The players arrived at 5:47 a.m.
Already angry.
That was good.
Angry players still had energy. Players who stopped caring were far more dangerous.
Cold fog hung low above the Miraflores training ground as Malik stood near the touchline with a stopwatch in one hand and tactical notes in the other.
No music. No dramatic entrance.
Just silence.
The floodlights cast pale reflections across wet grass while boots crunched against the damp ground one after another.
Some players looked exhausted already.
Others looked irritated.
And a few looked openly disrespectful.
Especially the veteran center-back.
Raúl Navarro.
Thirty-four years old. Former top-flight defender. Club captain.
The kind of player who'd seen managers come and go like weather.
He walked onto the pitch chewing gum slowly before glancing at Malik.
"You always wake people before sunrise," he muttered in Spanish, "or are we special?"
Several players snorted quietly.
Malik ignored the joke.
Instead, he looked at his watch.
"You're three minutes late."
Raúl blinked once.
Then laughed lightly.
"This isn't military camp, Mister."
Malik met his eyes calmly.
"No," he replied.
"It's worse."
That shut down a few smiles immediately.
Nearby, Elena Ruiz watched from outside the pitch fencing with folded arms.
Observing.
Evaluating.
Even now, some board members still expected disaster.
Honestly? So did most of the club.
Malik blew the whistle sharply.
"Circle up."
The players gathered slowly.
Some dragging their feet deliberately.
Professional footballers tested managers instinctively. Especially young ones.
If weakness existed, dressing rooms smelled it immediately.
Malik waited until everyone settled.
Then pointed toward the far side of the training pitch.
"Five laps."
Groans instantly erupted.
"We haven't even stretched yet."
"What is this?"
"Five?"
Malik didn't react.
"Timed."
That changed things.
Professional pride kicked in immediately.
Raúl narrowed his eyes slightly.
Malik continued.
"Bottom three stay behind after training."
Now the atmosphere sharpened.
Competition.
Footballers understood competition.
Even lazy ones hated embarrassment.
"Go."
---
The first thing Malik noticed was conditioning.
Or rather… the lack of it.
By the third lap, several players were already slowing badly.
Transitions in matches suddenly made sense.
Late goals conceded. Poor pressing recovery. Defensive collapses after the seventieth minute.
Fitness wasn't just physical.
Fitness was tactical freedom.
Without legs, systems died.
He scribbled notes quickly.
Midfielder slow recovery. Left-back poor acceleration. Striker heavy movement.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Raúl finished first.
Of course he did.
Veterans survived through professionalism even when talent faded.
The bottom three arrived nearly forty seconds later.
One player immediately bent over vomiting near the sideline.
Another cursed loudly.
Malik simply blew the whistle again.
"Water. Two minutes."
The players stared at him.
Confused.
"That's it?" one shouted.
"Yes."
"We just ran five laps!"
"And?"
Muttering spread instantly.
Malik could almost hear the thoughts forming already:
He's insane. He's trying too hard. This won't last.
Good.
Let them think that.
---
The tactical session began next.
And things got worse.
Much worse.
"Again," Malik said sharply.
The defensive line reset.
Wrong spacing.
Again.
Midfield failed to rotate properly during buildup.
Again.
The striker pressed too early.
Again.
For nearly forty minutes, training barely moved beyond the same sequence.
Positioning. Press trigger. Recovery shape. Compactness.
Over. And over. And over again.
Frustration built rapidly.
Finally, one midfielder exploded.
"This isn't realistic!"
Malik stopped the drill immediately.
Silence spread across the pitch.
The midfielder pointed angrily.
"In matches nobody has this much time to think!"
"Exactly," Malik replied instantly.
The player frowned.
Malik walked toward the tactical markers.
"That's why positioning must become instinct."
He rearranged the cones quickly.
"When pressure comes, your brain disappears first."
Several players looked up slightly at that.
Interesting.
He continued calmly.
"If positioning is automatic, panic disappears."
Then he pointed directly at the midfielder.
"You're reacting to football."
Another point toward the structure.
"I want you controlling it."
Silence.
Not agreement.
But attention.
Different thing entirely.
---
Training ended nearly two hours later.
The players looked exhausted.
Some annoyed. Some thoughtful. Some unconvinced.
Raúl approached while others headed toward the dressing room.
"You know they hate this already."
Malik sipped water calmly.
"Hate what?"
"The intensity. The repetitions. Six a.m. training."
He shrugged slightly.
"They also hate losing."
Raúl studied him carefully.
"You talk confidently for someone who's never coached this level."
There it was again.
Not disrespect this time.
Reality.
Malik nodded slowly.
"You know what everyone keeps saying?"
Raúl folded his arms.
"That you're too young?"
"No." Malik looked toward the empty pitch.
"That professional football is different."
"It is."
"I know."
That answer surprised the veteran slightly.
Then Malik finally looked back at him.
"But pressure still creates patterns."
Raúl frowned.
"Patterns?"
"Insecurity. Fear. Fatigue. Ego. Confidence. Every football match eventually becomes psychological."
A slight breeze moved across the pitch.
Malik's voice remained calm.
"And psychology creates tactical mistakes."
Raúl stared at him for several seconds.
Trying to understand him.
Eventually, the captain smirked faintly.
"You really believe all this genius stuff people say?"
Malik smiled for the first time that morning.
"No."
Then:
"But I believe I see football differently."
That answer lingered longer than expected.
Raúl walked away afterward without another word.
But he no longer looked amused.
---
Upstairs, inside the small analyst room overlooking the training ground, Elena stood beside Malik reviewing data.
"You pushed them hard."
"They're physically behind the league."
"You figured that out in one session?"
"I figured it out in twenty minutes."
She looked at him sideways.
Still trying to decide whether he was gifted… or dangerously obsessed.
"Some of them already dislike you," she warned.
Malik kept studying the sprint charts.
"They don't need to like me yet."
"Dangerous mindset."
"No," he replied quietly.
"Necessary one."
Outside the window, players slowly disappeared into the tunnel beneath the stadium.
But one remained behind.
A young winger.
Practicing alone.
Repeating the same dribble movement again. And again. And again.
Malik noticed immediately.
Elena noticed him noticing.
"That's Adrian Vega," she said.
"Academy graduate. Talented."
A pause.
"Undisciplined."
Malik watched the boy carefully.
Raw acceleration. Explosive balance. Terrible final product.
But fearless.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
And for the first time since arriving at Miraflores…
Malik started seeing possibilities.