The clamor of last night at the Camp Nou had faded, but the aftershocks of that 2-2 draw lingered on. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant, mingling with the sharp cold of an early winter morning.
For FC Barcelona, this was destined to be a busy and heavy Sunday.
On the third floor of the medical center, the atmosphere was stiflingly oppressive. A massive MRI scan was projected on the wall, its black-and-white images resembling a battlefield damage report.
"Confirmed," said Dr. Ricard Pruna, pushing his glasses up his nose, his voice dry. "A tear in the distal tendon of the right biceps femoris. It's a very tricky location. Without surgery, conservative treatment will take at least eight weeks. If we opt for surgery, his season is basically over."
Sitting on the sofa, Samuel Umtiti hung his head low, his hands gripping the handle of his crutches so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a center-back on the rise, suffering such a severe injury in a World Cup year was a devastating blow.
"Conservative treatment," Umtiti looked up, a plea in his eyes. "I want to play in the World Cup. I can't have surgery."
Bartomeu, standing by the window, turned around. Wearing a dark gray cashmere coat, he appeared exceptionally calm. As a reborn individual, he clearly remembered the original course of history—Umtiti had chosen conservative treatment for the World Cup, leading to permanent knee issues and a rapid fall from being the "World's Best Defender."
But now, he couldn't change this decision. It was the player's will.
"Alright, Samuel," Bartomeu walked up to the Frenchman and patted his shoulder. "The club respects your choice. We'll give you the best rehabilitation team. For these eight weeks, your only job is to heal that muscle. Don't worry about the team; the sky won't fall."
Umtiti's eyes reddened slightly. He nodded and, supported by a physiotherapist, left the room on his crutches.
Only Bartomeu, Sporting Director Robert Fernández, and Head Coach Valverde remained in the room.
"Josep, now we're really in trouble," Valverde took off his glasses, rubbing his temples wearily. "Samuel is out for two months. Gerard, though he was yelled awake by Iñigo yesterday, his mental state... is like a ticking time bomb. And Iñigo, after all, is new and hasn't been tested at the Champions League knockout stage level yet."
"We still have Mascherano," Robert interjected. "Even though he wants to leave, maybe we can force him to stay until the end of the season?"
"No," Bartomeu refused flatly. "You can keep a person's body, but not his heart. Javier wants to go to China to play midfield for the World Cup. If we force him into a center-back role and he gets injured again, we'd be ruining his career. Barça can't do something so heartless."
"Then what? Buy someone?" Valverde grew anxious. "The winter window isn't open yet. How do we survive this month? We have Villarreal next, and then El Clásico! Do you really want me to promote kids from the B team?"
Bartomeu walked to the window, looking down at the training ground below. There, the first-team substitutes were doing recovery training.
"Valverde, have you forgotten someone?" Bartomeu pointed at a figure in the distance, running shuttle runs alone.
Valverde followed his finger and paused. "You mean... Thomas? Thomas Vermaelen?" Valverde let out a bitter laugh, as if hearing a bad joke. "Chairman, don't joke. He's a Ghost. Since he came to Barça, he's spent more time in the medical room than in the locker room. I've almost forgotten what he looks like."
"Even Ghosts can awaken," Bartomeu turned around, a sly glint in his eyes. "And recently, this Ghost's physical test data has been among the best in the squad."
Half an hour later, in the Chairman's office. Javier Mascherano knocked and entered. He was wearing training gear, clearly having just come from the gym.
"Sit, Javier," Bartomeu gestured to the chair opposite and personally poured a cup of mate tea for the veteran.
"Thank you, Chairman," Mascherano took the cup, his expression calm. "I suppose you called me to confirm the departure? With Samuel injured, if you need me to stay longer..."
"I'm here to approve your transfer request," Bartomeu pulled a document from his drawer and pushed it toward Mascherano. It was a transfer authorization form, destination: Hebei China Fortune. Transfer fee: €5.5 million. Departure date: January 1, 2018.
Mascherano was stunned. He had thought that with the team facing such a severe injury crisis, the club would try everything to keep him. He had even mentally prepared to sacrifice his personal interests and stay as a "firefighter" for the team.
"Sign it," Bartomeu said with a smile. "You've earned it. For Barça, you switched from defensive midfielder to center-back, even tearing your anus to cover positions. We can't delay your World Cup dream any longer."
Mascherano looked at the document, his eyes slightly moist. He looked up, his voice choked. "Josep, thank you. Really. But... if I leave, what about the team? You've seen Gerard's state. Iñigo was impressive yesterday, but he still needs time."
"That's the second reason I called you here," Bartomeu leaned forward, his gaze intense as he looked at Mascherano.
"Javier, you have one more month at Barça. In these 30 days, I don't need you to fight on the pitch, but I need you to complete a perfect handover of authority off it."
"I don't understand?"
"Iñigo Martínez," Bartomeu said the name. "He has the skill, the grit, but he lacks one thing—the 'Defensive Philosophy of the Camp Nou.' You're the non-La Masia player who understands that philosophy best."
"I want you to be his mentor. In this month, teach him all your experience—how to cover for Gerard, how to chase back when the offside trap fails, how to anticipate where Messi might lose the ball... everything."
Mascherano suddenly understood, then smiled with relief. "That kid... really is like a younger version of me, but he's more talented. He's left-footed. Chairman, don't worry. Yesterday, watching him play from the sidelines, I was already thinking about this. I'll leave him everything I've learned in my career."
"And one more person," Bartomeu raised a second finger. "Thomas Vermaelen."
Hearing the name, Mascherano's brow furrowed slightly. "Thomas? His body..."
"His body is fine; it's his mind that's the issue," Bartomeu said. "The whole team subconsciously acts like he doesn't exist. Javier, you're the locker room leader. I need you to help me bring him back. Tell everyone he's one of us, not a specimen in the medical room."
Mascherano was silent for a moment, then nodded firmly. "Leave it to me. Before I go, I'll leave you a complete defensive line."
After the afternoon training session, most players had gone to shower or to the physio room to relax. But from the smallest weight room in the corner of the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the clanging of equipment could still be heard.
Thomas Vermaelen was doing squats. Sweat dripped from his sharply defined face onto the floor. His gaze was focused and cold, as if only he and the barbell in front of him existed in the world.
Since joining Barça, constant injuries had turned him into the "Glass Man" in the media and the "Wage Thief" among fans. Even in the locker room, though everyone was polite, the looks he got were like those given to a temporary worker about to leave. No one expected anything from him, no one trusted him. But he had never given up on himself.
"120 kilos. Good form, Thomas," a voice broke the silence.
Vermaelen was startled, quickly putting down the barbell and turning around. "Chairman?" He was flustered, grabbing a towel to wipe his sweat. "I was just... doing some extra training."
Bartomeu walked into the weight room, sizing up the Belgian center-back. In the original timeline, Vermaelen had indeed stepped up that season, performing with remarkable stability, even starting and keeping a clean sheet against Real Madrid in El Clásico. He wasn't lacking in ability; he was buried by "prejudice."
"Extra training because you're not willing to give up?" Bartomeu leaned against the squat rack, his tone casual.
Vermaelen fell silent, looking down at his feet. "Samuel's injured. I know everyone's saying Barça needs to buy a new defender. I know my contract is almost up... I just want to stay fit, maybe join a smaller club where I can play in the winter window."
"A smaller club?" Bartomeu laughed. "You were the former Arsenal captain. Do you really think so little of yourself?"
"But my body..."
"I just saw Dr. Pruna's report," Bartomeu interrupted him. "Your muscle metrics are all excellent. Your body has been fine for a while, Thomas. It's you who doesn't dare to push, you who's afraid of hearing that muscle tear again."
Bartomeu walked up to him, looking him straight in the eye. "Listen, Thomas. I'm not planning to buy a stopgap center-back in the winter window. That spot is reserved for future stars like De Ligt, not for mercenaries."
Before that, I need a fourth center-back who can rotate, who can be a firefighter, who can step up when Piqué has a brain fart.
Iñigo got his chance yesterday, but he's not enough on his own. We're heading into a Brutal Schedule, a match every three days. Do you want to keep being invisible here, or do you want fifty thousand fans at Camp Nou chanting your name?
Vermaelen abruptly raised his head, a long-dormant fire flickering in his eyes, only to dim again immediately. 'But Coach Valverde...'
'I'll talk to Ernesto.' Bartomeu patted his chest muscle; the feel was as hard as iron. 'You just need to do one thing: in tomorrow's Scrimmage, stop thinking of yourself as a substitute. Go defend against Suárez. Go up against Messi. Bring out that ferocity you had when you were Arsenal's captain.'
'If your leg breaks, I'll take care of you for life. If it doesn't, get the damn ball out.'
Vermaelen clenched his fist, his fingernails digging deep into his palm. At that moment, he felt his long-dormant heart begin to pound violently once more.
'I understand, Chairman.' Vermaelen's voice was low and hoarse, yet it carried a steely resolve. 'I'll make them see that Vermaelen is still here.'
The next morning. First-team training session. The atmosphere was a bit strange.
Piqué arrived with dark circles under his eyes — last night, he had indeed kept his promise and uninstalled Twitter, forcing himself not to look at his phone, resulting in half a night of insomnia from Withdrawal Symptoms. He looked irritable now, but that was exactly the effect Bartomeu wanted: irritability was better than distraction.
The most surprising was Mascherano. The veteran, who was about to leave the club, wasn't participating in group drills today. Instead, he stood next to Iñigo Martínez with a tactics board, chattering away like an assistant coach.
'Look here, Iñigo,' Mascherano pointed at the positioning on the field. 'When Alba charges forward, you can't just stand still. You need to shift left five meters. At Barça, the left center-back is essentially half a left-back. You have to be ready to cover Jordi's ass at any moment.'
Iñigo listened intently, nodding from time to time. 'Also, Gerrard likes to step up and press. When he moves, you have to drop back. You two can't be like two parallel sticks; you have to be like scissors, one in front, one behind.'
Just as the two were engaged in this 'mutual teaching and learning,' a commotion broke out during the Scrimmage on the field.
It was a drill between the starters and the substitutes. Messi had the ball, preparing to cut inside near the edge of the penalty area as usual. In the past, the substitute center-backs would usually put in a token foot, since no one dared to injure Messi in training.
But today, a figure pressed up against him without holding back. Thomas Vermaelen.
He didn't foul, but he didn't give ground either. Using precise positioning, he used his shoulder to firmly block Messi's path, then seized the moment to slide in with a tackle.
Clean, fierce, and merciless. The ball was won.
Messi was taken down, tumbling once. The entire field fell silent instantly. Valverde's whistle was in his mouth, and he nearly swallowed it in shock. 'Leo! Are you okay?' Suárez ran over angrily, ready to confront Vermaelen. 'Thomas! Are you crazy? This is training!'
Vermaelen got up from the ground, expressionless. He didn't apologize, just stared coldly at Suárez. 'If we don't play for real, at the Bernabéu, Ramos will be even harsher than me.'
Suárez was stunned. Was this the same fragile, timid man who usually spoke in hushed tones?
Just as the tension peaked, Messi, sitting on the ground, brushed off some grass and suddenly laughed. He pulled back the fuming Suárez, stood up, and looked at Vermaelen. His eyes held not anger, but a hint of pleasant surprise.
'He's right, Luis,' Messi said, rotating his ankle. 'This is the intensity a center-back should have. Thomas, that positioning just now was excellent.'
Messi turned to Valverde. 'Coach, for this week's Scrimmages, have Thomas mark me. I need this kind of intensity.'
Valverde watched the scene, recalling Bartomeu's words from yesterday — 'Even Ghosts can awaken.' He took a deep breath and blew his whistle. 'Continue! Thomas, keep up that intensity!'
Seeing this from the sidelines, Mascherano turned to Iñigo.'See that? This is Barça. Respect is earned through ability. Thomas has woken up. That's good for you. You have a reliable backup now. Or rather, a competitor.'
Iñigo looked at the fiercely battling Belgian on the field, a fighting spirit igniting in his eyes. 'Competition? I like competition.'
Although the training ground was buzzing with fiery intensity, the outside world was already in an uproar.
The Mundo Deportivo headline read: 'Black Catastrophe! Umtiti Seriously Injured, Barça's Defense Left Exposed!' Marca was even more gleeful: 'Only Piqué and the Glass Man? Barça to Face a Slaughter at the Bernabéu.' Commentators on Catalunya Ràdio were shouting themselves hoarse on air: 'Bartomeu must buy someone immediately! Even if it costs a hundred million, buy a center-back! Otherwise, the season is over!'
In the Chairman's office. CEO Òscar Grau was sweating profusely as he reported on the public sentiment. 'Chairman, the fans' panic is severe. The official website is flooded with comments, all asking about our winter transfer plans. Should we leak some news to calm them down?'
'Calm them down?' Bartomeu sat in his large leather chair, twirling a pen in his hand. 'Panic is a good thing, Óscar. Panic will make our opponents underestimate us.'
'How are things with Ajax?'
'Overmars is still holding firm. Both De Jong and De Ligt are non-transferable. And they seem to think we're desperate for a center-back now, planning to raise the price for De Ligt on the spot. Their asking price has gone up to 85 million.'
'Greedy Dutchmen,' Bartomeu sneered. 'They think they have me backed against a cliff.'
He opened his computer. The screen displayed real-time cryptocurrency prices. On December 3rd, the price of bitcoin had already broken through $12,000. Less than two weeks away from the insane peak he remembered. That was a sum of money that would make any club envious.
'Óscar, put out a rumor,' Bartomeu instructed. 'Tell the media we've lost interest in De Ligt. That we think he's too young to handle the pressure. Our primary targets are... Chelsea's David Luiz, or Real Sociedad's Willian José.'
'Huh? But we really do want to buy De Ligt!'
'This is called 'all warfare is based on deception,'' Bartomeu stood up and walked to the giant tactics board. In the defensive line positions, he erased Umtiti's name and wrote Iñigo and Vermaelen.
'We need to make Ajax think that with Iñigo and Vermaelen, we can scrape by. Make them anxious. Then, the moment the winter transfer window opens, I'll go stun them with cash.'
'But, can Vermaelen really do it? And Iñigo...'
'They will,' Bartomeu looked out the window. 'Because Mascherano is passing on his last bit of energy to them. Because Piqué is going through the painful awakening of withdrawal. Because Messi needs trophies.'
'This winter, Barça won't freeze to death. Instead, we'll be like a wolf waking up hungry.'
That evening, at Piqué's home. Shakira looked at her husband with some surprise. Usually at this time, Piqué would be lying on the sofa scrolling through Twitter or calling his Davis Cup partners. But today, Piqué was sitting on the living room carpet, the TV replaying Iñigo Martínez's match footage from yesterday.
He held a tactics board, brows furrowed, occasionally drawing something on it. 'Gerrard? Are you okay?' Shakira walked over with some fruit. 'You look... not quite yourself.'
'I'm studying,' Piqué said without looking up. 'I'm watching how that basque person positions himself. The Chairman is right, I've been playing like shit lately. If I don't work harder, when Umtiti comes back, I'll be the one warming the bench for that Belgian.'
'You mean Thomas?' Shakira smiled. 'Hasn't he always been injured?'
'No, he almost ate Suárez alive on the training field today,' Piqué put down the tactics board, his gaze sharpening. 'The whole team's atmosphere has changed. Everyone seems wound up like a spring. If I don't run faster, I'll be left behind.'
Piqué glanced at his phone on the coffee table — no Twitter, no Instagram, only football. 'There are 19 days until El Clásico,' Piqué muttered to himself. 'Cristiano Ronaldo won the Ballon d'Or, right? Good. I'll let him know who the center-back at Camp Nou is on his award night.'
Outside the window, the Barcelona night sky was sparsely dotted with stars. But beneath the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, in the veins of the players, a new force was gathering. A fuel mixed from a sense of crisis, shame, and desire. Just waiting for the spark of El Clásico.