The sun hadn't yet crested the horizon when Thiago's feet hit the pavement.
Dortmund slept around him—windows dark, streets empty except for the occasional night worker trudging home. His breath came in steady clouds, dissipating into the predawn gray. The air carried that peculiar stillness found only in the hour before a city wakes, when even the birds hesitate to break the silence.
He ran not because Klopp demanded it. Not because some system notification prompted him. But because his body refused to stay still after yesterday.
After watching.
The Wolfsburg match had settled in his chest like a stone—cold, heavy, impossible to ignore. Dortmund's comfortable 1-0 win should have pleased him. The team's cohesion, Barrios' clinical finish, the three points—all good things. He'd even smiled when they celebrated, clapping quietly in his empty hotel room like a ghost at the feast.
But this morning, his muscles burned with restless energy.
