The sliding doors of Sabiha Gökçen Airport hissed open, and a wall of noise hit him like a sudden gust of wind.
It was barely past nine on a damp Wednesday morning, but the terminal entrance was already a riot of yellow and navy blue. Fenerbahçe flags whipped in the breeze, smoke from a flare curled upward, and the low murmur of the crowd had swelled into a thunderous roar the moment the team bus rolled into view.
Lukas followed his captain — Trapp — down the steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, and felt the vibration of hundreds of voices in his chest. It wasn't cheering. A chorus of whistles, jeers, and deep, guttural chants poured across the barricades. Fans banged on the metal railings, waving scarves like battle standards. Some held up mocking banners in Turkish, others simply shouted his name followed by words he didn't need to translate.
"Jesus," muttered Koch, the center-back just behind him. "They sound like we stole their trophies."
