The door to the tactical meeting room swung open.
The heavy wooden door groaned lowly, as if protesting this untimely disturbance.
Inside, the air was cold, laced with the musty odor of old files and the sharp sting of cheap cleaning agents, a mix that jolted the senses awake.
Above, several rows of aging fluorescent tubes buzzed with their monotonous hum, casting a pale, merciless light that drained the color from every face in the room.
Most of the players had already arrived.
Unlike their usual habit of sitting wherever they pleased, today they were divided into clear cliques. Silence ruled with an iron grip.
Ronaldo and Guti had claimed the back corner seats, the perfect spot to observe while radiating disdain. Arms folded, chins lifted, their expressions wore open contempt, their eyes brimming with the anticipation of a spectacle.
They had been the epicenter of yesterday's locker room storm, convinced they were unshakable rocks against any wave.
At the very front, in the exact center of the first row, sat club general manager Jorge Valdano. His tailored Armani suit, his neatly slicked silver hair, all stood in sharp contrast to the sweat-and-hormone-scented players in their training gear.
His gaze didn't rest on anyone. Instead, he stared fixedly at the empty mahogany table before him, one finger tapping the polished surface in steady rhythm.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each beat struck the tautest string in everyone's chest.
Captain Raúl sat beside him, his thick brows knotted into a deep crease. His eyes shifted between the closed door and his teammates behind him, his usual fire now clouded with heavy worry.
Zidane sat quietly in another corner, leaning back against the wall like a silent Roman statue. Only his deep, Mediterranean eyes, when they flickered, betrayed a trace of unreadable thought.
Julian was the last to arrive.
The instant he entered, dozens of eyes locked onto him—scrutiny, hostility, curiosity, even naked schadenfreude.
He ignored them all.
His steps were steady, without hesitation, carrying him straight to the tactics board at the far end of the room. He placed his laptop on the podium, pulled out a cable, and connected it to the projector.
Not a word of small talk. Not even a glance exchanged with anyone.
In the hushed room, the crisp click of the cable snapping into its port rang sharp and clear, almost jarring.
The projector's fan whirred to life, its low drone breaking Valdano's rhythm of finger taps.
A stark white beam cut through the dim air, landing precisely on the blank screen.
Slowly, a futuristic logo appeared.
[Apex Tactical Suite]
Most of the players—and even the well-traveled Valdano—had never seen this emblem before.
The screen shifted.
A hyper-realistic 3D human model emerged, its musculature, contours, even facial features perfectly replicated.
The face was unmistakable.
Ronaldo.
The smirk and contempt on Ronaldo's face froze for a moment, then hardened into deeper mockery. He even let out a soft, derisive chuckle.
A few muffled laughs rippled among the others. This childish gimmick? To analyze him? A Ballon d'Or winner?
Julian's face remained expressionless. His finger tapped the touchpad once.
The cursor clicked open a module.
[Fitness Status]
Cold, clinical numbers appeared on screen, undeniable and merciless.
Current stamina reserve: 68%
Muscle fatigue: 89%
Explosiveness decline projection: 17%
The color drained visibly from Ronaldo's face.
These numbers…
They were identical to what the German had announced in the locker room yesterday!
If yesterday's words could be brushed off as insults, seeing them laid bare in sterile, irrefutable data struck with far greater force.
The whispers in the room died instantly.
Every gaze flickered between the brutal numbers on the screen and Ronaldo's paling face.
Julian slid his finger again.
Another data window burst open without warning—like a surgeon's scalpel cutting through the last fragile veil.
[Average sleep in past 72 hours: 4.1 hours]
Ronaldo's fist clenched tight. His knuckles went bone-white.
This wasn't analysis anymore.
This was intrusion. Violation.
Before he could explode, Julian clicked the tiny exclamation mark beside the sleep data.
A bright red annotation appeared, harsh and damning.
[High-risk behavior flag: Based on public social media and linked credit card transactions, subject attended private parties until late at night on consecutive days.]
Boom.
A bomb went off in Ronaldo's skull.
Blankness.
Shock, shame, and the raw fury of being stripped naked in a public square surged through his nerves.
How dare he?!
How could he possibly know this?! Credit card records?!
The room sank into a suffocating silence.
Those who had chuckled earlier now wished they could bury their heads in the floor. None dared glance at Ronaldo.
In the front row, Valdano's tapping finger finally stopped.
He turned slightly, and for the first time, his calculating eyes settled directly on Julian—full of scrutiny, suspicion, and, faintly, unease.
Raúl's lips parted, but his throat was too dry to form words.
In that choking silence, Julian's mouse moved again.
Decisive. Efficient.
He switched targets.
The screen morphed into a new model and dataset.
Guti.
The trademark smirk froze on the "Golden Wolf's" face, his suddenly shifting eyes rendering the expression grotesque.
Julian skipped the basic fitness stats and opened a module labeled [Injury Risk Assessment].
The 3D model zoomed in. The right ankle lit up in flashing red.
A line of stark text appeared.
"Risk of lateral ligament tear in right ankle during sharp cut-and-stop: 45%."
Guti's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
And then—another overlay.
Specific technical triggers, accompanied by a small animation.
The stick figure repeated a familiar action.
His trademark move—those imaginative, lethal outside-foot curve passes.
The move that had won him fame, cheers, and the title of "Golden Wolf."
Now, under the cold glare of data, it was revealed as a ticking time bomb.
The smirk vanished from Guti's lips.
Almost involuntarily, his hand brushed his right ankle. No pain, no discomfort—yet a freezing chill raced from sole to skull.
The fear of an unknown betrayal from within his own body.
At last, Julian spoke.
His voice was calm, absent of pride or scorn. Like a doctor reading a diagnosis to patients.
"My training plan isn't about punishment. It isn't about comfort either."
"Its sole purpose is to bring your bodies back to the state required to win."
His gaze swept the room, pausing on each unsettled face.
"These numbers are the reality we all have to face."
The words crashed into their hearts like a boulder into a lake, sending shockwaves through every soul.
In the corner, even Zidane's eyes lost their last trace of disdain. What replaced it was something rare—solemn contemplation.
As a veteran scarred by injuries, he understood more than anyone what these mercilessly precise figures meant.
Raúl's furrowed brows eased. His eyes shifted—worry giving way to something heavier, more complex. Respect.
Even Casillas, standing in the back, instinctively straightened, gaze sharp with focus.
They realized, at last.
This young German wasn't playing power games.
He wielded something new, something terrifying—an insight that stripped them bare.
Julian had turned defiance into dread, resistance into self-doubt.
This was no longer about ego.
It was science crushing tradition. The future condemning the past.
And yet, in Valdano's mind, one question lingered, dark and dangerous.
How had he obtained such data?
Especially the private kind—credit card transactions?
This power was awe-inspiring, yes. But also unsettling.
Julian offered no chance for questions.
He shut off the projector.
The sterile fluorescent lights returned, colder than before.
"Tomorrow's recovery training," Julian said evenly. "Nine a.m. Sharp."