed.
And the hallway went silent.
Pochettino let out a long, drawn-out sigh.
The echo of the closed office door still lingered behind him as he began his quiet march back down the polished marble hallway of the Parc des Princes' executive wing.
His dress shoes clicked against the floor, the sound unusually loud in the hush of the moment. He loosened his tie just a little, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. He muttered under his breath:
"Well… at least I wasn't sacked."
His tone wasn't quite relief, not quite disbelief—just the shaky middle ground between.
Just as he allowed himself the smallest flicker of relief, a blur of movement streaked past him.
"Ah! Sorry!" a breathless voice cried out as the man brushed hard against his shoulder, nearly sending the coach staggering.
"Hey! Watch yourself!" Pochettino shouted, stumbling to regain balance.
He straightened his coat and turned, irritation bubbling in his chest.
"What the hell was that about?!" he barked, watching the figure sprint toward the very office he had just exited, disappearing beyond the corner.
He stood there, stunned for a second. The guy had been in a full panic. Something was off.
Back inside the Executive Office of Paris Saint-Germain, the opulence stood in striking contrast to the growing tension. It was a room of marble and modern design, glittering with understated wealth—black wood, silver trim, muted gold accents, and massive panoramic windows showing the glitter of Paris by night.
Nasser Al-Khelaifi, still seated behind his monolithic black desk, was frozen in thought. His eyes remained fixed on the closed door Pochettino had just exited through.
He broke the silence with a quiet murmur, laced with implication.
"Leonardo…" he said, without shifting his gaze.
"…perhaps we need to revisit some options. Is Luis Enrique still interested in coming?"
Leonardo, who had been standing beside the long cabinet of rare football memorabilia, turned at once. His expression was unreadable.
"Sir, I'd have to reach out to his camp again. But based on our last conversations…"
He nodded, slowly.
"Yes. Enrique should still be very interested. I'll get on it immediately."
"Good," Nasser said with a quiet intensity, finally turning to face him.
"And don't forget the Mateo case. That is the priority now. Top of the list."
His voice sharpened.
"If we can get them to delay signing a contract extension at Barcelona, that's perfect. If not, make sure there's a release clause—something we can leverage. I want that boy in Paris by next window."
Leonardo nodded crisply.
"Already in motion, sir. I've arranged a video meeting with his agent tomorrow morning. Andrew, right?"
Nasser allowed himself a slight smirk.
"Exactly. Get it done."
Just as he was about to say more—
BANG!
The doors to the office BURST open, startling both men. The heavy wood slammed against the wall with a force that shook the chandelier slightly above them.
"What the hell—?" Nasser's voice cut off.
In the doorway stood a man—one of the PSG operations staff—bent over, wheezing, clutching his chest as he tried to speak.
His coat was half-off, his eyes wild, his breath broken like shattered glass.
"Sir…" he rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting and sprinting, "Outside… there's a problem."
He looked pale. Sweating. Terrified.
And suddenly, the mood in the room shifted.
Nasser Al-Khelaifi stood slowly from his chair, his jaw tightening.
"What kind of problem?"
The question hung in the air like thunder waiting to crack.
Meanwhile, inside the Parc des Princes, the atmosphere had shifted once again.
The Barcelona players had been ushered back into the inner halls of the stadium after the situation outside grew too volatile to risk immediate departure. A private lounge area deep inside the belly of the arena had become their temporary shelter—normally a VIP waiting room, now turned into an impromptu holding zone. The lights were dimmer here, the air heavy with exhaustion, tension, and uncertainty.
It was a surprisingly elegant space—sleek black couches, low golden lamps, and a wide glass wall that overlooked a courtyard just outside the south wing. But no one was admiring the view.
Players were scattered across the area. Some were seated, hunched over their phones. Others stood in clumps, pacing, whispering, or muttering curses under their breath. The tension gripped them all.
Koeman stood to the side, leaning against a pillar, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in Dutch. He kept his tone low and professional, but even from a distance, you could tell he was irritated—possibly speaking with club executives or UEFA contacts.
Across the room, his assistant coaches—Sergi Barjuán and Larsson among them—were in deep talks with both stadium security and local police, flanked by PSG liaison officers trying to manage the growing chaos.
And the players?
The players were watching the storm unfold… through their phones.
Because it was already everywhere.
Not through official news outlets, no. The violence outside had gone viral, spreading like wildfire—ultras themselves had proudly posted videos, taunting, boasting, filming themselves chasing down Barcelona fans, ripping scarves, burning jerseys, and worse.
"Oh Lord… look what they did to this old man," Jordi Alba muttered, showing his phone to Busquets, who took one glance and looked away in disgust.
"What the hell is wrong with them?" Griezmann blurted out, jaw clenched. "What kind of animals attack fans like this?"
"Yo, yo look at this, they jumped this couple!" Dembélé shouted, holding up his phone, voice filled with shock. "The guy's bleeding—he's trying to protect the girl—this is insane!"
"This one here…" said Araujo, scrolling slowly, his tone dark. "They surrounded a guy just because he wore Mateo's jersey. They smashed his phone… Dios mío."
"No, no this is rubbish, this is criminal!" Ter Stegen snapped, standing now, his voice rising. "UEFA needs to step in—this isn't football anymore, it's a damn riot!"
A thick silence swept over the room between spurts of chaos.
Then in a quieter corner, Pedri, eyes still locked on his phone, leaned back on the couch, taking a deep breath before answering his call. His voice was soft, but everyone nearby could hear.
"I'm okay, Mom," he said gently. "Yes, we're safe. All of us. We're back inside the stadium now. It's all fine. No, I'm good, I promise… yes, I'll call you when this is all sorted. Okay. Bye, Mom."
He ended the call and let the phone drop gently onto his lap, his head tilted back as he closed his eyes.
For a moment, no one said anything. The players were warriors of the pitch, yes—but this? This was war off the pitch.
And it wasn't over yet.
Pedri, still seated, let out a long breath through his nose. The phone call with his mother had steadied him a bit, but it hadn't cleared the fog of anger, confusion, and helplessness that hung in the room like smoke. He rubbed his palms together nervously, then looked up—and saw Mateo.
The boy was sitting a few seats down, still in his matchday hoodie, his head bent forward over his phone. His elbows dug into his thighs, screen just inches from his face. His brows were furrowed. His fingers weren't moving.
He wasn't scrolling.
He was just… watching. Locked in. Frozen.
Pedri frowned, slowly getting up. He walked over, hands stuffed into the pocket of his training jacket.
"My mom's freaking out," Pedri said, trying to inject some ease into the conversation as he sat beside him. "She's like, 'don't go to away games again,' like it's my fault these lunatics are mad just because they lost."
He gave a small laugh, but it faded when Mateo didn't respond. Not even a glance.
Pedri leaned over, curious now. "Mateo?" he said again, softer. Still nothing.
He leaned in more, tilting his head, peeking at the phone in Mateo's hand.
"Hey, what are you even looking at—"
Then he stopped.
Mateo's eyes stayed locked on the screen, unmoving, unblinking. And when he finally spoke, his voice was nothing like before—it was low, dry, cracking with a sadness that didn't belong to a boy who had just made history hours ago.
"They're blaming me."
Pedri turned to him sharply, confused.
"What?"
Mateo's throat moved as he swallowed, but his voice stayed broken. "They're saying I caused this...
A/N
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