The morning of the Champions League Final dawned bright and beautiful over the Amalfi Coast, a perfect, peaceful day that felt completely at odds with the colossal battle that was scheduled to take place that evening.
Leon sat on the sun-drenched terrace of the villa, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking out at the calm, glittering sea.
His phone buzzed, and he smiled as Byon's face, a chaotic mix of nervous energy and pure, unadulterated excitement, appeared on the screen.
"Today's the day," Biyon said, his voice a low, intense buzz.
He was already in his team tracksuit, pacing back and forth in a hotel room that looked far too small for his energy.
"I feel like I've got a whole swarm of angry, tactical bees in my stomach."
"You're going to be brilliant," Leon said, a warm, genuine pride in his voice. "Just remember the plan."
"The plan?" Biyon asked, a confused look on his face. "You mean Pep's 72-slide PowerPoint presentation on PSG's defensive pressing triggers?"
