"A por la 6, mon cul." ("A por la 6, my ass.")
The curse pierced the silence like a bullet, spat out in a low, venomous growl.
The phone's screen glowed in the dark alley, frozen on one face—Mateo King. His hazel eyes were locked with the camera, burning with pride and promise. The image was paused just as he delivered the final line of the interview, as if he were staring directly into the soul of the man holding the phone.
The hand holding that phone was shaking—no, trembling. But not from fear. No.
From fury.
Théo Laurent.
Lifelong Paris Saint-Germain supporter. Core leader of the Collectif Ultras Paris—the wild heartbeat of PSG's most die-hard faction. For years, he had sung their chants, bled in their riots, and guarded their pride with fists, fire, and firecrackers. Losing the Champions League final last year had nearly broken him… but this?
This.
This celebration?
This boy standing before the Virage Auteuil, mocking their cathedral of devotion with raised arms and stone-cold defiance?
No.
No.
Not again.
Théo's fingers clenched tighter around the device. The cheap plastic of his phone case cracked faintly beneath the pressure. The frozen screen still showed Mateo's face—calm, proud, young… defiant. His hazel eyes stared into Théo's, as if taunting him through pixels and glass.
Théo's breathing deepened.
He turned.
And what he saw behind him would have sent chills through any rational person.
Not ten.
Not twenty.
Seventy. At least.
And more arriving with each passing second.
A swarm.
A gathering storm.
They weren't just fans.
They were believers. Enforcers. Cultists.
The Collectif Ultras Paris.
Noisy, feral, obsessive.
The men and women who guarded the badge—not just with pride, but with blood.
To them, "fighting for the crest" wasn't a slogan—it was a calling.
Most of them still wore the smoke-stained jerseys from earlier. Their cheeks were streaked with tears, face paint, or both. Many had been in the Virage Auteuil just minutes ago—the same iconic stand Mateo had dared face with his celebration. That alone was sacrilege. Now this interview?
Now this.
Théo could see it on every face: the same rage that burned in his gut now simmered in theirs.
He looked back down at the screen once more. Mateo's face. Those unbothered eyes. That casual stare.
And then—Théo smiled.
Not a soft smile.
Not a tired one.
No.
A grin.
Crooked.
Cruel.
Laced with the promise of retribution.
He whispered, mostly to himself but loud enough for a few others to hear:
"You don't know what you've done, kid."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
A scream echoed through the halls of the away teams locker-room .
"Dude, why the scream!?"
Pedri stumbled into the hallway from the side, hair a total mess, his shirt halfway tucked in, looking like he'd wrestled with a tornado.
Mateo King stood in the hallway, hands still in the air from his scream, blinking at him.
"It's not like you're any better!" Mateo snapped back, pointing at Pedri's bird-nest head and crumpled collar.
They paused.
Stared.
Then—
A mischievous glint sparked in both their eyes. Identical grins slowly spread across their tired faces.
In a flash, they stepped forward and clasped hands in the most over-the-top handshake they could muster—something between a wrestle and a dance—before crossing their arms around each other's shoulders.
And then, like boys who had just snuck into the grown-up party, they began stumbling down the hallway, laughing, singing, howling into the early Paris morning.
"¡Vamos Barca!"
"¡Barça, Barça, BAAAAARÇA!"
They sang the anthem like drunk pirates, their voices bouncing off the walls. No rhythm, no tune, just joy. Loud. Rowdy. Unfiltered.
Because for tonight…
They were champions of the night.
And they didn't know what was coming.
Mateo had left the floodlights, the crowd, and the media frenzy behind.
The post-match interview? A blur.
The chaos? Left in the corridors.
Now?
Now he was back in the away dressing room of the Parc des Princes. And it looked exactly how you'd expect it to after a match like that.
Trashed.
Boots scattered across the floor.
Jerseys tossed into bags or hanging halfway off chairs.
Tape, sweat, water bottles—everywhere.
It wasn't a locker room. It was a battlefield after a victorious war.
Some players were half-dressed, others still in full kit. A few were laying flat on the floor like corpses, absolutely drained. But laughter echoed through the concrete room, louder than any tired groan.
Joy. Raw and real.
They weren't just players.
They were a crew. A band of rebels. Brothers.
And among them, Mateo—fresh from completing his anti-doping test—had finally rejoined the others, still buzzing, though the adrenaline was slowly fading into exhaustion.
A loud cackle rang through the room.
"Look at them!"
Sergio Busquets, arms folded, pointed across the room, chuckling.
He turned to Jordi Alba, his old partner-in-crime, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Did you give them anything to drink or what?"
His tone was half amusement, half curiosity.
Alba grinned, lifting his palms in defense.
"Nothing at all, I swear. Guess they're just drunk on the win."
He laughed, eyes twinkling.
Over by the benches, Mateo and Pedri were currently teaming up to try and sit on Sergiño Dest, while Araujo tried to help but ended up being dragged into the chaos, creating a full-on mess of tangled limbs and shouting in three languages.
From the other side of the room, Messi, sitting calmly with one leg over the other and a towel around his neck, gave the smallest of smiles.
"Just leave them alone," he said gently, watching them with a quiet fondness.
"They're kids. And they deserve this."
Busquets snorted, nudging Alba with his elbow.
"Yeah, and we all remember what you were like after a big win at that age."
He raised an eyebrow at Messi, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Alba burst into laughter, instantly catching on.
"Oh, you mean... 2009? The open-top bus ride?"
"Ahhh!" Busquets groaned, clutching his stomach.
"Legendary. Legendary!"
If anyone else had been listening in, they'd have been confused.
Messi? The cool, quiet, composed GOAT, being talked about like he was once a wild teenager after a treble win?
But these two—Busquets and Alba—they'd been there since the beginning.
From La Masia to the mountain top. They were the last remaining shards of Barcelona's golden age, and with Messi, they shared history—real history. The kind fans could only imagine.
Messi didn't say anything in response.
He just shook his head, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.
He remembered 2009.
He remembered everything.
And so did they.
The laughter was still going when Alba suddenly looked up—his eyes shifting toward the door. His smile softened into something calmer. Familiar.
"Here he comes."
And just like that, the air in the room changed. Not tense—just... alert.
The players all glanced up, some still chuckling, others snapping out of the haze of celebration as the door creaked open.
Then—they entered.
Ronald Koeman.
Behind him, assistant coaches Sergi Barjuán, Henrik Larsson, and others filed in, every single one of them grinning like kids at a birthday party.
Koeman clapped twice, loud and sharp, his grin beaming from ear to ear.
"Okay, okay—quiet down! Quiet down!"
The voice cut through the chaos like a whistle.
Ronald Koeman had entered the locker room, his frame filling the doorway as he raised his hands to calm the thunderstorm of joy.
But the moment his eyes landed on the scene in front of him, even he couldn't help it.
There they were.
Mateo, Pedri, and Dest—all tangled in what could only be described as a human pretzel. Dest was trapped underneath, face smooshed against a bench while Mateo was half-sitting on his back, recording a selfie video with Pedri dramatically leaning into the frame behind him, screaming some version of a Barcelona victory chant.
Koeman just shook his head, muttering under his breath:
"Kids."
But there was no anger in it.
Just a smile.
And behind him, his assistants—Sergi Barjuán, Larsson, even the staff physios—all shared the same quiet grin. It was one of those rare moments where winning didn't just feel good—it felt right.
Koeman clapped his hands again, louder this time.
"Alright, calm it down, all of you."
His voice carried weight—respected, not feared.
The noise lowered. Not fully silent, but enough.
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the room. He saw exhaustion, elation, bruised ankles, soaked jerseys, and faces still streaked with dried sweat—but more than anything…
He saw pride.
"What you did tonight?"
He pointed a finger toward the center of the room.
"Don't forget it. Not ever."
The room hushed.
"We didn't just win. We made history tonight."
A shout rose from the back—someone banged a bottle against a locker.
More cheers followed. Whistling. Chanting. A surge of adrenaline all over again.
Koeman laughed, raising his voice over the din.
"You think this feels good? Just wait. Wait for the next round. Then the next. Then the next—!"
"Then the final!" someone roared.
"Exactly!" Koeman chuckled. "But tonight... this is just the beginning, boys."
The room exploded again.
Feet stomped.
Shirts waved.
Even Ter Stegen started jumping like a school kid.
Koeman nodded, letting the fire burn for a few seconds before reining it back in.
"But now—celebration continues elsewhere. The buses are ready. We move!"
"Woooo!" the team erupted again.
Koeman glanced around.
And then... he noticed the mess.
Towels on the floor.
Used bandages tossed into corners.
Half-drunk energy drinks, empty tape rolls, muddy boots.
It looked less like a locker room and more like a tornado had passed through a sporting goods store.
He folded his arms.
"Alright. Who's the designated helper today?"
He raised an eyebrow, already knowing the answer.
Now, most clubs? Players don't clean up after away games.
That's what the staff is for.
But Barcelona, under Koeman's leadership, had made a quiet vow of humility—the youngest players in the team helped tidy up with the kit crew. Not to punish. Not to mock.
But to teach.
Respect. Humility. Gratitude.
Especially in an era where young players hit stardom faster than their voices even finish breaking.
A familiar voice called out, full of mischief:
"Gaffer... it's Mr. Hat Trick tonight!"
Laughter erupted.
Mateo, who was mid-snap with Pedri, froze.
He looked like someone had just told him he'd failed a math test he didn't know he was taking.
"Wait—what? Ehn?!"
He turned slowly, like a man bracing for a prank.
Koeman just grinned, nodding at him.
"Well then…"
A few minutes later…
Mateo King.
Barcelona's hat-trick hero.
The boy who'd silenced the Parc des Princes.
Now stood in the middle of the room with a broom in one hand, and a sweaty, half-wet jersey in the other.
His curly hair was frizzing from the humidity.
His once-pristine smile now replaced by the most tragic sigh in Europe.
"How I have fallen…" he muttered.
From Champions League debut legend to glorified janitor.
Somewhere, the football gods were laughing.
And the locker room?
Still buzzing.
"Those people are pigs."
Mateo's voice echoed off the stone-grey hallway walls as he marched through the underground levels of the Parc des Princes, muttering to himself in disgust. His shoes still squeaked from the mop water, his hoodie clung to his back from sweat, and his mood?
Foul.
"Like seriously," he grumbled louder. "I get it, clean up after yourself, cool. But those guys are animals. No home training."
He kicked an empty water bottle left behind near a hallway wall—one he may or may not have dropped himself two hours earlier. The irony was lost on him.
His arms swung at his sides, sore.
His back ached.
And still—he vented.
"And Pedri... that snake. Just left me. After everything. After all we've been through!"
He squeezed his right hand into a fist dramatically, reliving the betrayal like a telenovela villain.
"He didn't even look back. He said 'bro I'll wait for you'—and the next second I see him gone like he got Ubered out."
He kept walking through the underbelly of the stadium toward the private parking zone, grumbling as fluorescent lights flickered overhead.
But then—he saw them.
A row of blacked-out SUVs, a team coach, and mixed among them...
Exotic machines.
Ferraris, Lamborghinis, even an old-school Aston Martin parked like it was normal. Cars that looked like they belonged in a billionaire's dream garage.
Despite himself—even with the soreness and bitterness—Mateo's eyes widened a little.
"Wonder when I can get one..."
The smile that crept across his face was small, tired, but real.
Then he stepped into the bus.
Inside, Koeman stood at the front, clipboard in hand, chatting with the staff, the coaching assistants, and the physios. The players were still trickling in, most of them slouched in their seats, buzzing with quiet laughter, earbuds in, tired but still soaking in the night.
Koeman turned, spotting Mateo.
"Oooo kid, that good? Great—okay, everyone, is everything ready?"
He raised his voice just a bit.
"Mateo's back. Anyone forget anything? Phones, boots, dignity?"
A soft laugh circled the bus.
"Right. We're heading back to Spain now. No training tomorrow. You've all earned the break."
"Woooo!"
That got the loudest cheer of the night so far from the squad.
Meanwhile, Mateo was dragging himself to the back. His body just wanted to collapse. And yet—there he was.
Pedri.
Already curled up in their usual row. Hoodie half-on. Grinning.
"No training tomorrow, huh?"
He leaned toward Mateo, mischief in his voice.
"Should I come over? FIFA rematch? I've improved. Balde's gonna cry."
Mateo just stared at him.
Blank. Cold.
Then, dryly:
"Don't talk to me. Traitor."
He dropped into his seat with a groan, turning away from Pedri like a sulking child.
Pedri burst out laughing, leaning his head back against the seat.
"Still mad? Come on, bro, it was every man for himself. You saw that mop bucket!"
But Mateo had already closed his eyes. The dim hum of the bus's engine began vibrating beneath him. His muscles began to loosen. His mind, for the first time all day, was drifting into the early embrace of sleep—
Until the entire bus jolted to a halt.
Hard.
Sudden.
Mateo's body snapped forward slightly in his seat, eyes flying open.
"What the—what just happened?"
"I don't know," Pedri said, lifting his head too, rubbing his eyes.
Up front, Koeman had nearly dropped his tablet. He quickly turned around to calm the murmuring voices of the players.
"It's fine, calm down. Let me check."
He moved toward the front of the bus, motioning for the assistant coaches to stay seated.
He leaned toward the driver.
"What happened? Why the stop?"
The driver didn't even look at him.
Eyes forward.
Jaw tight.
Hand gripping the steering wheel like it owed him something.
His voice stuttered.
"Sir... ehm... we... we've got a situation ahead."
Koeman's brows pinched in confusion.
"A situation? What kind of—"
He turned his head slightly to look through the front windshield.
And then...
He froze.
His mouth stayed open—mid-sentence—but no words came out.
His eyes widened slowly.
And it wasn't just Koeman.
One by one, the players—tired, happy, loud just moments ago—were suddenly silent. They leaned forward in their seats, eyes narrowing, bodies subtly shifting to peek between the seats, toward the front windshield.
Because what they saw ahead…
It wasn't normal.
Through the slightly fogged glass, dimly lit by the harsh yellow glow of stadium floodlights and buzzing streetlamps beyond, was a mob.
Not a crowd.
Not fans.
A mob.
At the gate that led out of the Parc des Princes' private vehicle lane stood a horde of furious, screaming people—PSG ultras. The Collectif Ultras Paris, the same faction known to light flares, chant for ninety minutes straight, and bleed for the crest—now gathered in pure, unfiltered rage.
Some were shirtless, veins popping, faces red with fury.
Some had scarves tied across their mouths, like makeshift masks, their eyes burning with venom.
Some had megaphones, others with beer bottles, flags, even sticks.
They weren't here to celebrate football.
They were here for revenge.
They had scattered like wolves across the outside perimeter.
"Barça de mierda!"
"Mateo, espèce de fils de pute !" (Mateo, you son of a bitch!)
"You'll pay for what you did!"
One voice barked so hard it cracked. Another chanted a violent curse in French while smashing his fist against the steel barricades. They were climbing, pushing, dragging anything not tied down. Police sirens echoed faintly in the distance—far, but not far enough.
Someone even lit a flare.
Red smoke spilled into the sky like blood from an open wound.
Fortunately, a reinforced barricade—thick steel and fencing guarded by stadium security—stood between the mob and the team bus. Armed guards, clad in black with riot helmets, were positioned around the perimeter, holding formation.
But that wasn't enough to calm the pit in anyone's stomach.
Because inside the bus, they knew…
The players weren't the only Barça representatives in Paris.
Just a few streets away, a young couple—barely into their twenties—walked hand-in-hand beneath a sleepy Parisian skyline, the night now quieter in their part of town. They strolled beside glowing storefronts and cobbled sidewalks, their laughter light and air soft around them.
Both wore Barcelona jerseys.
On their backs: Messi 10.
In their eyes: joy, adrenaline, awe.
They weren't from Spain. Or even France. Just tourists. Fans.
Lovers who had flown in to witness magic.
And they'd gotten it.
"That was insane," the guy said, shaking his head like he still couldn't process what had happened. "My heart is still pounding. No joke."
The girl laughed beside him, her cheeks tinged red from the cold and the electricity of the night.
"Not just you! I swear I can still feel the stadium in my chest. Like the echo of the crowd is still in my bones. I can't believe it actually happened—the comeback!"
Then he added with a chuckle,
"And Isaac is going to regret everything. I told him to come with us, but noooo—he stayed behind. Bro's gonna cry when he sees the highlights."
The girl threw her head back laughing.
"And my dad—my God—he never shuts up about the Remontada match. Every time I say I'm going to watch a game, it's always: 'But did you see the Remontada? That was football!'"
She rolled her eyes affectionately, mimicking his older, dramatic tone.
"Ramondata this, Ramontada that. Every single time."
She then paused, looking up at the Parisian sky for a second, a little wind brushing her hair back.
"But now… after tonight? I get it."
She smiled as she turned to the boy, her voice softening.
"I finally get it. And honestly? I can't even lie—I think I've just seen my own."
The boy slowed his steps, stopping under a softly glowing café sign. He looked at her, wide-eyed, grinning.
"Okay, that's it. I've made my decision. When we get back—I'm buying Mateo's jersey. No more thinking."
The girl lit up, eyes wide, teasing:
"Awww, baby, please buy it for me too! I want one!"
He laughed, nudging her shoulder.
"You ehn... anything for you."
She grinned wide, then leaned into him and whispered:
"I can't wait to wear it... and recreate that celebration. You saw it, right? That was insane."
"Ooo, it's insane, right?"
A voice—sharp, mocking—cut through the night.
The couple froze.
Three figures emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley, their silhouettes stretching long and jagged across the cobblestones. The one in front wore a PSG jersey, the crest smeared with what looked like dirt—or dried beer. His grin was all teeth, no warmth.
The couple instinctively moved closer together, the boy shifting slightly in front of the girl, his grip tightening on her hand.
"We don't want any trouble," he said, voice steady but edged with tension.
The leader of the trio barked out a laugh. "Ooo, that's too bad." He took a step forward, his friends fanning out beside him like wolves circling prey. "Cause us? We do."
One of them reached out, fingers brushing the girl's arm—too rough, too familiar. She flinched, pulling back, but the other guy blocked her path.
"Hey!" The boy shoved forward, knocking the hand away. "Don't touch her!"
The leader smirked. "Ooo, tough guy?"
A sharp push—the boy stumbled back, but he didn't let go of her hand. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming too fast. He could feel her shaking beside him, her fingers gripping his like a lifeline.
"Please," the girl whispered, voice trembling. "Just let us go."
The leader tilted his head, feigning sympathy. "Aw, scared?" He reached out again, this time grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Maybe you should've thought about that before wearing that shirt."
The boy saw red.
He lunged—
CRACK.
Something hard and brutal smashed into the side of his head.
The world spun. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming, but the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was her face—terrified, screaming his name.
But hers wasn't the only scream that night.
Across Paris, in dimly lit side streets and beneath flickering neon signs, other cries rose into the night.
Because tonight, wearing the sacred colors of Blaugrana pride had become a sin.
Tonight, Barcelona's faithful were the hunted—paying, in blood and fear, for the magic their beloved players had just performed.
A/N
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