The match day had arrived.
Morning mist still hung over the HSV campus, the dew clinging to the blades of grass like quiet anticipation.
Training was light — just enough to keep the rhythm alive without draining the fire.
Touches, passes, movement. Nothing forced. Nothing wasted.
Julian rolled the ball beneath his boot, eyes half on the horizon, half inside himself.
It wasn't nerves. It was focus.
The others felt it too — that tension before the storm. The kind of silence that made every sound sharper.
Cleats scraping against turf, the soft thump of leather meeting leather, Soner's voice occasionally cutting through like a blade.
No jokes, no wasted words. Every player moved as if every touch mattered.
A chill breeze drifted through the open training field, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and morning coffee from the nearby staff room.
