The October fog had settled thick over the Weser River.
It hung low over the rooftops of Bremen as the early morning chill seeped through the glass of the kitchen window.
The city was still slowly waking up.
Outside, streetlights flickered off one by one.
Their warm yellow glow disappeared beneath the pale grey morning sky.
The previous night’s rain had left the streets covered in a thin layer of moisture.
Wet fallen leaves were scattered across the damp asphalt and sidewalks.
Inside the apartment, the quiet felt almost complete.
He stood by the kitchen counter in a grey oversized hoodie and sweatpants, waiting for the kettle to whistle.
The warmth coming from the stove was the only thing pushing back against the cold air that slipped in through the slightly open window.
For a few moments, before training, tactics, and tomorrow’s match entered his thoughts, there was only the quiet routine of an ordinary morning.
He picked up his phone and checked the weather application.
Five degrees.
Ninety percent humidity.
Drizzle expected by kickoff tomorrow.
Cold.
Wet.
Uncomfortable.
The kind of weather that made German cup football different.
The kind where one poor touch, one slow reaction, or one moment of hesitation could decide everything.
He looked outside at the grey streets and gave a small smile.
Perfect German cup weather.
He tapped his phone screen and opened his morning playlist, placing it beside the stove.
A soft Indian indie track began playing through the small speaker.
Its gentle melody filled the quiet kitchen.
A few songs later, a familiar Bengali song from his childhood followed — one he remembered hearing on weekend mornings back home.
It was not something he did deliberately.
It was not some carefully planned connection to his past.
It was simply what he listened to.
Over the years, those songs had become part of his everyday routine.
During long bus rides to academy training, late-night study sessions, or quiet mornings before school, music had always existed somewhere in the background.
Now, living thousands of kilometres away in Bremen, it remained the same.
A small familiar thing in a completely different life.
He cracked three eggs into a pan, moving around the kitchen almost automatically while the music played softly.
His shoulders relaxed slightly as the familiar rhythm replaced the nervous energy that had been sitting quietly in his chest since waking up.
Tomorrow was a cup match.
A knockout game.
A different kind of pressure.
But right now, he was simply making breakfast.
The door buzzer rang twice.
The sharp sound cut through the peaceful morning.
He glanced toward the hallway before pressing the intercom button.
“You’re early,” he said when the speaker connected.
“You’re welcome,” Jonas replied immediately.
“Some people appreciate friends who bring food.” He smiled and pressed the button to unlock the entrance.
A minute later, the front door opened and Jonas stepped inside, immediately shaking rainwater from his jacket.
He was carrying a paper bag from the bakery down the street.
The smell of warm butter and cinnamon spread through the apartment.
“You live on the fourth floor,” Jonas complained, removing his wet jacket, “and somehow your radiator still feels like a mild summer breeze in Antarctica.” He looked over from the kitchen.
“My apartment is fine.” “Your apartment is surviving.
There is a difference.” Jonas placed the bakery bag on the wooden table before noticing the music playing from the phone.
He paused.
“Ah.” He looked at him.
“What?” “The morning soundtrack.” Jonas pointed toward the phone.
“Let me guess.
Bollywood?” He shook his head.
“Indian indie today.” Jonas nodded seriously.
“Of course.
Very different category.” “You have no idea what the difference is.” “No.” Jonas smiled.
“But I know enough to pretend.” He laughed while sliding the eggs onto a plate.
“At least you’re honest.” Jonas pulled out a chair and sat down, taking a sip from the mug placed in front of him.
“I still don’t understand how you function before eight in the morning.” “I make breakfast.” “Exactly.
That is suspicious.” He looked at him.
“You walked here in the rain at seven in the morning.” “Because I am a generous person.” “You wanted free food.” “Again,” Jonas said, picking up a cinnamon pastry, “that is just another way of saying generous.” He shook his head.
“You’re impossible.” “And yet you invited me.” “I didn’t.” Jonas looked offended.
“You opened the door.” “That was a mistake.” The conversation continued naturally as they ate.
For a few minutes, there was no discussion about Hoffenheim.
No tactics.
No expectations.
Just two friends sitting in a kitchen, arguing over breakfast.
Eventually, Jonas leaned back in his chair.
“So, Hannah and Sophie are watching the game at the pub near the cathedral tomorrow.” He looked up.
“Really?” “Yeah.
But I told them we’re sitting in the North Stand.” “Why?” “Because if you’re playing, I want a proper view.” Jonas paused.
“And if you’re on the bench, I need someone to complain with while Kruse argues with the referee for ninety minutes.” He smiled.
“I’m starting.” Jonas stopped halfway through taking a bite.
“Seriously?” He nodded.
“Kohfeldt told me the role.” “Number ten?” “Not exactly.” Jonas waited.
“Shadow striker.” Jonas repeated the words slowly.
“That sounds very dramatic.” “It’s not.” “It sounds like something from a superhero movie.” He laughed.
“It’s just positioning.” “So basically you disappear and appear somewhere else?” “Something like that.” Jonas nodded.
“Very convenient.
Maybe you can use that ability to disappear when FIFA gives you another terrible rating.” He immediately pointed at him.
“You’re still talking about that?” “My team is still recovering from your decision-making.” “You lost because you picked the wrong formation.” “I lost because you missed three easy chances.” “Different problem.” Jonas laughed.
“Sure.
Whatever helps you sleep.” By nine-thirty, the atmosphere had changed completely.
The relaxed warmth of the apartment, the jokes over breakfast, and Jonas’ constant teasing belonged to a different world.
Inside the Werder Bremen training complex, everything became sharper.
The air carried the smell of wet grass, cold mud, and deep-heat cream from the medical room.
Players moved with purpose, their conversations quieter than usual.
There was no nervousness.
Only focus.
The squad gathered on Pitch 2 for the final tactical rehearsal before facing Hoffenheim.
The morning drizzle had returned, leaving a thin layer of moisture across the surface.
Every pass moved slightly faster.
Every change of direction required more control.
Exactly the kind of conditions German cup football was known for.
Florian Kohfeldt stood near the centre circle, hands buried deep inside his coat pockets, watching the starting group move through attacking patterns against a defensive unit designed to replicate Hoffenheim’s aggressive 3-5-2 structure.
“Again!” Kohfeldt shouted.
“Faster transition.
Don’t admire the pass.” The players reset immediately.
During a small-sided possession drill, Bargfrede received the ball under pressure before turning his body.
“Agastya!” The pass came quickly.
He moved toward it.
He already imagined his next action.
The turn.
The acceleration.
The forward pass.
But he forgot one thing.
The defender behind him.
He took the touch.
Clack.
Veljković stepped across instantly.
The Serbian defender used his body perfectly, shielding the ball and winning possession.
The mistake lasted less than a second.
But it was enough.
Frustration rose.
A small shake of the head.
A disappointed breath.
The instinct to look away.
Then he remembered.
If you lose it, you chase it.
He immediately reacted.
No complaint.
No gesture.
He turned and pressed.
Instead of rushing blindly, he adjusted his angle, blocking the passing lane toward the right side.
Veljković looked for an option.
There wasn’t one.
The pressure forced him into an uncomfortable pass that went out.
“Good recovery!” Kohfeldt shouted.
“That’s the reaction!” Veljković looked toward him.
A small nod.
Nothing more.
But he understood.
After training, Kohfeldt approached him.
“You felt Miloš step in there?” He nodded.
“I didn’t scan.” “Exactly.” Kohfeldt sat beside him.
“Your talent solves many problems.
But senior football is not only about solving problems after they appear.” He pointed toward the pitch.
“It’s about preventing them before they happen.” He listened.
“Tomorrow, Hoffenheim will try to frustrate you.
They know what happens if you face forward.” “They will close the space.” “Yes.” Kohfeldt nodded.
“But remember.
Space is not something you wait for.” He looked at him.
“Space is something you create.” He repeated quietly.
“Create space.” “Exactly.”