Alexander’s name on the squad sheet changed the dressing room more than his training had.
Training invited temporary brilliance.
A match place distributed consequence.
One substitute would now sit outside the selected group, and every minute given to the seventeen-year-old would be a minute unavailable to someone who had survived the season.
The first reaction came from a reserve defender.
“Two sessions.”
He did not address Alexander directly.
Hoeneß answered while removing tape from his ankle.
“Score four against us next time.
Perhaps they will need only one.”
The defender left without responding.
Alexander understood both men.
Hoeneß was defending the sporting evidence, not the newcomer’s feelings.
The omitted player had a rational reason to resent the timing even if the decision was correct.
Alexander did not apologise for being selected.
An apology would treat merit as theft and invite others to comfort or despise him.
He also did not celebrate in front of players excluded from the sheet.
He changed, folded the number sixteen training top, and asked the kit man what time the squad should report on Saturday.
“Ten-thirty.
Team meal at eleven.
Do not arrive at dawn and make everyone nervous.”
“Ten-fifteen?”
“Acceptable.”
Breitner leaned across the aisle.
“You understand that tricks on Friday mean nothing tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Fortuna will kick you harder than the reserves.”
“They have to reach me first.”
Groans moved around the room.
Breitner smiled.
“Confidence survives.”
“Was that the test?”
“That was the warning.”
The veteran’s challenge carried more than contact.
Bayern were trying to close a championship.
Players had spent months through winter pitches, injuries, and pressure.
Alexander had arrived for the final stretch with an untouched body and a story designed for newspapers.
If he behaved as though the title race existed to introduce him, every correct pass would still irritate them.
He looked around the room.
“I know I have not earned the season,” he said.
Conversation quieted.
“If I play, I am not claiming the work before May.
I am helping finish it.”
Breitner’s expression sharpened.
“Good answer.”
“True answer.”
“Those are sometimes related.”
Hoeneß tossed a roll of tape into his locker.
“And if you score the title goal?”
“Then I will celebrate the goal.
You can tell reporters who carried the winter.”
The answer struck the correct balance: no false shrinking, no theft of collective history.
Rummenigge entered after treatment and sat beside Alexander.
The rest of the room gradually returned to ordinary noise.
“When you drop deep tomorrow,” Rummenigge said, “do not enter my lane without looking.”
“I will be looking.”
“Everyone says that.”
“When I receive with my back to goal, your marker watches the ball after my second touch.
He does it on both sides, more often when you start right.”
Rummenigge stopped untying his boot.
The observation came from two training sequences.
In the first, Alexander’s turn had drawn the defender.
In the second, he had passed into the blind run.
“Which foot do you use?”
“Whichever opens the lane.
If my first touch goes left, run right across him.
If I set the ball backwards, wait.”
“You are giving instructions after two days.”
“I am telling you what I see.
Ignore it if I am wrong.”
The permission mattered.
Alexander did not demand authority based on hidden experience.
He offered information that a veteran could test.
Rummenigge nodded once.
During a final tactical walk-through, he tested it.
Csernai placed Alexander with the likely second-half attacking group.
He received between midfield and defence.
First touch secured.
The nearby defender focused on his hips.
The second touch moved slightly left.
Rummenigge accelerated to the right.
Alexander passed through the opening.
The forward finished.
On the jog back, Rummenigge tapped him once between the shoulder blades.
The signal travelled through the squad more effectively than a speech.
Their leading scorer had used the boy’s information and found it valuable.
After the walk-through, the players held an informal set-piece discussion.
Breitner and Csernai determined the takers.
Alexander remained silent until the manager asked where he would stand if introduced.
“Edge of the area on an attacking corner unless you need another runner at the near post.”
“You are tall enough to challenge.”
“Hoeneß draws more attention centrally.
I can attack the clearance or arrive after the first contact.”
Breitner pointed towards a zone on the board.
“Stand there.
If the ball comes out, do not shoot because everyone expects the fairytale.”
“What if the shot is correct?”
“Then score.”
The room laughed.
Defensive corners revealed another aspect of status.
Alexander volunteered for the zone near the edge, ready to launch counters, but Csernai assigned him to a specific runner.
“You follow him until the ball is cleared.”
“Understood.”
No special freedom.
Good.
The dressing-room hierarchy became clearest at lunch.
Alexander carried his tray towards an empty place and noticed the seating pattern.
Veterans clustered near one end.
Younger players and substitutes occupied the other.
He chose the younger end rather than treating Rummenigge’s tactical interest as a social invitation.
A full-back named Bernhard sat opposite.
“Your family owns hotels, yes?”
“Interests in some.”
“Then why is club coffee so bad?”
“Lack of family control.”
“Your first useful proposal.”
The joke opened conversation about away travel, boot preferences, and the miserable quality of certain pitches.
Alexander knew historical facts about many of these men but avoided using knowledge they had never shared.
Familiarity based on the future would feel invasive.
He listened.
When asked about school, he admitted his marks had not reflected his supposed intelligence.
When asked about cars, he said his grandfather had threatened to liquidate anything ridiculous bought through the investment fund.
“Investment fund?” Bernhard asked.
Alexander realised he had offered too much.
“Family capital with supervision.
I do not possess a chest of cash beneath the bed.”
“A shame.
We were preparing to request bonuses.”
The subject moved on.
After lunch, the kit man gave Alexander a folded number sixteen shirt for fitting.
The red fabric carried no name on the back.
In 1980, the number mattered more than individual branding.
Alexander held it by the shoulders.
The original boy’s memory supplied the ache of buying replica shirts and imagining this room.
The new man’s dream experience supplied stadiums, goals, and pressure beyond this debut.
Neither diminished the object.
He tried it on.
The fit was slightly loose through the torso, appropriate for the era.
The number covered most of his back.
“Do not take it home,” the kit man said.
“I assumed.”
“Some boys would.”
“Some boys have not been told you know where they live.”
The shirt returned to the locker.
Before leaving, Alexander cleaned his boots beside the younger substitutes.
The task gave the room time to forget he was unusual.
No assistant appeared to collect his equipment.
No family employee waited inside.
Breitner stopped at the door.
“Centre circle.
Five minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because your reply about being reached annoyed me.”
Alexander followed him back towards the pitch.
Half the squad noticed and delayed their departure.
The senior dressing room had not accepted him as an equal.
It had done something more useful: it had begun testing him as a player rather than tolerating him as a guest.
If he survived Breitner’s private lesson, one more category would disappear.
Before following, Alexander paused beside the tactical board.
Bernhard remained nearby and asked the question several others had avoided.
“If you do not play tomorrow, will your family complain?”
“My grandfather has promised not to.”
“And if he forgets?”
“Then I tell Csernai the complaint did not come from me.”
“Easy for the man with another session guaranteed.”
Alexander considered the resentment rather than dismissing it.
“You are right that my surname protected chances before I deserved them.
I cannot undo that history.
I can refuse to demand tomorrow’s minutes.”
Bernhard looked surprised by the admission.
“Most rich boys say they earned everything.”
“Most poor boys do not become rich by pretending capital is imaginary.”
“What does that mean?”
“Advantages exist.
The only honest question is what we build with them.”
Bernhard shook his head.
“You really do have an investment fund.”
The exchange travelled no farther that day, but it established another relationship.
Alexander would not deny privilege merely to make teammates comfortable.
He would let the present standard determine whether the privilege remained relevant.
The kit man called him back before he reached the tunnel and handed him a plain reserve jacket.
“Wear this on the bench.
The stadium wind turns cold even in May.”
“Thank you.”
“And do not remove it dramatically every time Csernai stands.
Substitutes have been known to exhaust themselves preparing for a gesture.”
Alexander stored the practical advice.
Dream scenarios had included substitution pressure, but each club possessed rituals no simulation guaranteed.
He asked where warm-up runs should finish, which assistant gave the signal, and whether substitutes carried their own drinks.
The kit man answered with increasing approval.
Readiness lived in details too small for newspapers: the correct studs prepared for changing weather, dry clothing after warm-up, food consumed early enough, and knowing whether a manager’s glance was instruction or thought.
A prodigy who ignored those details forced staff to manage him like a child.
Alexander intended to leave their attention free for football.
Breitner placed a ball on the centre spot and pointed towards the nearest goal.
The training pitch was almost empty.
Staff collected poles along one touchline.
Several players pretended to finish stretching while watching.
Rummenigge stood near the tunnel with his bag over one shoulder.
“First to three,” Breitner said.
Alexander looked at the open field.
“Rules?”
“Start shoulder to shoulder.
No goalkeeper. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Score inside the penalty-area goal.
If the ball goes out, restart here.”
“Fouls?”
“Do not cry.”
“Clear.”
It was not a sophisticated football exercise.
It was a contest of balance, strength, aggression, and pride.
Breitner wanted to know whether the teenager’s calm survived when one senior player reduced the game to possession under contact.
They stood on either side of the ball.
Becker called the start from the touchline.
Breitner moved first, placing his body between Alexander and possession.
The older man was compact, experienced, and stronger than his size suggested.
He did not chase the ball directly.
He occupied the path Alexander needed and rolled away from pressure.
Alexander attempted to reach around.
Breitner shifted his hip, protected the ball, and accelerated enough to create separation.
He passed it into the empty goal.
One-nil.
No celebration.
They returned.
“You let me choose the contact,” Breitner said.
“I know.”
“Knowing afterwards is popular.”
Alexander smiled.
The second duel began.
This time, he did not oppose the first shoulder.
He invited it, placed his foot beyond the ball, and pivoted with Breitner’s force.
Cat Reflexes corrected the balance as their legs crossed.
Breitner reached back.
Alexander nudged the ball into space and scored.
One-one.
Hoeneß whistled from the side.
The third start became a wrestling match in football boots.
Breitner hooked one leg around the ball and lowered his centre.
Alexander could have kicked through the exposed side, risking a bruise or worse before matchday.
He waited.
The veteran mistook patience for surrender and shifted his weight to turn.
Alexander stole the ball at the transfer point.
Two-one.
“Too clever,” Breitner said.
“It worked.”
“That is why it is annoying.”
On the fourth duel, Breitner changed the problem.
He did not initiate heavy contact.
He stabbed the ball forward between Alexander’s first steps and used a small arm movement to prevent recovery.
Alexander closed the gap, but the veteran toe-poked it into the goal before the tackle arrived.
Two-two.
The deciding contest drew the remaining players back from the tunnel.
Even Csernai appeared at the office window.
Alexander and Breitner stood shoulder to shoulder.
Becker raised one hand.
“Play.”
They collided.
Steel Body distributed the impact through Alexander’s reinforced shoulder, spine, and hips.
Breitner expected the seventeen-year-old to yield half a metre.
Alexander yielded only enough to keep mobility.
The ball moved forward.
Both chased.
Breitner reached across and appeared to win position.
Alexander nudged the ball slightly too far, presenting what looked like a mistake.
The veteran committed the next step.
Alexander dragged the ball behind both heels and turned around the opposite side.
Breitner recovered quickly.
His fingertips caught Alexander’s shirt but released before becoming an obvious foul.
Alexander passed into the empty goal.
Three-two.
Noise came from the watching players—laughter, complaint, and one demand for a rematch.
Breitner stood with his hands on his hips.
“You are stronger than you look.”
“I use what I have.”
“That answer annoys me more than the trick.”
“You asked.”
The veteran walked close enough that some watchers expected a final shove.
He extended his hand.
Alexander took it.
“If you enter tomorrow,” Breitner said, “keep the ball moving.
Fortuna will try to make the match ugly.
They will speak to you, kick you when the referee looks elsewhere, and see whether the story matters more than the score.”
“Then we make ugliness exhausting.”
“How?”
“One touch when they arrive.
Run them into empty pressure.
If they stop coming, turn.”
Breitner nodded.
“Good.
And if someone hits you late?”
“Get up before he enjoys it.”
“If you are hurt?”
“Tell the doctor.”
“Less heroic than I expected.”
“Being available next week is useful.”
That answer earned more approval than bravado would have.
Breitner released his hand and addressed the watchers.
“Stop staring.
He won one childish game.”
“You invented it,” Hoeneß said.
“That is how I know.”
The squad began leaving again.
Rummenigge remained.
“You gave the third touch too far on purpose,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous.
Breitner reaches more than most.”
“I needed him to commit weight.”
“And if he did not?”
“I continue towards goal rather than turn.”
Rummenigge nodded.
Alexander had not gambled on one fixed trick.
He had created a fork and selected after the defender answered.
Breitner overheard.
“Do not explain me as though I am a laboratory rat.”
“You won twice,” Alexander said.
“The laboratory remains inconclusive.”
Another laugh.
When everyone finally left, Alexander stayed for the planned cool-down.
The club doctor inspected his shoulder after learning about the contest.
“Ordinary contact,” the physician said.
“That is what I reported.”
“Herr Breitner’s ordinary contact has injured people.”
“No pain.”
The doctor moved the joint through its range and found nothing concerning.
Perfect Recovery had already begun clearing the minor muscular impact.
Steel Body had prevented damage without removing the sensation.
Alexander remembered exactly how Breitner’s weight had travelled and how the first duel had been lost.
The system displayed no reward.
No achievement notice appeared for defeating a German international in a private game.
Prestige required public competitive significance.
Alexander agreed with the boundary.
Private victories mattered because they changed relationships, not because the system paid for them.
On the drive home, Otto asked what had delayed him.
“Breitner wanted first to three.”
“In what?”
“Possession and contact.”
“You played a physical duel the day before a possible debut?”
“The doctor checked afterwards.”
“Who won?”
“I did.”
Otto’s anger paused.
“Three-two?”
Alexander looked over.
“How did you know?”
“Breitner would not stop at three-nil.”
The older man had watched enough of the player’s career to understand his pride.
“What did he say?”
“Keep the ball moving if the match becomes ugly.”
“That is useful.”
“I told him we would make ugliness exhausting.”
Otto leaned back.
“And now?”
“Now I eat, sleep, and arrive at ten-fifteen.”
“No private training?”
“No.”
“No studying until midnight?”
“Film once.
Then sleep.”
Otto seemed almost disappointed that the dramatic path to a debut involved ordinary preparation.
Alexander reviewed Fortuna’s defensive habits with the notes Csernai allowed him to carry.
He paid particular attention to the full-backs’ decisions after long switches and how quickly the midfield covered behind them.
He did not need to know whether he would enter.
Substitute preparation was readiness without entitlement.
Thirty-one thousand people would conduct the next contact test.
Unlike Breitner’s game, the score would enter history and no one would explain the rules twice.
Alexander turned off the film and went to bed.
Sleep arrived normally.
For the first time since buying Legendary Dream Training, eight real hours contained only eight hours.
Alexander dreamed in fragments about the centre circle, the hospital monitor, and a stadium with no seats.
He woke before the alarm without the subjective weight of another year.
The ordinary rest reassured him.
Dream Training had not destroyed his ability to sleep as a human being.
The system session was an activated tool, not a permanent prison of multiplied consciousness.
He completed a short mobility sequence approved by the doctor, ate, and checked the shoulder Breitner had struck.
No tenderness remained.
The panel described full readiness, but Alexander relied on movement and medical observation as well.
At breakfast, Helena noticed him rotating the joint.
“Pain?”
“Checking for it.”
“And?”
“None.”
“What did Breitner do?”
Otto suddenly found his coffee interesting.
Alexander explained the contest.
Helena listened without interruption, then looked at Otto.
“You knew?”
“Afterwards.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“I believed Alexander preferred to remain alive through breakfast.”
Helena turned back to her son.
“No private contact tests without medical staff.”
“The doctor checked immediately.”
“Before.”
“Agreed.”
Her rule was sensible and contained no attempt to stop Saturday’s legitimate match.
Alexander accepted it.
Family protection became less suffocating when he stopped treating every boundary as disbelief.
Vogel telephoned during the meal with confirmation that the first ten million marks had reached the controlled account but would remain frozen until the opening committee meeting.
Alexander thanked him and returned his attention to football.
Two futures waited that morning: capital capable of compounding for decades and a bench place capable of changing his public life in minutes.
Neither justified rushing breakfast.
Before leaving, Alexander placed Otto’s faded ribbon in the inner pocket of his kit bag.
Breitner’s test had established that strength would not remove him easily.
The ribbon reminded him that belonging involved more than resisting people.
He checked the studs packed for dry and damp conditions, closed the bag, and did not reopen it.
Preparation ended where compulsive checking began.
The next uncertainty had to remain uncertain until the manager raised a hand.
Karl-Heinz Rummenigge had seen gifted teenagers before.
Most arrived at senior training determined to demonstrate every admired skill in one afternoon.
They dribbled when a pass was enough, shot when a veteran stood free, and interpreted attention as acceptance.
If an international offered advice, they agreed too quickly and ignored it as soon as the next ball arrived.
Alexander Falkenberg behaved differently.
He watched.
Before receiving, his eyes moved across the pitch.
Before a drill began, he studied the positions of the mannequins, the wind, and the players likely to oppose him.
When someone corrected him, he did not perform gratitude.
He tested the correction.
Rummenigge found that more unsettling than the tricks.
After Friday training, he remained with Csernai to review Fortuna Düsseldorf.
The room contained a film projector, paper notes, and the stale smell of cigarettes.
Becker threaded footage while Csernai marked tendencies on the board.
The manager paused before the first reel.
“Would you play Falkenberg?”
“From the start?
No.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody knows what thirty thousand people will do to him.”
“He claims not to fear mistakes.”
“Training says many things.
A crowd changes the weight of the next touch.”
Rummenigge knew that weight.
His own rise had brought expectation, criticism, and defenders who treated reputation as a target.
Talent survived only when the player could separate noise from information.
“From the bench?” Csernai asked.
Rummenigge looked at the paused image of Fortuna’s back line.
“If we need a goal, yes.”
“If we are leading?”
“Also yes.”
Csernai turned.
“You want to see him.”
“Everyone does.”
“Curiosity is not tactics.”
“He makes runs easier.”
The manager waited for precision.
Rummenigge advanced the film.
Fortuna’s right-back followed a wide midfielder too far.
The nearest central player shifted late, exposing a channel for only a second.
“He told me my marker watches the ball after his second touch,” Rummenigge said.
“He noticed in one session.”
“He saw the shape.”
“No.
Shapes repeat.
He saw the man’s habit and passed at the exact step when I could use it.”
Csernai watched the sequence again.
Great players did not merely perform difficult acts.
They removed difficulty from the people around them.
Breitner’s passes could make a run feel inevitable.
The best creators delivered not where the runner stood or even where he intended to go, but where the defender’s next movement would make the space valuable.
Alexander had done that immediately.
Rummenigge was on course to finish as the Bundesliga’s leading scorer.
He did not fear a seventeen-year-old taking his place.
Their roles differed, and competition at Bayern existed regardless.
He feared wasting a player who could help him become more dangerous.
“Give him twenty minutes,” he said.
“If the match permits.”
“Matches permit what players create.”
Csernai restarted the film.
They analysed Fortuna’s compact middle, willingness to foul transitions, and vulnerability after the full-back stepped.
Rummenigge noticed that Csernai wrote Alexander’s number beside two possible second-half adjustments.
One placed him as a right-sided forward with freedom to move inside.
The other placed him behind Hoeneß, close enough to combine with both main attackers.
“Do not tell him,” the manager said.
“I was not planning to.”
“He expects questions too quickly already.”
The film session ended at six.
Rummenigge returned to the dressing room for a forgotten jacket and found Alexander’s number sixteen shirt hanging separately in the match locker.
No name.
No special fabric.
The sight reminded him how young the player was.
Alexander spoke like someone who had processed years of pressure, but his official senior career consisted of zero minutes.
Tomorrow’s shirt could become a beginning or remain clean.
Breitner entered behind him.
“Admiring the replacement?” he asked.
Rummenigge closed the locker.
“He does not replace me.”
“Everyone replaces everyone eventually.”
“Not tomorrow.”
Breitner leaned against the bench.
“He beat me.”
“I saw.”
“You enjoyed it too much.”
“You invented the contest.”
The two veterans had different ways of evaluating newcomers.
Breitner applied friction.
Rummenigge observed whether the player saw the same game.
“Will the crowd affect him?” Rummenigge asked.
Breitner considered.
“Yes.”
“You sound certain.”
“A crowd affects everyone.
The question is whether it makes him smaller or sharper.”
“And?”
“He nearly died eleven days ago.
Thirty thousand strangers may seem less important than usual.”
That was the first explanation Rummenigge had heard that made psychological sense.
The football transformation remained impossible.
The calm did not.
On matchday morning, Rummenigge arrived before the required time and found Alexander already at the team hotel—not at dawn, not theatrically first, but exactly fifteen minutes early.
The teenager ate eggs, bread, and fruit under the conditioning coach’s eye.
No sugary indulgence.
No nervous refusal.
“Sleep?” Rummenigge asked.
“Eight hours.”
The answer contained a faint private amusement.
“You may not play.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look ready?”
“Because readiness is the part I control.”
Rummenigge sat opposite him.
“If you enter, do not spend five minutes proving you belong.”
“What should I prove?”
“Nothing.
Solve the match.”
Alexander nodded.
“That was the plan.”
The veteran believed him.
At the stadium, warm-ups confirmed the pitch condition and breeze.
Rummenigge noticed Alexander adjust his long passes after two attempts, changing contact for the wind crossing the open bowl.
Supporters began recognising the number.
Some applauded.
One shouted that Otto had purchased a substitute place.
Alexander did not look towards the voice.
“Ignore them,” Rummenigge said.
“I intend to make them louder.”
“That also works.”
The starters entered the tunnel.
Alexander returned towards the bench with the substitutes.
Rummenigge looked back once.
The teenager was not staring at the crowd or checking whether his family could see him.
He was watching Fortuna’s defenders complete their final passing pattern.
The eyes moved from full-back to midfielder to centre-back.
Studying the habit.
Rummenigge faced forward as the teams walked onto the field.
He expected to score.
For the first time in days, he also expected that a player with no senior minutes might show him a route he had not seen.
During the opening minutes, the expectation became inconvenient.
Fortuna stayed compact and disrupted rhythm with contact.
Rummenigge received wide, drove inward, and found a second defender waiting.
Hoeneß occupied the central pair, but service arrived slowly.
Breitner dropped deeper to begin attacks, leaving less presence near the box.
Bayern scored from a set piece, yet the match did not open.
Rummenigge glanced towards the bench once after a full-back followed him into midfield.
Alexander was already speaking to Becker, pointing towards the space behind the defender.
The sight irritated and encouraged him.
A starter did not need a substitute diagnosing the match.
A team chasing the title needed any correct information available.
On the next attack, Rummenigge checked short, dragged the full-back, and released the overlapping runner.
The cross was blocked.
Fortuna’s recovery midfielder filled the channel late—exactly as Alexander had apparently indicated.
At half-time, Csernai asked the room where space remained.
Breitner identified the switch after central pressure.
Rummenigge mentioned the aggressive full-back.
Then the manager looked at Alexander.
“Behind their right-back first,” the boy said.
“When they cover it, the gap opens between their left centre-back and midfielder.”
“Why will they cover?”
“Because whoever enters will make them.”
The confidence drew a snort from one defender.
Rummenigge did not laugh.
He had felt the same shifting mechanism during the first half.
Csernai resumed instructions without promising a substitution.
As the starters returned, Rummenigge passed Alexander near the tunnel.
“If you come in, make the first action simple.”
“Unless the difficult one is clearer.”
“Then make it look simple.”
That was the standard.
Elite football did not reward complexity displayed for its own sake.
It rewarded an answer executed quickly enough that observers noticed the space only after it had been used.
The second half began with Alexander still seated.
Rummenigge felt the match tightening and wondered how long curiosity could remain tactical patience.
Fortuna equalised during that period in his imagination twice before Bayern cleared the danger in reality.
Their transitions grew bolder.
Each time Bayern lost the ball near the box, the visitors attacked the space behind the advancing full-back and forced recovery runs that drained control from the match.
Rummenigge tried Alexander’s earlier observation without Alexander.
He began on the right, watched his marker’s eyes, and accelerated after Breitner’s second touch.
The pass nearly arrived, but the midfielder faced pressure and released backwards.
The lane existed.
Timing alone was not enough.
The passer needed the confidence and body angle to use it.
In the fifty-eighth minute, Rummenigge looked towards Csernai after another attack ended in a crowded centre.
The manager gave no sign.
On the bench, Alexander had removed the reserve jacket only because Becker had sent three substitutes to warm up.
No dramatic gesture.
No stare towards the directors’ area.
He ran along the touchline, changing pace through the approved sequence, while keeping his eyes on the match.
When Fortuna’s right-back followed another wide movement, Alexander pointed once towards the channel even during the warm-up.
Rummenigge saw it.
At that moment, he stopped thinking of the boy as a curiosity waiting to be tested.
He became an unused tactical option.
The distinction mattered.
Curiosity could wait for a friendly.
An option in a title match had to be judged against the problems already on the field.
Rummenigge pressed the next possession harder, won a throw, and heard the crowd rise as Csernai called number sixteen back from the sideline.
**Author’s Note** Thank you for reading **The Shadow Kaiser**.
The story will continue updating here every two days.