Monaco's sleek black sedan rolled to a stop in the underbelly of Stade Louis II, the engine purring into silence. The parking bay was too clean. Not a single oil stain. Every yellow line crisp. As if reality itself was too perfect to trust.
Demien sat motionless behind the wheel.
Fingers on leather. Eyes fixed ahead. The steering wheel felt foreign in his grip—balanced differently, smoother, like it belonged to a man with expensive habits. His breathing stayed even, but every inhale felt tight, measured. Like the walls were closing in and he hadn't decided whether to run or pretend they weren't.
He glanced at the rearview mirror. The same face stared back. Not Demien Walter. Not the man who played six-man drills at QPR or limped through muddy pitches in Ipswich. This face wore tension like armor.
Sunglasses. A navy blazer he hadn't chosen. A jawline he'd never owned.
He stepped out slowly, shutting the door with more force than intended. The echo carried down the concrete corridor like a gunshot.
Clicking footsteps bounced off the walls as he crossed toward the elevator, shoes polished to a shine he would've laughed at in his real life. Every step echoed. Too crisp. Too deliberate. Like he was walking into someone else's press conference without the speech.
"Morning, Laurent."
The voice came before the man came into focus—lean, angular frame leaning beside the elevator shaft. Slim-fitted black tracksuit, clipboard in hand, arms crossed like a school principal who knew everything before it was said.
Michel.
Demien had never met the man before today, but the name dropped into place from Yves' memories like a file opening. Assistant manager. Tactical hardliner. Loyal—but only to results.
Demien nodded once. "Morning." The voice came out clipped. Calm.Too calm.
Michel's eyes flicked to his. Just long enough. A single blink. Then turned toward the elevator, pressing the call button without another word.
Good.
No questions meant no lies—yet.
The ride up was silent. Just the low hum of the elevator and the thrum of blood in Demien's ears. Michel didn't shift. He stood with that same coiled stillness, watching the floor numbers tick upward. At four, he finally spoke again.
"New fitness schedule's on your desk. Evra's still running short bursts only—rotation limit's flagged again. Giuly asked for five minutes after the session."
Demien's chest tightened.
Evra. Giuly.
He knew them now. Not just names. The memories had filled in their shapes. But knowing them was one thing—speaking to them like Yves would was another.
He nodded. Short. Sharp. Silent.
Michel didn't push. Just stepped off the lift the moment the doors opened.
The corridor opened wide into the staff floor—walls lined with framed photos of past Monaco glories. Arsène Wenger in the '80s. Barthez's leap in a red-and-white kit. Thierry Henry before the Arsenal years. Demien's eyes flicked across them like a museum exhibit. None of it felt like his.
But all of it was his responsibility now.
A turn, a sharp left. The doors to the backroom training suite pushed open. It smelled like disinfectant and turf rubber. Whiteboards covered the far wall—formations mid-sketched in dry-erase chaos. One half-wiped 4-3-3. Another scrawled arrow curving around Evra's name.
Staff moved with quiet precision. Someone was setting cones by position markers on the table. A strength coach was loading tablets into holsters. No one said much. Just glances. Quiet acknowledgments.
One nodded. Another offered a low "Coach."
Demien didn't answer at first.
His eyes scanned everything—movement, tension, patterns. He wasn't Yves, but his mind was coaching. Already cataloging shape. Who stood where. Who did what too quickly. Whose eyes kept darting toward him.
They're watching. Every twitch. Every breath.
Michel stepped to his side, voice casual, but too measured not to carry subtext. "You want to brief them before warm-up?"
A simple question.
But it froze Demien in place.
The silence that followed was maybe three seconds.
It felt like thirty.
He could feel Michel's gaze flick sideways. The weight of the question wasn't in the words—it was in the timing. Yves would have had an answer already. Would have scheduled, ordered, directed.
Demien's chest rose once, calm on the surface. Beneath it, a storm brewed.
He forced his tone low. Controlled.
"Let's wait till after conditioning."
Michel didn't nod. Didn't frown. Just stared a second longer than he should have, as if writing something down in his head. Then turned and walked through the double doors onto the training pitch.
Demien didn't move right away.
He exhaled—slow and silent. Just enough to keep the room from spinning.
Then followed.