The whiteboard behind him still had the Feyenoord second-half freeze-frame pinned in magnets.
Demien stood at the window. Left hand braced on the sill. Right hand clutched a black pen like it might betray him if he eased his grip. The tip hadn't clicked once in over two minutes.
Below, the training ground shimmered in low morning mist. A row of hurdles sat untouched near the center circle. Cones lay scattered at the far end like a drill frozen mid-motion.
A knock. Two taps.
Michel entered before Demien spoke.
"You want me with the keepers today or rotations?"
Demien didn't turn.
"Neither. I need you upstairs."
Michel stopped mid-step. "Upstairs?"
"Tell the general manager I want a defensive coach," Demien said, still facing the glass. "Aggressive. Tough. Someone the backline respects before he speaks."
Michel shifted, uncertain. "You got someone in mind?"
"No." Demien clicked the pen. Once. "But I'll know when I see him. No soft hands. I don't babysit defenders."
Michel gave a half-nod. Then backed out. Quietly.
As the door clicked shut, Demien was already reaching for the office phone. The wire curled like a noose against the side of the desk.
One ring.
Two.
Then—"Stone."
"Buy Andrés D'Alessandro," Demien said.
No hello. No lead-in.
"River Plate. Left-footed ten. Vision like a surgeon. Talk to him. Talk to his people. Beat Wolfsburg to the table or don't bother calling me back."
There was a pause. Air shifted.
Stone's voice came low. Careful. "Laurent… we've had this talk. South American spots are tight. That deal won't be cheap. And we're already stretched."
"I want invention behind the front three," Demien cut in. "That's him. Not another runner. Not a hype job. A player who sees pockets two seconds early."
Another silence.
Demien didn't fill it.
Stone exhaled—clearly audible over the line. "You know I've got two slots left. And you want to burn one on a twenty-two-year-old who hasn't played outside Argentina?"
"No," Demien said. "I want to burn one on the only midfielder in South America who breaks structure without needing to be told how."
Stone sounded tired. "That's one player."
"I'm not done," Demien said. "Call Real Sociedad. Ask for Xabi Alonso. Loan. Make it work."
"Two midfielders?" Stone snapped now. "We're heading into Ligue 1, not the Champions League."
"Yeah," Demien said. Calm. Flat. "But if we do this half-assed, we'll be chasing Bordeaux by Christmas."
Silence.
Then a click.
Demien had already put the phone down before the line cut out.
He didn't lean back. Didn't take a breath.
Just turned, eyes flicking to the board where Zikos was still out of frame in the frozen clip. One circle. A late step. That was the space D'Alessandro would own.
No chaos.
No improvisation.
Just precision.
The pen clicked again. Then again.
Then—
The office door opened halfway. Michel stepped back inside. "They want names," he said. "The GM's waiting."
Demien didn't look up. "Then make them wait longer."
Location: La Turbie Training Grounds – Midday
Training ran like a faucet turned low. Controlled. Steady. Not intense.
Demien stood at midfield, motionless. Arms crossed, collar flicked neatly at the edge. The whistle around his neck hadn't moved in thirty minutes.
Half-pitch transition drills cycled without variation. Cissé dropped too early between lines, floating instead of snapping into space. Rothen's tempo lagged by half a heartbeat—each pass half a second too slow, not enough to be wrong, but enough to clog the lanes. Evra overlapped out of rhythm, cut inside when he should have pinned wide. Even the second team's press sagged by the third rotation.
Demien didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
They felt it.
Giuly glanced sideways after a misread diagonal, already wincing before Demien's eyes reached him. Morientes adjusted his shin pads for the third time—no blisters, just nerves. The midfield triangle moved like a machine with one loose bolt.
No yelling. No corrections. Just silence that weighed more than orders.
Two young ballboys near the cone rack whispered something and laughed. Demien's glance slid across the field. They froze mid-breath. One dropped the cone he was holding.
By the time Michel returned, shirt damp from the office hike, Demien still hadn't moved.
Michel lingered at the sideline for a moment before approaching.
"They're tight," he said under his breath.
Demien replied without looking. "They should be."
Afternoon – La Turbie Media Room
3:00 PM
The media room was never glamorous. Plastic chairs. Stale air. Bottled water lined up like props. A flicker of camera light bounced off the table's edge, casting shadows under Demien's cheekbones.
He sat center. Spine straight. The mic leaned toward his collarbone like a question mark waiting for punctuation.
Michel stood near the back, arms crossed. The Ligue 1 PR liaison sat to Demien's left, clipboard trembling slightly in his lap.
First question, Nice-Matin. Safe, respectful. Local.
"You've had four preseason matches. Do you feel the squad understands your system?"
Demien's answer came sharp. One nod. "The players understand. Understanding's not the issue."
L'Équipe's reporter leaned forward next. The kind who thought being adversarial counted as insight.
"Then what is the issue, Coach? Feyenoord made it look like panic. If the system cracks under pressure—"
Demien didn't blink. "Every system breaks when the mind does," he said. "Maybe ask why the mind broke."
The tone in the room shifted. The PR man flinched like he wanted to intervene but didn't know how.
Another hand. Canal+. Older. Blazer off. Tie loosened.
"This isn't Spain. French football doesn't bend to blackboard theory. Are you prepared to abandon your so called tiki-taka backline once Ligue 1 hits back?"
Demien didn't raise his voice. Just leaned forward by a fraction—enough to change the air.
"I didn't come here to join your dinner table," he said. "I came to win games. If that scares you—ask better questions."
No smile. No sarcasm. Just fact.
A reporter in the back row muttered something under his breath. Another turned off their recorder. One left early. The PR rep cleared his throat like he'd swallowed a pin.
"Any questions about Bordeaux—?" he asked, voice lighter than tissue.
No one raised a hand.
Demien stood. The mic thumped as it rebalanced.
He didn't wait for protocol. Just walked offstage through the side door.
Michel caught up beside him in the hallway.
"Too harsh?" he asked.
Demien didn't stop walking. "I don't care if they understand," he said. "I care if the players do."
He reached the stairwell and pushed the door with the side of his fist. No pause. No glance back.
The next second was already waiting.
Outside the Room – 3:42 PM
The sun hit hard across the gravel. Afternoon light fell in sharp, slanted angles, cutting through the lingering shadow of the media building.
Demien stepped out the side exit without breaking stride. No pause to stretch his neck. No hand to shield his eyes. Just forward, boots crunching against the small white stones like a metronome. Michel followed, a few paces behind, catching up just past the railing.
"Too harsh?" Michel asked. His voice carried a dry rasp—part heat, part tension. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, already sticking damp against his neck.
Demien didn't answer at first. He rolled his shoulders once beneath the tailored jacket, as if realigning something under the skin.
"I don't care if they understand," he said. "I care if the players do."
Straight. Flat. No intonation.
They walked past a stack of folded benches against the wall, toward the edge of the facility where the boot shed sat crooked against the retaining fence. Someone had left the back door cracked—cones clattered gently from inside, caught in a breeze or maybe someone cleaning up.
Demien's eyes flicked once toward the sound, then past it. His jaw moved. A slow clench. Not frustration. Something quieter. Measured.
The wind shifted and caught the edge of his jacket. His hand went to the side pocket, not to reach in—just to ground the motion. Boots still moving.
Michel didn't speak again. He knew the rhythm now. Questions had a window. Miss it, and the silence wasn't just empty—it was intentional.
The gravel gave way to packed dirt, then short turf near the old pitch fringe. Someone had left water bottles half-drunk near the chalk buckets. Forgotten. Or left on purpose.
Demien's eyes moved across the field like he was watching shadows train.
A cone fell in the boot shed with a dull plastic thud.
Michel glanced at the noise, then back at Demien. "You still want them pressing high?"
Demien's eyes didn't move. "Higher than yesterday."
He stepped onto the turf without breaking stride.