The next day.
Mark steered his Porsche 911 into the car park ten minutes early.
Outside the gate, the usual handful of supporters were waiting.
The entrance might as well have been a fixed NPC spawn point.
Every day a new crop of fans'spawned' there; today, after a loss, the crowd was bigger than usual.
When the sight of his distinctive car pierced the cold morning air, they waved and shouted, 'Mark!'
'Mark! Stop for a second!'
'Mr. Lane!'
They were polite, never blocking the lane, only waving from the kerb.
As always, Mark eased off the throttle and rolled to a halt.
He powered the window down and waved.
Seeing this, the fans formed an orderly queue and came to the window one by one.
While signing shirts and photos with a marker in his left hand, he reminded them, 'It's freezing—wrap up warm and don't stay out too long.'
The words warmed them. 'We're fine, we're bundled up.'
'Yeah, not cold at all...'
Mark smiled at their replies. 'Good.'
Then a familiar black-haired, glasses-wearing guy stepped forward.
Mark recognised him instantly. 'Stahl?'
'Hah, you still remember me?!'
'Of course! That German Cup goal-compilation you made for me...'
'All your YouTube highlight reels are mine!'
'Wow, that's brilliant!'
After a pause Mark asked, 'That song "The Mark Song"—did you make that too?'
Stahl shook his head. 'Nope, but suggesting a personal chant for you was my idea.'
Only then did Mark realise his anthem had been written by the Wolves' House ultras.
'It's a fantastic song—love it. Thanks...'
They chatted a little longer until the next fan, a girl with a red-tipped nose, politely reminded them she was waiting.
Wearing a cute woolly hat, she stepped up with Mark's shirt in her hands.
Before he could speak she blurted, 'Mark, you're the best!'
'Even if we don't make it out of the Champions League group, don't lose heart!'
Touched, he curved a smile, signing the shirt. 'Don't worry, I won't.'
'What's your name?'
'Jenny.'
'Thank you for the encouragement, Jenny.'
After adding a dedication, he posed for a photo. She asked, 'Can we win the League this season?'
The question caught him off-guard; he grinned. 'With your support we'll give everything we've got.'
After the last autograph he glanced at his Hublot: nearly nine o'clock.
'Right, lads, I've got to go—train late and the gaffer'll make me run laps.'
With a wave he closed the window and pulled away.
Fortunately he always arrived ten minutes early to leave time for the fans.
At nine sharp he walked into the changing room and quickly changed.
Late November in Wolfsburg was biting cold.
The squad pulled on woolly hats and gloves and began a gentle warm-up under the fitness coach.
Yesterday's match had been tough, so today's session was purely recovery.
While jogging, Mark planned his extra work.
Since turning pro he'd added two after-hours blocks: weak-foot shooting and crossing.
Both had improved.
This season he'd added stamina and inside-cutting-to-shoot drills.
Guided by coaches and his own sweat, his endurance had surged.
Where once he'd fade after 65 minutes, he could now last 75.
Ten extra minutes to run, create, threaten.
With Malanda as sparring partner, his trademark cut-inside curler to the far top corner had sharpened visibly.
The move looked smoother, faster—like a natural inverted winger.
Fifteen League goals this season, nine of them left-side curlers.
That efficiency kept him nailed to the left-wing starting spot.
Even shunted Perišić to the right.
Cutting in from the left to shoot had become his default weapon.
But predictability was the flaw.
He could still cross from the left
yet his left-foot deliveries lacked the whip of an ambidextrous player like Perišić.
If opponents forced him wide, they blunted his threat.
So he resolved to add a weak-foot finish to his arsenal.
If his left could match his right, he'd be two-footed.
Defenders wouldn't know whether he'd cut inside and shoot or feint onto his weaker foot.
He'd be almost unplayable.
He needed a mentor—a proven two-footed finisher.
In the squad there was exactly one: Perišić.
After training he approached the Croat. 'Ivan, can I ask you something...'
When Perišić heard the request he smiled; everyone knew Mark stayed behind every day to train.
But he never imagined that Mark would actually come looking for him and ask him to teach him how to shoot with his left foot!
Faced with Mark's request, Perišić didn't think for long before happily agreeing.
To Perišić, Mark wasn't just a teammate—he was also a friend.
Besides, the stronger Mark became, the stronger the team would be, and the better their chances of winning titles.
He wasn't the jealous type who feared a teammate might steal his spot.
Yet once the training began, Mark realized that pinging a pass with his weaker foot and shooting with it were basically the same beast.
With a pass you just drill the contact point; after enough reps you can hit any kind of ball you want.
A shot, though, brings a heap of extra problems into play.
Where the plant foot lands, the stride pattern, the exact spot to strike the ball—if passing with the weak foot rates a 1, shooting rates a 5.
Going from zero to one is the hardest step, and Mark had already clawed his way past it with endless reps.
Now the climb from one to five would only take relentless, water-dripping-on-stone time.
After lunch, while the others headed for the physios to loosen up, Perišić was dragged to the training pitch by Mark.
Mark hauled a huge bag of balls onto the grass, lined them up, then snapped to attention in front of Perišić and saluted. "Coach, let's begin!"
Perišić cracked a smile at the sight.
The first drill was the simplest: stationary shots.
Swish!
The ball rippled the net, and Perišić's voice followed: "Lean a bit more to your right!"
Bang!
Another shot, faster this time, tore into the goal.
Better, but your last step's too tight—lengthen the stride."
Lock the ankle!"
Under Perišić's guidance Mark sent ball after ball toward the net.
For now he was only grooving posture, stride, and contact; power could wait.
Only after he could hit a firm, reliable finish from a standstill would they move on.
Training the weak foot was also teaching Mark how his own body worked now.
From one-seventy-five in January he'd sprouted to one-eighty-two—seven centimetres in eleven months.
That growth spurt had shifted every dribble, stride, and touch.
A sudden stretch like that wreaks havoc on any pro's technique and style.
If Messi stood one-eighty-nine instead of one-sixty-nine, that insane cadence and dribble rhythm would simply vanish.
It's the low centre of gravity plus lightning feet that lets him bounce through traffic like a flea.
The club kept a wary eye on Mark's vertical leap.
Would the kid once famed for dazzling close control lose agility and foot-Speed as the inches piled on?
Would his dribbling identity survive the makeover?
Extra height helped him in duels, no question.
But if it cost him quickness, the trade-off stung.
Mark, after all, is a winger who lives off ankle-breaking artistry.
Taller frame, higher centre of gravity—inevitably the feet slow.
Luckily, while shooting up he'd drilled inside-cut moves daily, learning how the new body behaved.
Club analysts and his personal coach rewrote his programme, tailoring drills to rebalance centre of mass and keep the flair.
So far the post-growth Mark hadn't lost a beat in link-up Speed; if anything, he bullied defenders even harder.
Of course, he hadn't started packing on muscle yet.
Strength and power still had room to climb, and his attacking toolbox needed more blades.
His endgame: a winger dripping with pace and power, unstoppable on either flank or anywhere near the box.
If peak-era Ronaldo was the ceiling, Mark aimed to punch through the roof.
Training days felt dry and endless.
Thankfully, matches arrived to vent the boredom and pressure.
A few days later Wolfsburg hosted Match-day 13 at home.
The visitors: the "Foals" of Mönchengladbach.
After twelve rounds Mönchengladbach sat fifth: five wins, five draws, two losses, twenty points.
Their away form, not their home comfort, had turned heads.
Five road games: two wins, two draws, only one defeat.
Where most clubs roar at home and whimper away, the Foals flipped the script.
Conceding just two goals in those five away ties.
Nine conceded in twelve—second-stingiest in the Bundesliga, behind only Bayern.
Swiss keeper Sommer had seamlessly replaced the Barça-bound Ter Stegen as the team's bedrock.
At the Volkswagen Arena they set up to defend first and maybe nick a win.
Coincidentally, Wolfsburg boasted the League's second-most-potent attack.
Attack number two versus defence number two—something had to give.
Yet nobody saw the script that unfolded.
Eight minutes in, De Bruyne one-twod with Dost, took the return, and was scythed down.
The whistle blew: free-kick to Wolfsburg, thirty metres out—prime Mark territory.
Mark stepped up without hesitation.
Deep breath, run-up, plant, swing, strike!
A crisp thud launched the ball; it turned into a black blur soaring over the wall.
At its apex it dipped like a comet, slicing across the Volkswagen Arena sky…